William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“Yes.”

“Then I won’t have to contrive how to meet her.”

“A lucky day for Mr. Quinn. While we wait we’ll continue our analysis elsewhere. Tell me, who is the biggest jerk in this place?”

Quinn scanned the room and focused on three noisy American men standing at the bar, which was filling up, all tables already occupied. “The man in the sailor straw hat and the orange shirt,” he said.

“We’ll drink a daiquiri and then test out your intuition,” Hemingway said. He ordered the drinks and told the bartender to ask the man in the sailor straw to come over. The three Americans stared at Hemingway and then the man in the orange shirt came down the bar with a two-day growth of beard and a panatela between his teeth.

“How ya doin’, bub?” he said through the cigar. “You wanna talk to me?”

“Just admiring your hat and wondering why you’re in Cuba,” Hemingway said.

“My wife thinks I’m at a sales convention in Miami. But we came down here on an airplane to gamble and check out the women.”

“You’re a sly devil. But this isn’t the best place in Havana to gamble or to find women either.”

“We already found them. Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Hemingstein and this is my son Daniel. And you?”

“Joe Cooney from Baltimore. What kind of a sawbones are you, Dr. Hemingstein?”

“I’m a doctor of writing. I also actually write stuff.”

“A writer. Hey, I’m a writer too. I write new lyrics for old songs.”

“Could you write a new lyric for Daniel and myself?”

“Sure. Any particular song you like?”

“You know ‘Sliding Down Your Cellar Door’? I learned it as a boy.”

“Sure, I know it. You want me to do new lyrics for it?”

“You think you can?”

“Give me a few minutes I’ll sing ’em for you.”

Joe Cooney went away and everybody smiled.

“So far your intuition is getting high marks,” Hemingway said to Quinn.

The man and the beautiful brunette got up from their table.

“Here comes the bride,” Hemingway said.

Max made his hello and introduced his sister-in-law, Renata Suárez Otero. Hemingway introduced Quinn as his nephew. Quinn stared at Renata to engrave her beauty in his memory. He felt the impulse to take her face in his hand and kiss her before he spoke one word to her. He restrained himself and said only, “ Hola. ”

“Is she a real sister-in-law, Max, or just cover for your spying on us here?” Hemingway asked.

“I retired from spying last year,” Max said. “You can’t trust anybody anymore.”

“We are related,” Renata said. “Max married my sister, Esme.”

“Esme Suárez. I know Esme,” Hemingway said. “She sang for the troops in Europe during the war.”

“That’s where she met Max.”

“I’ve heard her sing. She has a large talent. Isn’t she in New York?”

“She was working on Broadway,” Renata said, “but she’s back here now.”

“Are you married yourself?”

“I am wondering about it,” she said.

“My nephew Daniel here is also wondering. In fact he was wondering as he looked over at you a few minutes ago. In between his wonderments he’s writing a novel about Cuban gunrunners. He quit the Miami Herald to write his novel and a splendid work it is, with twelve chapters so far.”

“Did you meet the gunrunners, Daniel?” Renata asked.

“I’ve met a few.”

“Are they brave?”

“They seem fearless, sometimes mindless.”

“Do you think they believe in something?” she asked.

“Yes. They believe in death. Do you know any gunrunners?”

“I read about them in the newspapers.”

“Are you an actress? You are so beautiful.”

“I’m learning to be a painter,” she said.

“I would buy several tickets to see your paintings. Where would I do that?”

“I work at Bellas Artes.”

“I’ll come and see you,” Quinn said. “I would like your reaction to my stories on the gunrunners.”

“All right,” said Hemingway, “that’s settled.”

“I have a friend who knew you in Spain,” Renata said to Hemingway. “Carlos Sosa Prieto.”

“The last I saw Carlos government troops were chasing the fascists out of Teruel. A good man. Where is he now?”

“In Havana.”

“I would be glad to see him. Send him mis saludos .”

Joe Cooney came back with a song in his heart. “Are you ready for my lyrics, Dr. Hemingstein?”

“Let me introduce you all to Joseph Cooney, the Baltimore thrush,” Hemingway said. “He’s going to sing an old song with new lyrics he just created for us. Fire away, Maestro.”

Cooney sang enthusiastically and with bounce: “Sliding down your cellar door,

What a thrill I had in store,

Sliding down into the grass,

Twenty slivers in my ass.

Thinking of those days gone by

Brings a teardrop to my eye,

Wond’ring if I’ll ever see

Cellar door that beckons me.

Beckons me forever more,

Slivers from your dear old door.”

Quinn watched Renata, who did not smile at the lyrics. She sees dementia in the man, he decided. Max was amused.

Hemingway leaned over to Quinn and whispered, “You’re right about gooney-Cooney. We’re going to put him away.”

“How so?”

“We’ll have him sing it again and at the finish I’ll throw him a right and cross with a left.”

“You’re a harsh critic,” Quinn said. “Maybe we should just temper our applause.”

Hemingway smiled and spoke to Cooney. “You write lyrics like a poet, like T. S. Eliot. But do it once more with emphasis. It needs emphasis.”

Cooney sang it again and on “ Slivers from your dear old door ” he took off his hat, raised both arms upward in an embrace of public lyricism, and finished on an emphatic note that turned all heads in the bar. Hemingway hit him according to plan, a right and then a looping left, launching him backward until his head hit the wall near the door, and he slid to the floor. As Hemingway was throwing the left Max saw it rising, ducked sideways, and lost his balance.

“Jesus, Ernest,” Max said, “what was that?”

“Sorry, Max,” Hemingway said, helping him to his feet. “Didn’t have you in mind. That’s two knockdowns with one left.”

Renata’s face registered confusion. “¿Qué es esto? ¿Estás bien?” she said to Max, and took his arm.

“Bien, bien,” Max said, brushing dust off his coat and trousers. “He never laid a glove on me.”

Renata stared at Hemingway. “So brutal,” she said. “¿Serás estúpido?” and she left at a brisk pace. Max followed her.

Joe Cooney had not moved. His head was cocked against the wall. His two friends went to him and eased him down to lie flat, and a waiter put a towel under his head to blot his blood.

“Get that man to the casa de socorros ,” Hemingway said to the bartender. “ Está herido. And bring me a filet mignon.”

“¿Crudo?” asked the bartender.

“Raw.”

The waiter went to the street to hail a passing car that would take Cooney to a first aid center. Cooney’s friends were standing over him, staring at Hemingway.

The bartender put a white plate with a raw steak in front of Hemingway, who wrapped it around his right hand. He lifted up the steak and showed his bleeding knuckles to Quinn.

“See this? I’ve been out fishing, and the skin is dry from the salt and the sun. Otro doble ,” he said to the bartender.

“I thought you were joking,” Quinn said to Hemingway.