ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway
was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine.
“Didn’t come, eh?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?” Bill asked. “I haven’t changed any money here yet.”
“Oh, forget about it,” Robert Cohn said. “Let’s bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?”
“You could,” Bill said, “but you don’t need to.”
“It would be like betting on the war,” I said. “You don’t need any economic interest.”
“I’m very curious to see them,” Robert said.
Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. “It’s for you.” He handed it to me.
It read: “Stopped night San Sebastian.”
“It’s from them,” I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over.
“They’ve stopped over in San Sebastian,” I said. “Send their regards to you.”
Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch—that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway.
“Well,” I said. “We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night.”
There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Cohn said.
“The sooner we get on the stream the better.”
“It’s all one to me when we start,” Bill said. “The sooner the better.”
We sat in the Iruña for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the café quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in.
In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o’clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iruña reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs.
“This is a comfortable café,” he said. “Did you have a good night, Jake?”
“I slept like a log.”
“I didn’t sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too.”
“Where were you?”
“Here. And after it shut we went over to that other café. The old man there speaks German and English.”
“The Café Suizo.”
“That’s it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it’s a better café than this one.”
“It’s not so good in the daytime,” I said. “Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets.”
“I’m not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead.”
“I’ve got your ticket.”
“Give it to me. I’ll get the money back.”
“It’s five pesetas.”
Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me.
“I ought to stay,” he said. “You see I’m afraid there’s some sort of misunderstanding.”
“Why,” I said. “They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian.”
“That’s just it,” said Robert. “I’m afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that’s why they stopped over.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett.”
“Why in hell didn’t you stay there and meet them then?” I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did.
He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett.
“Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch,” I said.
“I wish I could go. We’ve been looking forward to this fishing all winter.” He was being sentimental about it. “But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I’ll bring them right up.”
“Let’s find Bill.”
“I want to go over to the barber-shop.”
“See you at lunch.”
I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving.
“Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,” Bill said. “He’s a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian.”
“The lying bastard!”
“Oh, no,” said Bill. “Don’t get sore. Don’t get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?”
“Don’t rub it in.”
Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face.
“Didn’t you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I’m a travelling man. Haven’t you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?” He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again.
“You’ve got some fine ones yourself.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he’s nice, too. I like him. But he’s just so awful.”
“He can be damn nice.”
“I know it. That’s the terrible part.”
I laughed.
“Yes. Go on and laugh,” said Bill. “You weren’t out with him last night until two o’clock.”
“Was he very bad?”
“Awful. What’s all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?”
He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side.
“Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him.”
“What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?”
“She wanted to get out of town and she can’t go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him.”
“What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn’t she go off with some of her own people? Or you?”—he slurred that over—“or me? Why not me?” He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. “It’s an honest face. It’s a face any woman would be safe with.”
“She’d never seen it.”
“She should have. All women should see it. It’s a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son”—he pointed the razor at me—“go west with this face and grow up