ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway
drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda.
“That drink’s mine,” Mike said.
“Let’s roll for it.”
So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen.
“It’s yours, Mike,” Bill said. “Old Mike, the gambler.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mike said. “I can’t get it.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve no money,” Mike said. “I’m stony. I’ve just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs.”
Bill’s face sort of changed.
“I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too.”
“I’ll cash you a check,” Bill said.
“That’s damned nice of you, but you see I can’t write checks.”
“What are you going to do for money?”
“Oh, some will come through. I’ve two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean.”
“What do you want to do about the car?” Bill asked me. “Do you want to keep it on?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic.”
“Come on, let’s have another drink,” Mike said.
“Fine. This one is on me,” Bill said. “Has Brett any money?” He turned to Mike.
“I shouldn’t think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya.”
“She hasn’t any money with her?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews.”
“I suppose they get it at the source,” said Bill.
“Quite. They’re not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They’re Scotsmen, I believe.”
“Hasn’t she any at all with her?” I asked.
“I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left.”
“Well,” Bill said, “we might as well have another drink.”
“Damned good idea,” Mike said. “One never gets anywhere by discussing finances.”
“No,” said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car.
“Anywhere you’d like to go, Mike?” Bill asked.
“Let’s take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let’s drive about a little.”
“Fine. I’d like to see the coast. Let’s drive down toward Hendaye.”
“I haven’t any credit along the coast.”
“You can’t ever tell,” said Bill.
We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea.
At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car.
“Good-bye, you chaps,” Mike said. “It was a damned fine fiesta.”
“So long, Mike,” Bill said.
“I’ll see you around,” I said.
“Don’t worry about money,” Mike said. “You can pay for the car, Jake, and I’ll send you my share.”
“So long, Mike.”
“So long, you chaps. You’ve been damned nice.”
We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill’s bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks.
“So long, fella,” Bill said.
“So long, kid!”
“It was swell. I’ve had a swell time.”
“Will you be in Paris?”
“No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!”
“So long, old kid!”
He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I went outside to the car.
“How much do we owe you?” I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas.
“Two hundred pesetas.”
“How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back?”
“Fifty pesetas.”
“Don’t kid me.”
“Thirty-five pesetas.”
“It’s not worth it,” I said. “Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri.”
At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town.
At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York Herald and sat in a café to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except that Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there until August. I could get a good hotel room and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Café Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen.
“How does one eat inside?” I asked the waiter. Inside the café was a restaurant.
“Well. Very well. One eats very well.”
“Good.”
I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Château Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be