Free Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway Page A

the salt water lighten it." "This would
be much fairer. He said he could make it as fair as Scandinavian. Think how
that would be with our dark skin. And we could make yours lighter too."
"No. I'd feel funny." "Who do you know here that makes any
difference? You'd get lighter swimming all summer anyway." He did not say
anything and she said, "You won't have to. We'll just do mine and maybe
you'll want to. We can see. "Don't make plans, Devil. Tomorrow I'll get up
very early and work and you sleep as late as you can. "Then write for me
too," she said. "No matter if it's where I've been bad put in how
much I love you. "I'm nearly up to now. "Can you publish it or would
it be bad to?" "I've only tried to write it." "Can I ever
read it?" "If I ever get it right." "I'm so proud of it
already and we won't have any copies for
     
    sale
and none for reviewers and then there'll never be clippings and you'll never be
self conscious and we'll always have it just for us."
     
    David
Bourne woke when it was light and put on shorts and a shirt and went outside.
The breeze had died. The sea was calm and the day smelled of the dew and the
pines. He walked bare footed across the flagstones of the terrace to the room
at the far end of the long house and went in and sat down at the table where he
worked. The windows had been open overnight and the room was cool and full of
early morning promise.
     
    He
was writing about the road from Madrid to Zaragossa and the rising and falling
of the road as they came at speed into the country of the red buttes and the
little car on the then dusty road picked up the Express train and Catherine
passed it gently car by car, the tender, and then the engineer and fireman, and
finally the nose of the engine, and then she shifted as the road switched left
and the train disappeared into a tunnel.
     
    "I
had it," she had said. "But it went to ground. Tell me if I can get
it again."
     
    He
had looked at the Michelin map and said, "Not for a while."
     
    "I'll
let it go then and we'll see the country." As the road climbed there were
poplar trees along the river and the road climbed steeply and he felt the car
accept it and then Catherine shift again happily as it flattened the steep
grade.
     
    Later,
when he heard her voice in the garden, he stopped writing. He locked the
suitcase with the cahiers of manuscript and went out locking the door after
him. The girl would use the pass key to clean the room.
     
    Catherine
was sitting at breakfast on the terrace. There was a red-and-white checked
cloth on the table. She wore her old Grau du Roi striped shirt fresh-washed and
shrunk now and much faded, new gray flannel slacks, and espadrilles.
"Hello," she said. "I couldn't sleep late." "You look
lovely." "Thank you. I feel lovely." "Where did you get
those slacks?" "I had them made in Nice. By a good tailor. Are they
all right?" "They're very well cut. They just look new. Are you going
to wear them into town?" "Not town. Cannes in the off season.
Everybody will next year. People are wearing our shirts now. They're no good
with skirts. You don't mind do you?" "Not at all. They look right.
They just looked so well creased." After breakfast while David shaved and
showered and then pulled on a pair of old flannels and a fisherman's shirt and
found his espadrilles Catherine put on a blue linen shirt with an open collar
and a heavy white linen skirt. "We're better this way. Even if the slacks
are right for here they're too show-off for this morning. We'll save
them."
     
    It
was very friendly and offhand at the coiffeur's but very professional. Monsieur
Jean, who was about David's age and looked more Italian than French, said,
"I will cut it as she asks. Do you agree, Monsieur?" "I don't
belong to the syndicate," David said. "I leave it to you two."
"Perhaps we should experiment on Monsieur," Monsieur Jean said.
"In case anything goes wrong. But Monsieur Jean began cutting Catherine's
hair very carefully and skillfully and