Free Mrs. Hemingway by Naomi Wood Page A

mouth. A generous mouth, Hadley thinks, though perhaps too full for a man. “Harry, my dear!” Sara says, rising. “We thought you were staying in Juan tonight?”
    â€œOh no. It’s positively malarial there this evening. I haven’t ambushed the party, have I?” Harry is handsome, though his eyes make Hadley think of the empty stare of geckos when they sun themselves at the top of the day.
    â€œBut darling, we’ve eaten everything! There’s nothing left. The kids were ravenous from being in the sea all day.” Hadley notices, as the man comes over to the table, that each step has a neat girlish bounce. She can see Ernest grimace—he has never been one for queers.
    Harry places the basket on the table and Hadley eyes her supper in a couple of apples. She notices his finger-nails are very neat. He kisses Scott and Zelda but shakes Gerald’s hand. “You have met the Hemingways, haven’t you, dear?”
    â€œNo,” he says, “I haven’t yet had the pleasure.”
    â€œHarry Cuzzemano, this is Ernest and Hadley Hemingway. Ernest and Hadley, this is Harry Cuzzemano, book collector extraordinaire.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Harry,” says Ernest, holding his hand in his own as he asks, “What type of thing do you collect?”
    This is when those eyes come to life. “Oh, anything I can get my hands on. Rare books. First editions. Manuscripts. Anything with a definable . . .”—he seems to search for the precise word—“value. I’m a sucker for anything that will make a killing in a few years or so.”
    He flashes a grin at Hadley, as if this comment is meant just for her.
    â€œDoes it have to have merit?”
    He laughs. “Just value, sir, just value. But I must say, Mr. Hemingway, I read
In Our Time
. I managed to get my hands on the Three Mountains edition. If you carry on writing like that you’ll have given me quite the little nest egg. I think it was a print run of a couple of hundred or so?”
    Ernest’s color is high with the flattery. “I’m only in possession of one myself.”
    â€œWell, keep on to it, man. You know how expensive school can be nowadays.” Hadley wonders how he knew Ernest was a father. “I can only hope your next book will have a similar print run.”
    â€œI don’t wish for the same thing, you’ll be unsurprised to hear.”
    â€œAny other publications?”
    â€œThe
Little Review
did something a while back.”
    â€œThat should get your name out.”
    â€œI shouldn’t think so. It’s only read by intellectuals and dykes.”
    â€œDear man, it’s the most stolen journal in the country! America, that is.”
    â€œSuits me fine,” Ernest answers. “I’d rather be read by crooks than critics.”
    â€œVery right. Very right.” Cuzzemano seats himself between Ernest and Sara and pours himself a glass of white wine.
    â€œYou don’t mind, Mr. Cuzzemano, if I steal a piece of fruit?”
    â€œNot at all. Please.”
    Hadley eats the apple and tries to listen to Zelda’s conversation with Sara but she finds herself returning to watch this man. Harry’s eyes are always on her when she looks at him.
    As the night moves on, dancing starts on the terrace. At one point the Murphys’ kids, Patrick, Baoth and Honoria come down, rubbing their tired eyes, asking what’s going on, but with an eye on the plaguish Hemingways Sara shoos them quickly away. Ernest and Scott are too busy singing along in chorus to “Tea for Two” for anyone to notice the kids’ dispatch.
    All evening Cuzzemano toadies up to her husband. Ernest answers his questions cordially enough. It is good to see Ernest behave well to someone he doesn’t like. Sometimes he can say such astonishingly vile things she wonders if it’s really him. She knows he grapples with dark thoughts