Free Mrs. Hemingway by Naomi Wood Page B

and low moods but that doesn’t give him an excuse to treat people badly. Most often it’s the night-time when it’s worst: when he enters a world where he can’t find anything left that’s meaningful. And then, in the daytime, Ernest is fine, and cheerful, and immensely interested in words and art and how to make a new kind of text from the bones of language. The two personalities seem as if from two different men.
    Though he evidently has no good feelings toward the collector, Ernest signs a piece of paper which Cuzzemano puts in an envelope and seals with a swipe of his tongue. On the envelope he writes E. HEMINGWAY, JUNE 1926.
    Later Cuzzemano scrapes a chair closer to Hadley. She prepares to be flattered. “Mrs. Hemingway?”
    â€œHadley. Please.”
    â€œWhat a handsome name. There’s a South Hadley where I’m from.”
    â€œAnd where’s that?”
    â€œMassachusetts.”
    â€œWhere do you live now? I assume it’s not Massachusetts anymore.”
    â€œOh no. I split my time between Paris and New York. They’re the only places to really live. London is such a bore. Too many English to make it a city worth spending any time in.”
    Hadley wonders if he is queer, or married, or a bachelor. Paris is full of all three, often doing all three at the same time. Cuzzemano gives her an inquiring look, as if asking if the pleasantries have now been safely dispatched. He has teeth that wouldn’t look amiss in the gums of a fish. “Can I be frank, Mrs. Hemingway? Hadley?”
    Cuzzemano drops his voice.
    â€œSara told me about a valise, Mrs. Hemingway, a suitcase full of papers gone amiss: Mr. Hemingway’s first novel, and several short stories. Make no mistake, I inquire about this not to upset you, but because your husband’s work is of lasting literary merit . . . And whatever was in that valise will one day be worth a whole heap of money.” Cuzzemano’s eyes wince, as if pained to think of its value. “Now, my understanding is that it was lost at the Gare de Lyon? Four years ago, on a train bound for Lausanne?”
    Hadley is nothing but bewildered. “I don’t care to talk about it.”
    Cuzzemano draws toward her. His hands practically rest on her knees. “Mrs. Hemingway, did anyone have any idea of what was in there? Ernest, surely, would be so happy to see his work returned to him—”
    â€œMr. Cuzzemano, I thank you for your interest in my husband’s work, but I think you are grossly exaggerating his place in the world four years ago.” She keeps her voice to a fierce whisper. “Mr. Hemingway had not even been published. We’d barely been in Paris a year! The case was lost. Someone took it by mistake. It’s all gone: stories, carbons, novel; the whole kit and caboodle. And I won’t forget the horror of it.” She recomposes herself. “Nor will I ever forgive myself. Now if you would kindly let the matter drop. I don’t care to spend my evening furthering your enrichment.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Gerald leaves the jazz and puts on a waltz. Ernest asks her to dance but Hadley wants to listen to the piano. It has taken her some minutes to recover from Cuzzemano’s questioning, and now all she wants is to be quiet among this gang who will not quit talking. Brett Ashley is right; all their talk
is
bilge.
    Ernest asks Zelda instead. This is a safe choice. No one is under any illusion of the mutual contempt they hold for each other and they dance together in a difficult embrace. Zelda is stiff and unbending, and Ernest moves all of the wrong parts of himself to the wrong parts of the music. He is pigeon-toed and jokey, but Zelda doesn’t find it very funny at all. Evidently she doesn’t like to be caught in some-thing so dumb and sentimental as a waltz.
    The music finishes and Zelda drifts back to the table to reclaim her sherry, but