Free Papa Hemingway by A. E. Hotchner Page A

really rough insults; he was a nice man but nasty, especially if anyone started to talk about writing, nasty as hell, and when he really had everything in an uproar, he would suddenly depart and expect me to handle the characters in his wake who were demanding satisfaction. Joyce was very proud and very rude—especially to jerks." Ernest took a drink of his Pernod. "He really enjoyed drinking, and those nights when I'd bring him home after a protracted drinking bout, his wife, Nora, would open the door and say, 'Well, here comes James Joyce the author, drunk again with Ernest Hemingway.'"
    He sat quietly, sipping his drink and thinking about Joyce, and then he said, "He was mortally afraid of lightning."
    The maitre d' came over with two menus and requested autographs on behalf of a couple of clients. After he had left, Ernest said, "They were good to me here when I needed it. Like that time with the Miro. Miro and I were good friends; we were working hard but neither of us was selling anything. My stories would all come back with rejection slips and Miro's unsold canvases were piled up all over his studio. There was one that I had fallen in love with—a painting of his farm down south—it haunted me and even though I was broke I wanted to own it, but since we were such good friends, I insisted that we do it through a dealer. So we gave the picture to a dealer and, knowing he had a sure sale, he put a price of two hundred dollars on it, damn steep, but I arranged to pay it off in six installments. The dealer made me sign a chattel mortgage so that if I defaulted on any payment, I would lose the painting and all money paid in. Well, I skimped and managed okay until the last payment. I hadn't sold any stories or articles and I didn't have a franc to my name. I asked the dealer for an extension but, of course, he preferred to keep my dough and the painting. That's where the Closerie comes in. The day the dough was due, I came in here sad-ass for a drink. The barman asked me what was wrong and I told him about the painting. He quietly passed the word around to the waiters and they raised the money for me out of their own pockets."
    "You mean that's 'The Farm' that now hangs in your house in Cuba?"
    "Yep. Insured for two hundred thousand dollars. You can see why I'm fond of this joint. Another time, I wanted to rent a flat near here, but not having any furniture or finances I was what you might call a wobbly risk as a tenant. The landlord was out of town and the concierge, who was a pal of mine, let me stay until he returned. The day before the landlord was due back, one of my friends, who was well positioned, went around to people he knew, most of whom had good art collections, and borrowed two Cezannes, three Van Goghs, two Van Dycks and a Titian. Told them it was for a charity exhibit. We hung all that art on the walls of my room, and even though I had no furniture in the joint, the landlord was so impressed with my 'collection' he gave me a lease for a year.
    "I was very happy in that flat and had no trouble until the time Scott Fitzgerald came to visit me. Scott was staying at the Ritz, as usual. He brought his daughter, Scotty, with him. While we were talking, Scotty announced she wanted to make pee-pee, but when I told Scott the W.C. was on the floor below, he told Scotty that was too far to go and to do it in the hall. The concierge observed the trickle coming down the steps and went upstairs to inquire. 'Monsieur,' he said to Scott very politely, Svould it not be more comfortable for Mademoiselle to use the W.C.?' Scott said, 'Back to your miserable room, concierge, or I will put your head in the W.C.' He was mad as hell. He came back into my room and began stripping off the wallpaper, which was old and starting to peel. I begged him not to because, as always, I was behind in my rent, but he was too mad to listen. The landlord made me pay for repapering the entire room. But Scott was my friend and you put up with a lot