by Terry Fallis
After showering, I pulled out my laptop and stared at the screen for a while. Chapter 12. Nope. Not today. Was it too much to ask that I might just write a few words on the novel? Yes, I guess it was. Despite communing with Hemingway’s past for the last few days on two continents, I still seemed no closer to breaking my psychological logjam and constructing sentences again. I gave up and checked my email.
There was an email from Susan at the University of Chicago Library and Archives. She wanted to let me know that they’d purchased a packet of letters from an estate sale following the passing of the daughter of the woman who had been the housekeeper for Earnest Hemmingway I. They were actually carbons of letters EH1 had sent to various people over a fifteen-year span. The archivists had not yet read the letters, but Susan just wanted to let me know about this addition to the family archive. In accordance with my father’s instructions, she had informed only him and me, even though it was Sarah who was the family history buff. I wasn’t particularly interested in a stray set of letters written by the family patriarch, but I thought Sarah might be. I flipped her the email. There were no other emails of any consequence other than the standard spam promises of a Nigerian prince’s fortune, and enhanced sexual performance, which immediately made me think of Marie again. Although, almost everything made me think of Marie.
I spent Monday walking all around Montparnasse. Hemingway spent a lot of time in this artistically diverse and rich part of Paris, hanging around in cafés with other writers and artists. He and his friend, the Canadian writer Morley Callaghan, apparently met F. Scott Fitzgerald in the Dingo Bar in the heart of Montparnasse. It’s no longer there, but many of the cafés Hemingway frequented and wrote in for hours on end were still in operation. So I spent time in each one of them, including Le Dôme, La Closerie des Lilas, La Rotonde, Le Select, and La Coupole. I tried. I really tried. I sat there just as he would have nearly a hundred years earlier, my Moleskine notebook open, my pen poised, willing and wanting to write. But I couldn’t even scrawl a few primitive phrases. There was still nothing there. Was this working? Would it ever work? I reserved judgment. I decided, based on no evidence whatsoever, that it would take time. Courtesy of my day of café-hopping, by late afternoon, I was so wired on caffeine I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again. Then I thought of Marie, again, and stopped worrying about sleep.
On Tuesday evening, standing on the platform of Gare d’Austerlitz, I said goodbye to Marie. Monday night had been even better than Sunday night, and we hadn’t had to scatter anyone’s ashes anywhere. We just ate, drank some more wine, and headed back to the hotel. It was lovely. She was lovely. There were feelings and emotions I don’t ever recall having when I’d been with Jenn. I hoped Marie felt the same way, but couldn’t quite bring myself to ask. The evidence was positive, however. Like that she was still there beside me in the morning and was not in a hurry to leave. All good signs. Marie was heading home on Wednesday, so I was on my own for Spain.
I boarded a southbound overnight train for Vitoria, just over the border. Marie waved as the train pulled out. I waved back, and she was gone. I suddenly had second thoughts about Pamplona. What was to be achieved by hanging out in more of Hemingway’s haunts? Hadn’t I done enough of that already? And what had it reaped so far? Nothing on the writing front. I was still blocked. The best part of the trip so far was walking out of the Gare d’Austerlitz alone, while I steamed in the opposite direction toward Spain.
As the sun sank and the train rattled south, I opened a file I’d brought and read about Hemingway’s time in Spain. When I awoke, we were already in the station in Vitoria. I’d been out cold for nearly the entire journey. By the time I’d grabbed my bag and walked out of the station, it was just after 5:00 a.m. It was still dark but the first blush of dawn was rising in the east. My bus for Pamplona left at 6:15.
I’d timed this leg of the tour to coincide with Pamplona’s annual Fiesta de San Fermin, best known around the world for the famous running of the bulls, a tradition dating back to the fourteenth century. And I was arriving in Pamplona in the middle of it all. In fact, my bus was packed with young men already dressed in the white pants and shirts and red sashes and neckerchiefs that were standard fare. Oh yes, not surprisingly, they all wore expensive-looking running shoes. No wonder.
I’d seen enough YouTube clips of the running of the bulls to know that I would steer well clear of the route. Every morning at eight, half a dozen bulls are chased out of a corral and through the streets of the old part of the town up to the bullring a mere nine hundred yards away. But what a chaotic, frenetic, terrifying, and dangerous nine hundred yards they can be. As soon as the bulls hit the streets, they are met by hundreds of runners who, as the word suggests, run in front of, behind, even beside the terrified bulls. It is absolutely insane, yet tradition dictates that the bulls and runners make the same mad dash each morning for the duration of the festival. Runners being killed in action are not uncommon. Bulls being killed in action are guaranteed, if not on the route, without fail in the bullring.
I would love to have been a fly on the wall centuries ago when some bright light cooked up the idea of the running of the bulls. I picture a group of town elders seated around a table at a local Pamplona cantina. The mayor takes control of the meeting.
“Okay, guys, we need to get the bulls from the corral in the centre of the village up to the bullring for the festival. I suggest we lead them up there early in the morning, around eight, when it’s quiet. The streets would be pretty well deserted at that hour. Are we all agreed?”
“Wait a second,” says another guy at the table. “Wait just one second! I’ve got a great idea. This could be big! This could be really big!”
“Enough with the hype,” someone says. “Just spill the idea, already!”
“Okay, okay. Here it is. Instead of just leading the bulls through the streets, why don’t we rile them up, taunt them, tease them? We’ll get them angry. We’ll agitate and aggravate the bulls. Hey, we could even hit them with sticks and make loud noises so they start to stampede in terror and rage. Okay but wait, there’s more. Here’s the kicker. Then, instead of the bulls running alone, we add several hundred men to run behind them, beside them, and in front of them, slapping them, and generally enraging the bulls for the entire sprint to the bullring.”
“Gee, that sounds kind of dangerous,” notes another elder.
“Nonsense. Sure, there could be some injuries, I guess – tourists trampled, heads cracked, blood spilled, bones broken. But think how exciting it would be for the bulls, for the runners, and for the townsfolk. And people would flock here for the festival. Well? What do you think?”
“I like it,” concludes the mayor. “All in favour?”
Hemingway loved festival time in Pamplona. The action, the danger, the blood, all called out to his macho sensibilities. Pamplona has always been a place where young men test their mettle. There’s a famous old photo of Hemingway, clad in the classic white and red garb of the runner, taunting a bull in the middle of the bullring. As much as I wanted to walk in Hemingway’s footsteps, my feet would not be taking me anywhere near the centre of the bullring. The stands, maybe, but not in the ring itself. I would do a lot to rid myself of this writer’s block, but I do have my limits.
I was famished after my long train and bus journey. Even at this early hour, there were dozens of food stands already open for business, catering to the bull-run participants and spectators. I ordered what seemed to be called a San Jacoba, a very popular snack, or tapa, in Spain, particularly in Pamplona. It’s quite basic, really. You put a slice of salty cheese between two pieces of meat (I’m not sure what kind of meat) and then deep-fry the whole concoction to guarantee every last ounce of myocardial malevolence. It tastes amazing but it ought to come with a health warning and a defibrillator.
I had just taken my first heavenly bite when I heard the famous eight o’clock rocket go off in the distance, signalling that the corral gates had been opened and the bulls
were on the move.
I had purposely retreated to a less crowded street running parallel to the bull-running course. I could feel the tension in the air and hear the runners’ chants. I was walking up this little lane gnawing away at my glorious sandwich when they appeared. Bulls? Nope. Three, yes three, brown Chihuahuas on leashes, being walked by a small, round, older woman with white hair. The dogs were barking up a storm and doing their best to drag their owner toward me. I looked at the very aromatic sandwich in my hand. They were now about forty feet away from me, still straining at their leashes. Then, in slow motion, a five-year-old boy trying to escape his mother darted out of a side alley and smashed headlong into the dog woman. They both went down. I didn’t actually see the old woman hit the ground because in the midst of her fall, she let go of her three leashes and released her hounds, er, Chihuahuas. Thoughtless tiny dogs that they were, they had no interest in ensuring that their owner was all right. No. All three of them had my San Jacoba in their crosshairs. I took off, just ahead of the Chihuahuas.
“Out of the way!” I shouted. “Coming through!”
I tore through the streets of Pamplona just a few steps ahead of my ferocious pursuers. How could dogs with such tiny legs run so fast? I bobbed and weaved, faked one way, went another, just to gain a few feet of breathing room. But still they stuck to my trail. I was impressed with their stamina and worried about mine. A block later I was still sprinting, and so were the three Chihuahuas. In fact they were closing. They had spread out behind me to dilute the impact of my cuts and dekes. Still they ran. As I looked to my right down the cross-streets at each intersection I ran through, I could see the crowds of bull-runners and even caught the occasional glimpse of the bulls themselves. My heart was pounding in fear and near exhaustion. The mutts must have been on something to enhance their performance. They just wouldn’t quit.
I had to change something up here. I wasn’t going to last in a straight-line dash. The dogs were still with me and clearly committed to running me down. So at the next cross street, with nothing left to lose, I feigned left and darted right. Bad idea. I should have feigned right and darted left. I tend to make bad decisions when stressed. It turned out I was running directly toward the major thoroughfare occupied by a thousand runners and six very angry bulls. As I approached the crowds who were cheering on the brave runners and enraging the bulls, I suddenly had a thought. It was not an earth-shattering idea. In fact, it was really quite basic and should not have consumed five blocks of thinking time. My hunger and fear had combined to cloud my normally quite sound judgment.
These vicious dogs were not interested in me. They were after my half-eaten San Jacoba. Yep, that was my epiphany. Impressive, I know. Instantly, I dropped the cursed sandwich and kept running. And just as instantly, the dogs broke off the chase and fought one another for what was left of my San Jacoba. But I was still in full flight, and I reached the mass of spectators just as six or seven frightened and exhausted bull-runners broke through the crowd into the cross-street. We all crashed together and fell in a frightened and exhausted heap on the cobblestones. They’d barely escaped the wrath of the final angry charging bull, and I had outwitted all three of the Chihuahuas. We all just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs, breathing hard, trying to regain our wind and our senses. Our mutual brushes with death turned the air around us electric. When we all realized that we’d beaten the odds and survived, we helped each other to our feet and engaged in much hugging and backslapping on our death-defying achievement. We had looked mortality in the face and outrun it. We had survived, together. We stood there, our chests still heaving as we sucked in air, our arms interlocked, the bonds between us forged in a common crucible where danger was denied and defied.
Clearly my brothers-in-arms were not aware that while they were braving that final angry bull, I was dodging dogs not much larger than guinea pigs – although there was not one but three of the tiny terrors chasing me down. So I just kept my mouth shut and went with the backslapping.
I slipped away from my compatriots in the crowd outside the bullring where bulls and runners alike had ended the sprint. I saw a little cantina on another side street. After ensuring that the premises were canine-free, I ordered wine and another San Jacoba. I’d burned so many calories in the chase, I was ready to eat again.
I wasn’t looking forward to my afternoon, but felt I had no choice. As 2:00 p.m. approached, I walked back to the Pamplona bullring. Apparently it’s the third largest in the world and seats nearly 20,000. The tickets had gone on sale the evening before so there was nothing available in what we would call in the U.S. the box office. So I just bought a scalped ticket on the street and filed in. Thanks to some old photos and some research I’d done online before the trip, I knew approximately where Hemingway liked to sit for the bullfights. My seat was actually quite close. I looked over to where he’d sat and tried to picture him there, excited and moved by the matadors’ feats of bravery.
Then the first bull galloped into the ring as the spectators hooted and hollered. After his grand and glorious entrance, it was all downhill for the bull. It was painful, physically painful, to watch. I doubt the bull enjoyed it much either.
Here’s how it generally goes down. To open the proceedings, the bull is mercilessly taunted by picadors and matadors. When the bull charges, the garishly costumed men simply duck behind a secure wooden wall where they are perfectly safe. Predictably, the bull grows more and more frustrated and angry.
Then to add injury to insult, the picadors start sticking sharp multicoloured skewers into the bull’s back. The blood flows. The crowd cheers. The bull weakens. When there are five or six skewers sticking into the animal, a matador then moves into the ring and forces the bull to charge through his cape over and over again until he’s nearly overcome with exhaustion (the bull, not the matador). The bull seldom makes satisfying contact with anything more substantial than the air. Then the matador stabs the bull with a few barbed wooden sticks with little flags attached. The bull slows more, the blood loss and fatigue taking their toll. Then, when the bull is barely able to stand in one place, we reach the climax of the sordid proceedings, the coup de grâce. The matador stands before the half-dead beast, raises a sword above his head in a move that almost looks balletic, and thrusts the blade deep between the bull’s shoulders to sever the aorta or pierce the heart. If it is done properly, the bull drops to the ground, stone dead. But often, it’s not done properly and the bull suffers terribly before being dragged from the ring and killed offstage. It’s a great dishonour for the matador to fail to kill the bull cleanly and quickly. Oh, the poor matador.
I’d researched all of this before the trip. I’d forced myself to watch bullfights on YouTube so I knew what to expect. But I didn’t see much of my first live bullfight. The sun was beating down and the temperature in the stands must have been close to 100° Fahrenheit. Naturally, I was not in the shade. As well, I was tired from my overnight journey not to mention my terrifying Chihuahua chase earlier in the morning. The heat and my fatigue, together with the gruesome spectacle playing out before me, proved a potent combination.
I had no idea I’d passed out until I came to outside of the stadium. As far as I could figure out, two security staff had been alerted by the person sitting in front of me, the fat man I’d just fainted on. They carried me out, sat me in the shade, and tossed a little cold water on my gills until I revived. How embarrassing. I took the next bus back to Vitoria and boarded the overnight train for the return trip to Paris. Madrid was closer, but it was still cheaper to fly back to the States from Paris.
Shortly after take-off, with Hemingway’s Paris and Pamplona receding behind me, I turned on my laptop. I launched Microsoft Word and opened the file holding my manuscript. Chapter 12. Twenty minutes later, I was playing solitaire. Shit.
Hat was waiting for me in the Miami airport Arrivals area shouldering a red and blue Adidas sports bag, circa 1974. He was a little excited.
“Hem, you’re her
e! You made it! You are really and truly here,” he spouted. “I’m in Miami and you’re here, too.”
I was exhausted and wasn’t exactly sure how to respond.
“Hey, Hat. Good to see you. Um, Key West, here we come,” I said in a voice that was better suited for announcing the death of a cherished pet budgie.
“I can tell you that I’ve been exploring this very impressive airport since my flight arrived just two short hours ago and our gate is just down this way,” he said, grabbing my elbow and leading me along the corridor as if we would surely lose each other without his hand gripping my arm. “I am also very pleased to report that our flight is on time. I even had the nice airline people put me in the seat next to you. It is all working out so well, is it not?”
“It couldn’t be better, Hat. But don’t take it personally if I fall asleep on the flight. I’m completely spent.”
“Well then you really must use this on the plane. It is just so comfortable. It is the only way to sleep on a plane.”
Hat unzipped his bag, reached in, and pulled out one of those inflatable neck collars passengers use to make in-flight dozing a little easier. Except this one was gigantic, pink, and sparkly. Judging by its size, there could not have been much room left in Hat’s sports bag for clothes, toothbrush, and whatever else he may have packed. The sparkles and splinters of reflected light would surely make it impossible to sleep while wearing this gaudy tractor-tire inner tube around my neck. It was more likely to induce a migraine. Hat pushed the collar into position, hyper-extending my neck. With it installed, I could only see directly in front and above me. It was that big.
“Um, Hat, this is huge. Are you sure this isn’t a pool chair or perhaps a life raft?”
“Oh, Hem, you are always so hilarious,” Hat replied, shaking his head and laughing. “Life raft. Ha! So very amusing.”
