The Hemingway Files

by H. K. Bush

  “Inside job?” This was too much. The story was getting stranger with every detail. “How could there be another person involved? How could this happen without Hadley knowing something about it? Anyway she’s stated repeatedly that it was she who put all the materials into the valise. So your story falls apart, Sensei—” I stopped. “Wait. “Are you telling me…?”

  He nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Very good, Yu-san. You have just completed the circuit.”

  “Hadley was the other person?”

  “Of course. It all makes perfect sense. Ezra Pound was such an impressive and charismatic mind, along with being one of the Hemingway’s closest friends, that he was capable of convincing Hadley to do almost anything, so long as she felt that it might benefit Ernest. I finally saw the connection myself in the mid-1960s and the solution seemed obvious. It was Hadley and Pound all along, although it took several more years of investigating to lead me finally to the valise you now see on the table before you.”

  “But how could they keep it a secret all those years?”

  “It was in everyone’s best interests to keep the secret. Hemingway’s volatile temper was of legendary proportions. And anyway, there’s not much in there, as you can see for yourself. Hemingway invented the rest, all on his own, and there was little interference from the critics and the biographers. Like children, they just believed the stories that the great author told them.” He paused and looked off into the distance. “Yes, they all just played along. Until I put it all together and confronted the main actors in the drama. You know, Yu-san, there is a wonderful moment in an old movie by your great director, John Ford. The movie is called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. It’s about a man who becomes famous for shooting a dreaded criminal, although, in fact, he did not shoot him at all. At one point, a reporter says, ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’”

  I nodded as I ran my fingers across the case’s worn leather. I knew the movie well and had watched it many times.

  “Well, that is what happened with the story of Hemingway’s valise,” Sensei continued. “The legend became the fact, and forever after people quit searching for the lost valise. Except that when I began looking through these materials in the years just after the War, I was not completely satisfied with the legend. I felt that there was something wrong about it, something missing. And as I have told you, I had considerable financial backing for whatever curiosities I might be interested in uncovering— this was my major vice in life, or at least one of them. And so I went after the materials with the help of private detectives and some other snoops I have worked with over the years. I was determined to find out if the legends were true or not. And what I discovered, that no one else had ever taken the time to find out about, was that there were a couple of people still alive who had different versions of the story to tell. But nobody had ever asked them the right questions about it, or if they had, they had never asked with large amounts of cash in their hand.”

  My eyebrows must have shot up. “You mean that you had somehow deduced that Pound still had Hemingway’s old manuscripts?”

  “I assumed at that time that he must still have them, or that he knew who did, or else that the papers had been lost for good, or burned, or were a fabrication from the beginning. Those were the possibilities, as I saw it at the time. Though I did, in fact, have an opinion. And I turned out to be correct.”

  I frowned. “What was your opinion?”

  He took some time for dramatic effect. He brushed the crumbs off his robe and resettled himself on his cushion. “You see, Yu-san, my hunch was that there never was much of value in the valise. Or, rather, I believed that if there had been a valise, it probably contained a few minor items, but was never the great loss Hemingway made it out to be. And perhaps even Hemingway himself knew all along that he was playacting. Possibly he himself destroyed most of those early works, some night in a drunken rage. All in the service of enlarging his growing myth.”

  This made no sense. “But Sensei, you have this valise, and the manuscripts,” I said, gesturing to them.

  He smiled at this. “Forgive me for that slight prevarication, Yu-san. It was just a parlor trick. A trick, I should say, that I have long desired to play on someone just like yourself. Someone, that is, who could appreciate it for what it is.”

  I sat there gazing at him in confused silence. He waited me out, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. So he continued. “It is indeed a valise of the style and color of the period, yes. It may even resemble the one that Hadley lost in the train station. I had one of my agents in Paris purchase several valises of the correct age and style as described to me by several eyewitnesses, including Hadley Hemingway. But no, the actual valise, I am afraid to say, has been lost or destroyed over the years. As for the contents. Yes, two of the documents you have just seen are in fact originals, and so far as I know, both unique and completely unknown to the world outside of these walls, at least since Pound died. And from everything I have been able to put together, they were both originally inside of the valise that night in 1922, when it was supposedly stolen in the Gare de Lyon in Paris. That much is true and not a trick at all.”

  “Sensei, I don’t understand what you are telling me.”

  He had my full attention; he smiled, shook his head, and began his explanation. “As I said, it was Pound all along. He was confident that he knew what was best for Hemingway. Don’t forget that he convinced T.S. Eliot to throw out huge sections of The Waste Land. Eliot’s epic poem was the monumental achievement of the era, and Eliot was no fool—Pound was simply brilliant, and in full control. So Eliot listened to him—and, in fact, Pound was right. He considered himself right about everything, and he truly believed that he knew what was best for other people, besides Tom Eliot and Ernest Hemingway. He persuaded Hilda Doolittle to write poetry a certain way, and to change her identity to the more mysterious “H.D.” He even dared lecture the great James Joyce on the art of writing fiction!

  “Honestly, I was a bit embarrassed that the idea had never occurred to me before. Or to anyone else, evidently. Old Ezra was one of the great monomaniacs in American literary history, sort of a Rasputin figure, charismatic, even mesmerizing. That is why I compared him to Satan. His later, unfortunate history with Mussolini and the Fascists is a true indication of this rather sinister streak in his personality, I’m afraid.”

  We sat motionless for a moment as I waited for him to continue. He pulled to him another green library box, laid out beforehand so that he could have it handy for just this moment in the story. “There is more evidence, but before I show you, I will tell you about Venice. Finally, yes, Yu-san?” He shot me a smile, and I nodded, helplessly caught in his web of stories, no longer sure what to believe, what truly had happened or what was simply an old man spinning a tall tale.

  “I arrived in Venice in the summer of 1967. It was very warm, and I spent several days roaming the back alleyways and crossing the hundreds of tiny bridges that constitute the unique, odd, charm of the city. I had never been there before, and it had a hypnotic effect. This was the same city that had done its magic on Byron, and many of the great American writers—Hawthorne, Howells, James—and now, evidently, on old Ezra Pound. I had heard that he still went for his daily walks, even at his advanced age, and that often of an evening, he would dine with Olga at a nearby restaurant called Cici’s.

  “And so, secretly I would go at night and sit in a far corner of Cici’s to wait for my target to arrive. On several occasions he did so, and I watched him struggle through the maze of tables, cane in one hand, and sit at the same place each night, inspecting the passersby, ordering the same meals, sipping at his wine. They rarely spoke, but I could see that there was a great affection there, and a kind of peacefulness. Pound was a formidable, almost a frightening presence. I was sizing him up, I told myself, preparing for our meeting, scheduled later in my second week in Venice.

  “Finally the day arrived, and my audience wa
s awaiting me. It was still quite light out—the sun stayed high in the skies until well past eight o’clock—and I made my way to Olga’s house a few minutes from my hotel. I was quite nervous.

  “We made our introductions, and I will be brief in describing our conversations. He pounced upon me with relish. ‘So you are the friend of Hélène? And so how is old Horse-Blanket?’ I’ll never forget that first remark. The nickname, if it was one, was certainly new to me. The thought of calling the dignified Alsatian beauty ‘Horse-Blanket’ took a moment to digest. Possibly it was just an eccentricity, or an attempt to intimidate me, or throw me off. So I responded, ‘Hélène is well, and sends her best regards.’ And I must tell you I was intimidated, so I went immediately to the subject of interest. I asked him about the valise, and if he knew of any reasons that Hemingway might fake its loss.

  “This shocked him, I now believe. He had gotten so used to the myth that he momentarily stuck with it. ‘Why yes, of course, it was a great tragedy, a great loss,’ he assured me.

  “What if I were to tell you that there is some evidence of a conspiracy? That one of Hemingway’s friends worked to rid the world of those early manuscripts?’ I stopped for effect and looked into his fiery eyes. They blazed, like live coals. He looked right back at me, hard. I might have melted, then and there. I believe I was shaking and hid my hands so he wouldn’t see. ‘What sort of nonsense is this?’ he demanded. ‘What are you all about here?’ He drilled right through me with those eyes, and started to his feet. ‘How could a so-called friend do a thing like that? I’ll have you know that Hem was like a brother. He helped me get out of the nuthouse, dammit, and sent me a huge check in support when I did get out. Which I still have, by the way. I never cashed it!’

  “I did my best to calm his ruffled feathers. ‘Yes, Mr. Pound, I know all about that,” I told him. ‘And I understand your affections.’ I slowed down and looked at him directly, gathering my courage. ‘But is it not true, that sometimes an older brother must step in, and do something that seems rather rash, so that the beloved younger brother can go forward in life?’

  “He relaxed back into his chair, and sized me up a long moment. ‘I’ve seen you watching me, you know, down at Cici’s. Did you think I’m too senile to notice a skinny little Jap, night after night studying me?’ He paused for effect. ‘What do you want from me?’

  “I thought for a moment. ‘Just a good story,’ I answered. ‘A story, shall we say, that can stay in this room.’ I hesitated to make the final move. Then I told him, ‘I can make it very much worth your while. I am a man of great means, Mr. Pound.’

  “This information perked him up. I had been told in no uncertain terms from Hélène that Pound had always been obsessive in his fear about not having enough money. In reality, at this point in his life, he had more than enough money for anything he would ever need. Olga had taken care of all that. Nevertheless, Pound always insisted on being able to take care of himself financially, and to be assured that he would always have whatever he wished to have, was a great pearl to dangle in front of him. So my offer of money, put in this very casual way, called out to him.

  “He said, ‘So, we’re negotiating now, for the story? Is that it?’

  “If you wish to put it in those terms, yes.”

  “‘But you have already done that, haven’t you? You’ve put it in those terms, I would say. Well …’ He stroked his old white beard. He had the wrinkled head of an ancient prophet, and his eyes were beaming, having just come down from the mountain of visitation. ‘Shall we say, then, that if you make me the right offer, I might satisfy your strange desires? For I do, as they say, have a story to tell. Yes, and you are not so far from the Kingdom as you might imagine, Professor.’

  “’But do you expect me to name an amount without hearing your story, or without seeing the goods being purchased?’

  “He thought this over. ‘Come back tomorrow night, then. Same time. I will show you … the goods, as you put it. Will that be convenient, Professor?’

  “I agreed, and he rose to leave me without speaking further. Soon enough I was out on the street, strolling back to my hotel with a glorious smile on my face. I had the answers to questions I had been investigating for years, just within my grasp.

  “The next evening, I arrived at the house prepared to pay whatever price might be necessary to secure the evidence I was seeking. I was quite curious about what form Pound’s evidence might take. He received me immediately, and had a strange and almost unearthly look on his old and weathered face. He seemed slightly agitated, and wished to transact our business with great alacrity, I thought.

  “‘I believe this is what you are looking for, Professor.’ He handed me an autograph document, signed by his own hand, as I immediately recognized.”

  And now, with a flourish, Sensei reached for one of his green library boxes, and pulled from it a single sheet of paper. “Here it is, Yu-san. The signed document that Pound handed me that evening, twenty-five years ago.”

  I took the leaf from Sensei, and began perusing it. It was abrupt and to the point, as I imagined Pound to have been. The paper reads, in full, as follows:

  Yessir, it’s true. I asked Hadley to bring all the stories to me—all of ’em. Commanded her, really. She was one that needed to be told what to do. Gotta see ’em, I bellowed. Bring ’em to me! Hadley was an easy tool, and she worshipped Hem. Anything to help the old man. And being Gawd, I easily convinced her. And in 1922 Paris, I was Gawd!

  When I had Hem’s stories, I immediately saw that my strategy was correct. I studied those silly tales—almost all of it cheap, vulgar trash, written by an ignorant youth.Just children’s stories, fit for the flames. But my, did we invent a fine conspiracy. And nobody ever suspected! In some sense, my best poem ever. A myth for the ages!

  Of course, I protected Hadley, and I swore to her that I would. We played our hand just right.

  ps. Not everything was directed to the oblivion of flames. Two of those old stories survived. They were the best of the bunch: “Bread and Wine” and “Big Shoulders.”

  Would ya like to see ’em?

  Signed, and sealed,

  E. Pound, 1967, Venice, Italy

  I looked up at Sensei, flabbergasted. “This is from Pound?!”

  “His own hand. It is just as he wrote it and gave it to me, the second time we met. He insisted that I write a document to him, saying I should not reveal any of it until all the principals had been dead for at least twenty years. And he did produce the two stories, or rather one complete story, “Bread and Wine,” and one large fragment of an aborted novel, “Big Shoulders.” Those are the manuscripts I have already shown you. I knew immediately that I would not leave his house that night without closing a deal, so the negotiations began in earnest. He certainly had a weakness for cash.

  “So I said, ‘Name a figure, Mr. Pound, and we can begin our discussions of a proper payment.’ He did name a figure, and I did not even make a counteroffer. Instead, I produced an envelope with a large stack of both Deutsche marks and Italian lira, and patiently peeled from it an equivalent amount. I even added some to it. And I handed it directly to him. ‘Will that satisfy you?’

  “He did not even take the cash. Instead, he looked me directly in the eye, in the haunting way that he had. The old evil eye, from a gothic tale. I actually shuddered. But I did not reveal any second thoughts, and held the money before him. He finally took the wad of cash, almost apologetically, saying as he did, ‘Remember, it is to remain a secret, till twenty years after I can’t be bothered by it anymore. Or the others, either.’ And he turned and hobbled out of the room, his cane in one hand and the cash in the other.

  “I never saw him again. That was over twenty-five years ago, and I have kept my end of the bargain—until tonight!”

  Holding Pound’s letter in my hands like a sacred text, I asked, “And when do you expect to make this discovery available to the scholars?”

  He smiled, I assume at my American impa
tience. “It is not something we need to hurry, Yu-san. Every year that I withhold my secret, its value doubles, I should say!” He enjoyed his little treasure now, laughing as a child might with a new toy. “Of course, it is already unique, and thus almost impossible to appraise. What you hold in your hand may in fact be one of the most valuable single sheets of paper in American literary collecting. And you are only the fifth person to know of its existence—at least, to my knowledge. This should be a matter of some small enjoyment for you.”

  “Five people? Me, you, Pound… ?”

  “And Mika, of course. She knows the contents of all my collections.” He waited me out. Then, “Can’t you guess the fifth?”

  I thought it over. “Hadley?”

  “Of course. I needed corroboration. Otherwise, how could I know that it was not some hoax by the aging poet, desperate for some easy money? So I managed to set up an interview with Hadley, two years after visiting with old Ezra. She was living in a farmhouse, up in New Hampshire, where she had settled with her husband, the writer Paul Mowrer, after he retired from journalism. It was near the end of the 1960s, and reporters and biographers were still contacting her with various questions and so forth, digging around for more information about the great Hemingway. She graciously invited me to her home, and provided directions. The day I arrived, I parked my rental car, and as I strolled up the front walk, I could hear piano music coming from the house. I stood on the porch a moment, listening to what sounded like a piece by Schubert. Then I pressed the doorbell, the music faded away, and a pretty, rather simple woman answered the door. It was Hadley, wearing a brightly laundered white frock, alone in that big old house, answering the door herself. I found this to be quite charming, an image I still can conjure in my mind. Immediately I liked her even more than I had imagined I would.

  “She brought me into the sitting room, then went out for cold drinks—iced tea, a very American refreshment. We sat and chatted briefly, then I circled in for the necessary information. ‘I’ve been to see Ezra Pound, and he told me a remarkable story about the Paris years.’