And there was plenty more.
But our devils are the gauge of our angels. If Hemingway went around the house in a fury following that, he was only kindness when first-time novelist Irving Stone and his wife appeared at his doorstep. Stone, four years younger, had read The Sun Also Rises in 1926 in close to one sitting and felt there was now a whole new written language for Americans. Eight years later, Lust for Life—his biographical novel about Vincent van Gogh, based on van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo—had just been published. He used the occasion to write to Hemingway to ask if he could stop by and present him a signed copy. Hemingway led them through the airy, high-ceilinged rooms of 907 Whitehead, past the Juan Gris canvases and big-game skins on the tile floor. He poured tumblers of whiskey. “Are you having any fun?” he asked several times. The visitors stayed two hours and in the middle of it Hemingway’s children came into the room in their robes and pajamas to say good night. Their papa horsed around with each, shook hands formally with each. At the door, saying good-bye, the magnanimous host offered to take his fellow writer out on Pilar the next day.
But the weather was bad the following day, so the two sat on the upturned bottom of a small boat down at the submarine pens and talked about writing. Thirty-two years later, in 1966, in a letter to Carlos Baker, Stone could seem to remember every bit of it, in the same way that Ned Calmer, Hemingway’s friend from Paris days, could remember for the rest of his life how fine and gentle and generous Hemingway had acted toward him and his ill wife just as Hemingway was crossing the Atlantic to acquire Pilar. In 1966, Stone lived in a big house in Beverly Hills, his commercial novels having been made into big-budget movies. But to read his letter to Baker is to get the idea that he would have given up nearly everything to write the kind of books Hemingway had written. “I remember when Ernest joined the backs of his hands to make a point, I saw that they were covered with cuts and scratches from fish hooks and lines and all the other bruises one gets hunting big game fish. Ernest looked down at the cuts and scars and said proudly: ‘Fisherman’s hands.’ … I think he expressed those two words with as much pride as anything he said about any of his books.”
Several years ago, on a sultrifying June evening, I went out for a boat ride in Key West with Toby Bruce’s son. His name is Benjamin Bruce, but around Key West everyone knows him as Dink Bruce. Like his father, who knew Hemingway intimately for almost three decades, Dink’s a small, compact figure with a taciturn air. Dink’s dad, T. Otto Bruce, who died of lung cancer in 1984, and whom everyone called Toby, was originally from Pauline’s hometown, Piggott, Arkansas, which is tucked up into the northeast corner of the state, close to the Missouri border.
Toby Bruce was twelve years younger than Hemingway and less than half his size. He was the ultimate fix-it man. He met Hemingway in the late twenties but didn’t get to know him until a few years later, when Hemingway had come to Piggott with his family for Christmas. The friendship is said to have cemented itself when Toby proved himself a good thrower of skeet targets for Hemingway behind the Pfeiffer barn. Toby had remodeled the barn, had built it into a kind of studio to give Hemingway a place to write on visits to his in-laws. “I knew how to throw a trap for clay pigeons,” he once said. “I’d give him the business. A low one, then a high one, then a skimmer.” Eventually, Hemingway convinced Toby to come to Key West. For the last three decades of Hemingway’s life, Toby was the ever-ready secretary, cross-country driving companion, drinking and hunting mate, surrogate parent to Patrick and Gigi, money holder, property manager, fixer-upper, listening post for the newest round of injustices and grievances. After the breakup with Pauline, Toby lived for a time in Cuba with Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn. Then he said he was going back to Key West. Still, the skimmer was seldom more than a wire or phone call or letter away. Toby’s the one who, in 1935, not long after first coming to Key West (he’d hitchhiked down from Piggott), built a chain-link fence for Hemingway around 907 Whitehead. Two years later, Pauline got Toby to tear down the unsightly chain-link and put up a more privacy-providing brick wall. She wangled bricks from the city at an absurdly cheap price (later to be the subject of a city council inquiry). Toby borrowed a pickup truck and began transporting nineteen thousand bricks from the navy yard—three thousand at a time. He’d not tried to lay a nearly six-foot-high brick wall in his handyman career. But Toby’s wall, with its uneven bricks spaced at odd intervals, bulging out from their mortar here and there, stands today.
On the evening that Toby’s son, who was then sixty-one, took me out in his new boat, he’d been cruising Key West waters for something like fifty years. His boat had been constructed as a replica of a thirties Elco and had that instant classic wooden-boat look. She was tubular but she also sat upright, like Pilar. All her wooden parts had a kind of pumpkin gleam. Other parts were trimmed out in a rich green canvas nautical cloth. She could have been a pint-size Pilar in her prime. As he minded his business going out, Dink said that as a child he’d known Hemingway, although not well, since by then Hemingway was living in Cuba and didn’t get over to Key West that much. Once, in elementary school, he was doing a book report on The Old Man and the Sea, and, when the teacher didn’t especially like what he wrote, he got to ask the author himself some questions about the story. He got a good mark.
We were out about two hours, and it was a great relief from the Calcutta-like humidity on shore. Standing at the wheel, Dink called out the names of different cays and spits and rocks and channels—but it was hard for me to hear the names above the engine noise, so I put away the notebook and just enjoyed the ride. He was barefoot, in brown shorts and a white cotton shirt. His Beatlesque mop of gray hair was blown back. “This is what Hemingway was seeing and hearing all those years ago,” he said. “It’s the same sand, the same light, the same water hitting the sides of the boat.” By the time we were headed back, the sky had grown purple, the water blue-black. The town was winking on like a Christmas set. Dink negotiated us skillfully through the pilings of an old wooden bridge, where the current swirled against the sides of the boat in circles and cross-circles. I trailed my hand in the wake. I felt a shiver. Dink put her into the slip neat as you please. “Do you feel you know your new boat?” I asked. He laughed. “Hell, no. Not yet. Just like I still don’t really know these waters yet. But I’m getting the boatman’s hands.”
*Who could live up to this kind of self-mythologizing? It went on through his twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and two years of his sixties, aided and abetted always by his unwitting, too-willing, hack journalistic accomplices. Yes, as the decades wore on, many of the hacks and those who didn’t think of themselves as hacks grew all too eager to slay Hemingway, but there were always others ready to do his bidding. It had to have been the charismatic force of his personality. This is not meant to sound harsh about Jack O’Brine, who just must have been trying to earn twenty bucks a week in a limp seersucker suit, and who has to be long dead, even as his newspaper is long out of business. In fact, I found myself growing suddenly curious: Who was he? I didn’t find out much. In the forties he apparently went to work as a foreign correspondent for the International Herald Tribune and translated a Trotsky manifesto when he was in Mexico.
Like the big brother he wished only to copy, like his father, like one of his four sisters, Leicester Hemingway, the Baron, the baby of the family, went one September day in 1982 to the foyer of his ill-tended Spanish Colonial stucco home on San Marino Island on Biscayne Bay in Miami Beach and ended his life. He was sixty-seven. He’d become depressed after a string of surgeries. He had diabetes and other ailments. He was convinced they were going to take off his legs, even as his own paranoid and depressed and diabetic father, fifty-four years before, had been convinced of a leg amputation and other horrors on the winter midday when he sat on his marriage bed in Oak Park and put a Smith & Wesson behind his right ear.
Two and a half years before he shot himself—so it would have been either late February or early March of 1980—ther
e was Les Hemingway early one morning, for all the world Ernest Hemingway himself. He was standing off to the side at the Chalk’s International Airlines seaplane ramp at Watson Island in the Port of Miami, waiting, as were the rest of us, for the pilot to give a signal to board the plane for the hop over to Bimini. He had that instantly recognizable square-jawed and leathery Hemingway face; the massive upper body of Hemingway males; the requisite white Papa beard. He wore ratty clothes and sneakers without laces, and beneath one arm was a folded-over grocery bag: the never-quite-measuring-up kid brother who’d tried to be a serious writer, and who’d known some success. The one who’d kicked around in the newspaper and magazine worlds, in government service, in boatbuilding and commercial fishing. There are Hemingway letters in which the older sibling is saying things like For crissakes, Baron, take a bath, will you, and get your hair cut, and wash your face good before you go for that job interview, because as we both know one of your worst habits is your goddamn sloppiness.
Les Hemingway had been haunting Bimini for years. He genuinely cared for the place, and the place genuinely cared for him back. In the folded-over grocery sack were a hundred or so copies of the latest edition of the Bimini News, of which Les was editor, reporter, distributor, and proprietor. His custom, once each new issue was ready, was to fly over on the seaplane and then go up and down Bimini’s main street—essentially Bimini’s only street—pressing free copies on locals and tourists. He’d retrieve them from the grocery sack with his big hearty wave and hello and, often, a handshake. “Smallest newspaper in the world, takes two editions to wrap a bonefish,” he liked to say. I watched him do that all weekend. This was seven years before Ernest Hemingway’s eldest son, Jack, told me, “Well, I’ve decided what works for me is not going deep.” Before the in-between son, Patrick, said, “I have stared ambition in the face and decided I don’t wish it.” Before the youngest, Gregory, told me: “The ‘Papa’ cult. Just think what it means to be one of the three of us in this goddamn ‘Papa’ cult.”
The pilot signaled, and the ten or twelve of us got on. Les boarded toward the last. As he strapped himself in, he nodded and smiled. I leaned forward and asked, “Are you by any chance Leicester Hemingway?” The instant reply through a bared-teeth grin: “Yeah, and if you’re lucky, it might get you a cup of coffee somewhere.”
The World War II–era Grumman Goose seaplane duck-walked into the harbor and took off, spraying water everywhere. Its frame rattled and shook. Twenty minutes later, we whooshed into Bimini Harbor, taxied in the sun past pastel-colored buildings and coconut palms, waddled up a ramp, onto the lower end of King’s Highway. Island boys helped the pilots put chocks under the wheels. There was a commotion of unloading. Everybody went into a one-story cement-block customs office. Les got waved through.
There was defiance in things he said that weekend, some stiffening pride. There were moments of bombast and goofy statement. He seemed willing to share an astonishing number of family secrets. (Much later I’d learn from other family members about his great generosity, helping to rear various Hemingways who weren’t his own children.) He talked of Pilar, and of how he’d been in Key West on that day in 1934 when she first came in, sparkling in her new varnish. He said he was the founder of a nation called New Atlantis. He’d established it on a reef off Jamaica. He’d issued his own stamps, minted his own coins.
When Ed Hemingway killed himself, on December 6, 1928, at fifty-seven, trying to get away from his diabetes and angina and frozen mind, his youngest child was thirteen—and in the house. Les hadn’t gone to school because of a cold. The doctor came home at noontime, burned papers in the basement, told his wife he felt tired and would lie down before lunch. He went upstairs and closed the door. In his 1953 autobiographical novel, The Sound of the Trumpet, Les recounted the moment, as he must have been recounting and fictionalizing it all his life:
“It sounded like a shot.” He knocked at the door. “Daddy!” He tried the door. It opened, and in the darkened room, all shades drawn except one, there on the bed lay his father, making hoarse breathing noises. His eyes were closed, and in that first instant as he saw him there in the half-dark, nothing looked wrong. He put his hand under his father’s head. His hand slipped under easily and when he brought it out again, it was wet-arm with blood.
Grace, who had to be sedated, said she was too grief stricken to appear at the coroner’s inquest. She sent the thirteen-year-old to report what he knew.
Critics were thinly condescending about Les’s novel, which was a war novel. The cruelest words came from the clever fellows at Time, a two-paragraph notice:
Many a novelist has tried to be another Hemingway. A 38-year-old ex-newspaperman has long held this distinction without trying: Leicester Hemingway is Ernest Hemingway’s younger brother. A commercial fisherman and builder of boats, he looks like Ernest and, like Ernest, has gone to war and written about it.
His first novel, The Sound of the Trumpet, is a fictionalized report of his G.I. experience between D-Day and the end of the war. It focuses on Danforth Granham, a G.I. cameraman in a documentary film unit, later an infantry photographer.… The result of all this picture-taking is a series of dramatically unrelated clichés which add up to a minor war document disguised as a novel. What Leicester Hemingway chiefly demonstrates is the importance of being Ernest.
Hemingway himself was in Tanganyika, on five-month safari, when he saw the Time review in late 1953. He was the most famous writer in the world. Six months before, he’d won the Pulitzer Prize; the next year, he’d get the Nobel. Two months hence, in January 1954, he and his wife Mary would survive a pair of surreal plane crashes on successive days in Africa—and he’d stumble from them to read his own obituaries and stoke his myth. Half a dozen years later, in a letter to his brother, Hemingway said of that witty two-graph cut in Time, “It was the most unjust and dirty review that I have ever read.” He told Les that he’d written a letter to Time’s editors, blasting them, and that he’d had it in the car ready to mail, when he received a copy of the novel itself. The novel, inscribed by Les, had caught up with Hemingway in Nairobi. He didn’t take to some things in it that his brother had written about the family, about him, about his army pal, Buck Lanham. “You could hang and rattle on what you wrote about Buck,” he told Les. After he saw the novel, Hemingway never bothered to mail his angry letter to Time.
Once, aboard Pilar, Hemingway had said to his little brother, yelling at him, holding in his hand a letter from Grace Hemingway:
Listen, Baron, will you, for Christ’s sake, stop writing those wild letters to your mother? You want to scare her to death with a bunch of wild exaggerations? Sure, you’re kidding. But for Christ’s sake stop writing that kind of bullshit to your mother. Here’s something about a fucking boa constrictor you supposedly fought with. Will you please stop this kind of crap before you give the woman a heart attack.
Les proved a wonderful Bimini tour guide, taking me to room 1 on the second floor of the Compleat Angler Hotel, with its wide veranda and tropical flowers curling through the railings, so that I could see where Hemingway worked and sometimes slept (when he wasn’t sleeping on the topside of his boat or elsewhere). He walked me down onto Radio Beach. He arranged for me to get inside the two-story clapboard house, with its overhanging porches, that had inspired the opening paragraph of Islands in the Stream:
The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship. It was shaded by tall coconut palms that were bent by the trade wind and on the ocean side you could walk out of the door and down the bluff across the white sand and into the Gulf Stream. The water of the Stream was usually a dark blue when you looked out at it when there was no wind. But when you walked out into it there was just the green light of the water over that floury white sand and you could see the shadow of any big fish a long time before he could ever come in close to the beach.
You ca
n fault hell out of that heavily edited and stitched-together novel (the cleaver work was done principally by Hemingway’s widow and publisher nine years after his death), but not a word in that lapidary opening paragraph.
I remember asking Les where he stayed on Bimini, when he came every fortnight or so with his newspaper, which, judging from the several issues I saw, had many typos and a haphazard layout. (He told me he did the writing and editing out of his Florida home.) “Oh, I never worry about that,” Les said. “I sleep on the beach. Sometimes I’ll sleep in a chair on the porch at the Angler.”
We had lunch in the Angler’s dark, cool bar, and he didn’t object when I offered to pay. Maybe he had plenty of money, but I guessed otherwise. The proprietor of the hotel, a wiry, amiable Biminite named Ossie Brown, whose own father, Harcourt Brown, had been around in Hemingway’s time, seemed to enjoy Les, but I thought I could detect a small contempt.
There was no sign of lacerating rage at having been consigned a life—like practically every Hemingway after Ernest—under the shadow of the volcano. Indeed, as the weekend went on, it was Les’s decency, in and amid all the apparent neediness, loneliness, that stood out. He’d made what he could of his life.
Hemingway's Boat Page 23
