Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost (6 page)

And as I watched, I knew it had to be divine intervention.  Through the boat’s windshield, Ernest and I both saw a pinhole of white light suddenly appear in the bible-black sky.  Neither of us could believe our eyes when a lone thin beam, as if from a heavenly spotlight, pushed closer and closer until it shone on the bow in front of us.  And at that exact moment, all the malevolent clouds that had enveloped the entire sky began to lift.  It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen. 

For three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees around the
Pilar
, the doomsday overcast began to lift from the horizon.  At first there was but a tiny sliver of bright blue everywhere the sky met the ocean.  Then, as if somebody or something in the heavens were hauling up a monstrous, evil net, the clouds rose from the edge of the sea like an upside-down tornado.  The higher the net’s bottom rose, the more the seas settled down.  The rain suddenly subsided; the sunlight brightened, and more and more blue sky appeared.  It was as if this amazing phenomenon had been choreographed.  The higher the ugly clouds lifted, the bluer the ocean’s surface became.

Then it was over.

The heat was no longer oppressive.  The trade winds had picked up
,  the
ocean calmed down, and there was just a ruffle on its surface.  Ernest and I reopened the foldout windshield so we could feel the breeze.  Still holding the wheel, the skipper turned toward the stern, and I followed suit. 

The flooded deck was draining back into the sea.  The water that was left was littered with soggy sandwiches, seaweed, a few full beer cans, two water bottles, and a single orange starfish. 

As he assessed the battle scene, Ernest said, “It was a test, Jack.  I’ve not communicated with Him, but I
know
it was a test. 
Not for me, because I’m already gone, but for you.”

He pushed his hair back, picked his drenched sun visor up from the floor, pulled it over his forehead and said, “Do me a favor.  Grab me one of those beers.  I don’t give a shit if they’re piss-warm.  Give me a beer.”

I retrieved two and popped them both open. 

As I handed one to Ernest, he turned back toward the windshield.  He squinted then said, “I think I see the coast.  We should be docking in
Cojimar
within the hour.”

Chapter
7

When we reached the shallows along the Cuban coastline, Ernest pointed to a beige stingray skittering along the sandy bottom.  A moment later I spotted a seemingly motionless barracuda suspended in the gin-clear water.  It wasn’t in the mood for company, and with one quick swipe of its tail, it zoomed out of sight.  We were a hundred yards from the now dilapidated pier where Papa had tied up
Pilar
for twenty years.  As we eased closer, three dark-skinned boys in cutoff shorts dove from what was left of the concrete structure into the warm Caribbean water.

“Look at that,” Ernest said in a surprised and happy tone.  “
Cojimar
doesn’t look all that different than it used to.”

“How many years has it been?”

“Over fifty.
  I left here in 1960.  Hey, look over there,” he said pointing to something just beyond the seawall before us, “in the middle of that circle of pillars.  It’s a bust . . . of me.  See it?  It’s looking right at us.  I’ll be a son of a gun.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen pictures of it in books.  I read that after you died your fishermen friends went around collecting old propellers, anchors, things like that.  They melted them down so they could have a tribute to you made.  I think that was around ‘62.”

“I’ll bet my old skipper Gregorio Fuentes was behind that.”

“He must have had something to do with it because I’ve seen a picture of him and some other fishermen standing in front of it.”

Ernest paused, nodding his head while he studied the bust. 

Then he looked back toward the dock.  “Looks like those kids have cleared out of the way.  Let’s pull her in.”

“The middle of the dock has collapsed,” I said.  “How are we going to get to shore, swim?”

“Hell, Jack, we’re already drenched,” he said with a chuckle.  Then turning to me, looking like he knew something I didn’t, he added, “I’ve got a funny feeling we’ll get over there without swimming.”

A minute or two later I found out he was right.  After climbing out of the
Pilar
and tying her lines to the narrow dock, I peeked over the other side of it.  A small rowboat with two oars just happened to be waiting there.

“This just gets better and better,” I said as Ernest stepped from the gunwales onto the concrete beside me.   

“Oh yeah?
  Take a look at what’s waiting for us over there,” he said, jutting his head toward the shoreline.

A yellow 1953 Chevrolet was parked there.  The black letters on its side read Havana Taxi.

“Come on.  Let’s get into this teacup and row over there.  I’d love to hang around a while, stop into La
Terraza
for a drink, but like I said, we’ve got to meet somebody in Havana.”

During the cab ride to Havana, Ernest and I didn’t exchange a single word.  The old taxi driver with dried-leather skin and tight gray rings for hair would have surely heard us talking.  With seemingly nobody but me in the back seat, he’d have thought I was loco.  He’d probably have gunned the ancient Chevy to the nearest loony bin rather than the El
Floridita
bar.  Who knows?  He might also have signed himself in after hearing two different voices coming from just one crazy gringo
turista
.

As we motored through the streets of Old Havana, Ernest did tap me on the shoulder a few times.  Although some of the grand old buildings had been restored, many in the area were in a state of ill repair.  Each time he spotted an exceptionally decrepit one, he’d shake his head and point toward it.  Then he’d look back at me with a mournful look as if asking, what the hell has happened here?

But the taxi ride was short.  And before I knew it, the driver was
braking
in front of the El
Floridita
on
Monserrate
Street.  I didn’t know what to do when the little man looked over his shoulder at me as if he expected to be paid. 

Uh oh,
I thought,
doesn’t he know about the divine plan?  I don’t have a dime in my pocket.  What’s next?

Not knowing what else to do, I gave him a wink as if to say,
You
know what’s going down here
.  He just narrowed his eyes and said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand.

Just as I was thinking,
Oh shit, he doesn’t have a clue
,
the
curbside door next to Ernest opened up.  Here I was three feet away from it when my invisible friend opens it and steps out.  With surprising speed, the driver jerked his eyes toward the door then back at me.  They were no longer narrowed.  They were now wide as barroom coasters. 

“
Vamos
!
 
Vamos
!” he began to shout as if I were some kind of voodoo prince.  Quickly, I slid across the seat toward the open door.  In one well-practiced motion—faster than the speed of light—he made the sign of the cross and started babbling away.  I couldn’t understand his words, but I darn well knew that he was praying.  I sprung out of that cab, and the instant I closed the door, he peeled out of there like he’d come out of an Indie 500 pit stop. 

As he sped down
Monseratte
Street, Ernest and I just stood on the sidewalk cracking up.  Because I appeared to be standing there alone popping a gut all by myself, I was on the receiving end of more than a few strange looks from the people walking by.  But I couldn’t help it.  The poor cab driver was frantic.  He was zipping around cars on that narrow cobblestone street like a desperate, dying sinner with but five minutes to find a confessional booth.   

After we calmed down some, I followed Ernest through the El
Floridita’s
front door.  He lumbered right over to the hallowed corner of the bar where on countless nights he had presided over the rich, the famous, and the not so famous.  Here it was half a century after his demise, and his stool was still reserved in his honor.  For years, absolutely nobody had been allowed to sit there.  But what was really strange on this day was that packed as the bar was, two deep in places, the stools on both sides of Ernest’s were also vacant.  I couldn’t help but to think there had been yet another divine intervention.

As Ernest sat on his and I climbed on the one to his left, he looked beyond me then jutted his head.  “Would you look at this?  I’ll be a son of a gun . . . it’s a statue of me.”

I couldn’t miss the full-size, bronze Ernest.  He seemed to be standing sentinel—watching intently all that was going on before him.  With his back to the wall, with one foot on the railing, and with an elbow on the wooden bar top, there was an unfriendly look on his face.  He appeared to be challenging somebody—staring them down.

“Wow, Ernest,” I said, still gazing at the statue, “somebody did one heck of a job with that!”

The tourist couple alongside me stopped their conversation.  After giving each other a funny look, they stared at me from the corners of their eyes.

“Oh . . . excuse me.  Sorry.  Just thinking out loud is all.”

Then I turned back to the real Ernest and heard him chortle.

“Okay, mister hotshot,” I whispered, “real funny.”

He good-naturedly waved me off, and then I checked out the surroundings.  “You know, this is a pretty nice place.  Look at the high ceilings and fancy settings on all the tables.  And these bartenders, they all wear red jackets.  A regular guy like me isn’t used to this . . . .”

“How do you know who you are?”

“C’mon, you know what I mean.  Look how I’m dressed.  Not only that, but just a couple of hours ago I was fighting for my life in some freak Bermuda Triangle phenomenon.  I must really be a sight.”

“
Ahhh
, don’t worry about it.  Just run your fingers through your hair a couple of times.”

I felt the back pocket of my shorts.  There was a comb there—a brand new one.

“Well
looky
here,” I said holding it up for Ernest to see, “I just
happen
to have a comb.”

Then when I started scanning the spacious restaurant for the men’s room, Ernest said, “
It’s
right back there.  You might think about slapping a little water on your face, too.  You are looking a little crusty and salty.”

“Cute, Papa!
  Real cute!  I’ll be right back.”

As I made my way past all the mid-afternoon patrons, I could tell they were mostly tourists.  All the way down the long side of the bar, people were engaged in spirited conversations with hands waving and gesturing.  Most of the excited chatter was in English, and I thought I picked up more than a few Canadian accents.  In the adjoining dining area, all but two of the linen-covered tables were empty.  But when I walked by one occupied by a family of four, the delicious aroma of steamed tamales and black bean soup reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

A few steps later inside the bathroom, I put the comb to work then doused my face with cold water.  It seemed to bring me back to life, but of course it didn’t.  I was still lying in that hospital bed.  And as I watched myself dry my face in the mirror, that again was front and center in my mind.  Sure, other than riding out that storm, I’d been having a terrific time.  But there also were those times when I wondered who the hell I was and who I might have left behind.  Blotting my temples now, I had a very unsettling revel
ation.  It had to do with yet another question—where am I going to end up in a few days?  Not knowing myself from Adam, I really didn’t much care whether it was up in Ernest’s neck of the woods or back in my previous life.  If push came to shove I would have chosen to stay on earth so as not to hurt my mystery wife.  But suddenly now, that other possibility popped into my head. 

What if I wind up or possibly down . . . in hell!  Shit, I never thought of that one.  I don’t even know who I am.  I don’t have a clue as to what I’ve done in the past.  I mean . . . I seem like a decent person.  I don’t think I would ever do anything terribly bad
.  

Those thoughts, along with visions of demons and hell’s flames, followed me when I left the bathroom.  But as I coursed the length of the crowded bar for the second time and saw Ernest at the far end of it again, every bit of my hell-fueled anxiety vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  His guest had arrived, and I just had to smile again.

Well I’ll be!  Look who it is!

Sitting on Ernest’s right, with a wide smile and a tattered white captain’s hat tilted back on his head, was none other than Sloppy Joe Russell.  His arm was clenched around his longtime friend’s shoulders, and they were laughing hysterically.

Chapter
8