Even as ambassadors, we weren’t allowed inside, but dozens of tourists were peering through the open doors and windows into the rooms that had been left exactly as they were when Hemingway left Cuba after the revolution.
Antonio told us that Se?or Hemingway had given Finca Vigía and all its contents to the Cuban people. Professor Nalebuff, however, told us that Hemingway had willed Finca Vigía to his fourth wife, but when Hemingway took his own life in 1961, the Cuban government forced his widow to sign over the property to them.
It occurred to me that Antonio wasn’t lying to thirty educated people; he lived in a time warp and an information desert like everyone else here and he had no idea of the truth. But reality was on the way. Unless the regime could stop it.
Anyway, Ernest had a nice swimming pool, and his boat, Pilar, was displayed in an open pavilion. Nice boat, but not as nice as mine—the one I used to own. On Pilar’s fantail were the words KEY WEST, which was where I’d rather be.
Neville’s wife, Cindy, was insisting that her bestselling husband pose for photos. He complied, but he wasn’t smiling, maybe thinking that people never took photos of themselves in front of his house, wherever that was. But maybe they would if he blew his brains out like Hemingway did. Just saying.
We left the grounds of Finca Vigía, and Antonio led us to a row of souvenir stalls where Sara bought me a Hemingway T-shirt, made in China.
We reboarded our air-conditioned Chinese magic carpet and went to lunch at an open-air restaurant. Lunch consisted of black beans, rice, fried plantains, and what appeared to be chicken that had been cut up by Jack the Ripper.
Then to the organic farm. A nice older gentleman explained, in Spanish, all the strides they were making in organic agriculture. Antonio translated, and Sara said to me, “All the farms in Cuba are organic because they can’t afford chemical fertilizer.” She added, “Most of this food goes directly to the Communist Party comemierdas—the shit eaters.”
Antonio overheard that, and he shot her a nasty look.
After two hours in the hot sun, looking at beanstalks, bugs, and plants that I’d never heard of, we staggered back to the bus.
Sara, sensing I may not have enjoyed smelling manure all afternoon, said, “Tomorrow morning is the walking tour of the Old Town. We’ll see my grandparents’ house, and my grandfather’s bank.”
“I look forward to that.”
“I have mixed feelings.”
“Maybe someday you can buy the house.”
“Maybe someday I can legally claim what was stolen.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, we can make a cash withdrawal from Grandpa’s bank vault.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. Don’t hurt the hand. I need it to carry steamer trunks.
* * *
As the bus approached the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that he was giving a lecture on the history of Cuban music at 5:30, and please be on time.
Alison reminded everyone that the bus left for the Riviera Hotel right after Tad’s lecture, so please be dressed for dinner. Also, there was a swimming pool on the roof if we were so inclined.
We got off the bus and I invited Sara to join me for a swim or for a cold beer at the bar.
“I need a nap and a shower.”
“Am I invited?”
“I’ll see you at the lecture.”
So I went to the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone from our group, but soon after I sat and ordered a Bucanero, Antonio sidled up next to me. He asked, “Did you enjoy your day?”
“I enjoyed the Hemingway house.”
“Good. Most Americans do.” He asked, “Did your companion enjoy her day?”
“She’s actually not my companion.”
“I see . . . So will she be joining you here?”
“No. She went to the nude swimming pool.”
Antonio had no comment on that and took a seat next to me. He had a bottled water that he stole from the bus, and he lit a cigarette, saying, “I am supposed to ask you if you mind if I smoke.”
“It’s your country.”
“It is.”
Antonio appeared to have dropped his tour guide persona and he seemed slightly less of a clown, though I didn’t know why he wanted my company sin Sara.
He asked, “Do you read Hemingway?”
“I did. How about you?”
“Yes, in Spanish and English. There is . . . how do you say . . . ? A cult of Hemingway in Cuba.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In the Hotel Ambos Mundos, which we see tomorrow, there is the room where he lived and wrote before he purchased Finca Vigía. The room is now a museum.”
My beer came and Antonio continued his unpaid lecture. “Some of his novels are what we call his Cuban novels. Many of his books have a socialist theme.”
“I missed that.”
“But it is true. His books show people acting in a . . . a way that is for humanity . . . not for the individual.”
“Most of his characters were selfish and self-centered, like me. That’s why I liked them.”
Antonio continued, “Fidel said, ‘All the works of Hemingway are a defense of human rights.’?” He added, without irony, “This is a socialist belief.”
There’s no point in arguing with brainwashed people, and Antonio was intruding on my quiet beer, so I said, “Well, thanks for the company. I’ll see you at dinner.”
But he didn’t leave and continued, “Fidel also said that For Whom the Bell Tolls inspired his guerrilla tactics in the Sierra Maestra.” He continued, “They met only once—F.C. and Hemingway. At the fishing tournament named for Hemingway. F.C. was to present the trophy to the winner. But it was F.C. himself who caught the biggest marlin and won the prize.”
“Whose scale did they use?”
“What are you suggesting?”
I didn’t want to get arrested on day two, so I didn’t reply.
Antonio sipped his water thoughtfully, then got my attention by saying, “I understand from Tad that you are a fisherman.”
“That’s right.” And why are you discussing me with Tad?
“So you understand the passion of this sport.”
“I do.”
“Do you know that there is a new tournament? The Pescando Por la Paz. It arrives in Havana from Key West tomorrow. You live in Key West. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“This tournament did not interest you?”
“No.”
He asked, “Have you read Islands in the Stream?”
“Have you?”
“Yes, of course. It is a very good book. It speaks of Cayo Guillermo—where the tournament will be held after they leave Havana.”
I sipped my beer.
“There is a very prophetic line in the book . . . written before the revolution.” He quoted without notes, “?‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. They got what they deserve. The hell with their revolutions.’?” He said, “I will see you at dinner,” and left.
What the hell was that all about?
CHAPTER 21