Hemingway’s Chair

the announcement he had
endured a hell of sympathy, all of it well intentioned, and most of it doing
little more than smooth the rough edges of his resentment. Protestations of
eternal loyalty had flowed across the post office counter, whilst all that had
flowed from area headquarters was a series of faxed instructions advising him
of the arrangements for Mr Marshall’s arrival on October the first. There was
really nothing he could do other than accept the tide of commiseration and
prepare for what he was quite certain would be the worst. It was like winning
the pools on the day of your execution.
    From
a distance the familiar two-storey facade of the bookshop looked attractive as
ever. The creeper on the walls had turned a blazing scarlet, and a thin plume
of smoke spread from one of the chimneys. On closer inspection the premises
were less welcoming. The sun-blistered green door was firmly shut. The separate
handwritten cards stuck all over the window read like an epic of inhospitality:
     
    Closed
    Do
Not Lean Bicycles Against the Window
    No
Free Papers
    Stiff
Door
    Opening
Hours: Thursday, Friday, Saturday only
    Closed
on certain Thursdays
     
    Those
daunted by such admonitions would not know that the door was almost always
unlocked, and that all it required to open it was a shove. A thin bell sounded
as it jerked open and, once inside, intrepid customers would invariably find
themselves alone for quite some time, surrounded by tall and silent stacks and
a slight smell of mould. Two table lamps and a weak bulb on the ceiling
augmented what natural light was able to fight its way through windows
overgrown with creeper. Arnold Julian would appear minutes later as if from
nowhere, a tall, dark, wraith-like presence, whose age could have been anything
from fifty-five to a hundred and three. He moved softly and in the gloom it!
was not always easy to tell what he was wearing besides the habitual black sweater
that hung long and low on him like a shroud. Mr Julian never felt the need to
initiate a conversation. More often than not he would stand silently by, as if
daring the customer to stay in the shop.
    The
layout was equally unfriendly. Books were not to be found in alphabetical
order, and although there had once been a rough attempt to display them by
subject matter, it was no longer effective and copies of Lorna Doone and The Battle for Stalingrad clustered side by side with cookery books in
the ‘Modern Plays’ section.
    All
this was quite deliberate. It was Arnold Julian’s way of screening out poseurs,
pseuds and other frivolous dilettantes. Once it had been proved to his
satisfaction that he was dealing with a genuine enthusiast all things became
possible.
    Arnold
Julian used to put a selection of his less esoteric books on racks outside the
shop, and it was here, years ago when he was beginning to build up his
Hemingway collection, that Martin had found a stained and dog-eared copy of The
Green Hills of Africa which he was able to identify as being one of
Scribner’s cut-price wartime editions, rare in England. Mr Julian had been so
impressed that he had taken Martin to the back of the shop and ferreted out
three more titles from the same series.
    This
morning Mr Julian was apologetic. Nothing much on the book front but a couple
of curiosities had come his way: a copy of the Toronto Daily Star for
27th January 1923, containing Hemingway’s account of his interview with
Mussolini, and the autumn 1933 edition of Esquire magazine containing
Hemingway’s piece ‘Marlin off the Morro’. Martin was excited. ‘Written while he
was staying at the Ambos Mundos Hotel.’ Arnold Julian’s long, elegant fingers
turned the pages carefully. ‘That would appear to be the case.’ Martin nodded.
‘His first article for Esquire , in the first issue of the magazine.’
    Julian
gazed gravely at the cover. ‘ Esquire ,’ he murmured slowly, as if it was
the first time he’d ever said the word. ‘Oh well, I suppose he needed the
money.’
    ‘He
hooked a 750-pounder off Morro Castle. Held it for one and a half hours across
eight miles of sea, but it got away. They say it was the inspiration for The
Old Man and the Sea.' Martin tapped the paper and shook his head
admiringly. ‘That’s quite a rarity.’
    ‘It’s
not cheap, sadly.’
    ‘Twenty-five?’
asked Martin.
    ‘Seventy,
I’m afraid. And that’s only what I paid for it.’
    Martin
flushed. The bookseller nodded sympathetically and smoothed down a