Hemingway’s Chair

quite enough bits and
pieces anyway,’ she said appeasingly. She turned to Ruth. ‘He’s got his own
bookshop up there. And I have to clean it.’
    ‘No,
you don’t,’ retorted Martin. ‘You clean it because you like to have a snoop.’
    Now
it was Ruth’s turn to be the appeaser. ‘I love books. Any chance I can see it?’
    Martin
smoothed his hair down as best he could, shot a fierce glance at his mother and
cleared his throat. ‘You can see it if you want.’
    Martin
led Ruth upstairs, across the landing, and pushed open the door. Once inside
she looked around, shyly at first, occasionally shaking her head and
exclaiming. She peered closely and wonderingly at his first editions and asked
if she might take them down. She ran her hands over the Corona typewriter and
stared hard at the photographs he had stuck on the wall. She ignored the hats
that hung behind the door and was not much interested in the punch bag, the
billhook (possibly Cuban), or the bullfight poster. She made a face at the kudu
horns and smiled and shook her head at the Wehrmacht belt.
    Then
her eye was taken by the medical cabinet and she asked him about it and he told
her it was from a hospital in Milan and it was of the same design and vintage
as the one in the American Red Cross Hospital where the nineteen-year-old
Hemingway fell in love with his nurse Agnes Von Kurowsky.
    She
whistled at this and asked if it still had period bandages and eighty-year-old
iodine inside. Before he could stop her she had pulled at the enamel catch. As
the door swung open she stood back, visibly impressed. ‘Now that’s one hell of
a bar.’
    More
than two dozen bottles, some with old, faded, unfamiliar labels, were clustered
inside.
    ‘All
his favourite drinks,’ said Martin, sheepishly. ‘I’ve sort of collected them
over the years. All except applejack brandy. The off-licence in Theston keep
saying they’ll get me some but they don’t know if anyone makes it any more. Oh,
and absinthe. That’s a tricky one. It’s illegal in most countries.’
    ‘I
don’t see any Bollinger Brut, 1915.’
    Martin
picked up the reference eagerly. ‘As bought for David Bourne by Marita.’
    She
nodded and smiled. ‘Right. The Garden of Eden. The only novel I can
still read.’
    Martin
ignored this. ‘I only buy his non-fiction drinks,’ he explained, pushing the
door shut again.
    ‘There’s
not much non-fiction in Hemingway,’ Ruth smiled. ‘Except in his novels.’
    Martin
looked vaguely troubled.
    Ruth
felt for her cigarettes.
    ‘Are
you going to offer me a Christmas drink?’ she asked, indicating the medicine
cabinet. ‘I’ll pass on iodine but take anything else you’ve got.’
    She
watched, amused, as he dropped to his knees and searched carefully through the
ranks of bottles. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
    ‘Go
ahead,’ he called from the cupboard. After much rummaging he produced a bottle
from right at the back. He held it out to her.
    ‘Grappa,’
she said approvingly.
    ‘This
is Nardini,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of them, though.’
    ‘Well,
well,’ said Ruth. ‘He talks about it often enough, but I never knew what it
was.’
    Martin
looked pleased, nodded, poured a glass and handed it to her. ‘They call it the
poor man’s brandy. It’s made of everything the wine-makers throw away. Skins,
pips, stalks. They all go in. Sit down, if you can find room.’
    Ruth
perched herself on the edge of the bed. She waited until he had poured one for
himself, then she raised her glass.
    ‘ Salute ,’
she said.
    ‘ Salute ,’
Martin replied, a little less confidently.
    She
took a mouthful, caught the dry, fiery flavour and made a face. ‘Boy, that
hurt!’ Her eyes watered and she grinned painfully.
    ‘D’you
like it?’ he asked.
    She
shook her head. ‘A little strong for me.’
    ‘You
get used to it. Hemingway loved it.’
    She
nodded and held the glass up with mock solemnity. ‘Exhibit A,’ she said.
    ‘Exhibit
A?’
    She
glanced towards the photograph.
    ‘This
is what killed him.’
    Martin
shook his head vigorously. ‘He killed himself because he couldn’t write any
more.’
    ‘Why
couldn’t he write any more? Because his liver was gone and his blood pressure
was sky high and he was overweight and ill. Don’t tell me that wasn’t because
of the booze.’ Ruth took another sip of the grappa. This time she caught the
dry, woody flavour and it was strong, but friendly.
    ‘Ernest
Hemingway’s life, Martin, is a case