Hemingway’s Chair

it.’
    Martin
looked up at the clock with a small smile of satisfaction. It was almost
midnight. They’d begun nearly two hours ago, with decorous, generous questions about
titles of books and wives’ names, but now it was a matter of pride and
persistence.
    ‘Is
this stuff good or bad for the memory?’ asked Ruth as she reached for the
Scotch.
    ‘Probably
both,’ said Martin.
    She
poured herself a generous measure.
    ‘We’ll
see,’ said Ruth. ‘Your turn.’
    ‘We
going on then?’
    ‘Sure.
It’s time you took a bit of punishment.’
    Martin
made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself out of the armchair. ‘I’ve got to
be at work at half past eight.’
    She
stood and moved across to the kitchen. He heard the tap running as she watered
the whisky. She returned, stood in the doorway and took a drink. ‘One more
round then we’re done. Okay?’
    Martin
nodded. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked thickly.
    ‘God
knows.’
    Ruth
drank again. She was a little unsteady by now, but with a deep breath she
summoned up all her energy.
    ‘Okay,’
she decided with a final flourish. ‘Welcome to the last, deciding round of Hemingway
Challenge .’
    ‘It is midnight,’ Martin added edgily.
    ‘Mr
Sproale is anxious and who wouldn’t be with so much at stake. So, here goes.
How old was Ernest when he stopped wearing dresses?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ll
repeat the question. How old was Ernest when he stopped wearing dresses?’
    ‘Three
months?’
    ‘Three
and a half years. For how long after his birth did Mrs Hemingway keep Ernest in
her bed?’
    ‘Pass.’
    ‘Six
months.’
    ‘Well,
that’s not the kind of thing — ’
    ‘Just
answer the questions, please. How did he commonly refer to his mother in later
life?’
    ‘Grace?’
    ‘No.
“That bitch”.’
    ‘What
sort of question’s that?’
    ‘Which
letter did he have trouble pronouncing?’
    ‘L,’
said Martin, reluctantly.
    ‘Good!’
Ruth went on, eyes half-shut, her body tense with concentration. ‘Which of his
books was described as “lapsing repeatedly into lachrymose sentimentality and
containing crucifixion symbolism of the most appalling crudity”?’
    Martin
pulled himself up on to the edge of his chair and shook his head. ‘Look, I’m
not answering that. That was in Kenneth Lynn’s biography which was a load of
tripe.’
    ‘Answer
the question please, Mr Sproale. Which was the book referred to?’
    ' The
Old Man and the Sea ,' Martin muttered, making another effort to get to his
feet.
    ‘Thank
you. How did Max Eastman title his review of Death in the Afternoon ?'
    ‘Pass.’
    'Bull
in the Afternoon.'
    Martin
protested. ‘Lots of critics were jealous. They couldn’t afford to say they
liked him.’
    ‘Why
do you like him?’
    There
was a silence between them. Then Martin pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I
like him because. I like him because he wouldn’t have got himself involved in a
stupid game like this.’
    Ruth
sounded a mock fanfare. ‘The winner!’
     
    As
he was leaving she leaned one arm against the wall by the door and bowed her
head contritely. ‘I had too much Scotch... I’m sorry...’
    Martin
shrugged. He pulled on his anorak. She raised her head and watched him for a
moment. He took the cycle clips from his pocket and attached them to his
trousers. Then he felt in the pockets again and produced a pair of blue knitted
gloves.
    ‘That
was incredible,’ she said. ‘Have you ever thought of going on a game show?’
    Martin
didn’t smile. He pulled on the gloves. ‘Of course not. Have you?’
    Ruth
spread her arms again. ‘There I go again. Big feet.’
    Martin
nodded goodbye. He took off a glove and held out his hand. Ruth shook it with
mock formality. He pulled open the door and was about to leave when she stopped
him. ‘Look, will you do something for me?’
    ‘So
long as it’s not another quiz.’
    ‘Well,
it’s sort of a quiz, but I don’t want to play it with you.’
    ‘Who
do you want to play it with?’
    ‘Hemingway.’
    ‘I’m
not with you.’ Martin was tired now. He’d had enough of games, but Ruth was
suddenly animated.
    ‘Please,’
she said, beckoning him back in and pushing the door shut. ‘Five minutes,
that’s all.’
    She
walked a little way into the room, picked a cigarette out of the pack and
turned back to him. ‘I spend my days writing about all the women who knew
Hemingway. Right?’
    Martin
nodded wearily and watched her light the cigarette. She blew the