Hemingway’s Chair

eyeing him warily. She found herself taking breath in
short, sharp gulps.
    Martin
shook his head, as if trying to clear it from a daze.
    ‘I
don’t know what came over me.’
    ‘It
was my fault,’ she said. ‘This is a crazy thing to do.’
    ‘I
forgot,’ he said. ‘I thought you were — I thought you were someone else.’
    ‘Someone
besides Pauline?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Want
to tell me?’
    Martin
said nothing. Then he drew a hand across his eyes and looked down at the chair.
    ‘I’m
sorry. It’s this thing,’ he said, trying to wriggle free without toppling the
chair. ‘I must get up. I must get out of it.’
    The
wind was up again outside Everend Farm Cottage, but it was not hostile. It blew
hard and slackened and the next time it blew less hard. The room was growing
dark. Ruth took a brush and began to sweep up the pieces. It was a way of
stopping herself shaking. Martin climbed out of the chair. ‘I better go.’
    ‘You’re
going nowhere. Just sit right down again. I’ll fix you some coffee.’
     
    The
coffee was strong and he felt it must be doing him some good. Ruth had a mug
too and she brought it over and knelt down by the fire and she lit a cigarette
from the fire and they both watched the new logs hiss and slowly start to take
the flame.
    ‘I’ve
never done anything like that before. Honestly. Never.’
    ‘I
believe you,’ said Ruth.
    ‘Something
inside. Can’t explain. Something very strong.’
    ‘Listen.
If you wanted to hurt me that bad it’s something that needs dealing with.’
    ‘I
didn’t want to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?’
    ‘Sure,’
said Ruth. ‘But I wasn’t being me. I was being Pauline and you were being
Ernest. Then you stopped being Ernest and as far as you were concerned I
stopped being Pauline and became someone else. Oscars all round I think. But
let’s not do it again.’
    A
burning log rolled towards them out of the fire. Ruth reached for a poker and
pushed it back.
    ‘I
think I was in love with her,’ said Martin, matter-of-factly. ‘But I didn’t
know how to say it properly. So I did nothing. Now she’s betrayed me. Sleeping
with the enemy.’
    The
log spat back at Ruth, causing her to pull back. Her back came up against h s
legs. ‘Goddamit. There’s a sniper in there!’
    Martin
gave a short half-laugh, it’s not your night.’
    ‘I’ll
say. It’s the English countryside firing back. Well I’m going to stay out of
range.’
    She
relaxed back against Martin’s legs. There was a pause, then Martin spoke,
slowly. ‘You’re the authority,’ he said. ‘What would Hemingway have done?’
    ‘I’m
no authority. Not yet anyway.’
    ‘Well,
from what you’ve found out so far, Professor of Hemingway Women, what would he
have done if he was me?’
    Ruth
considered the question.
    ‘Well,
once things began to go wrong between him and a woman, it was usually a sign
he’d found another one he liked more.’
    ‘Well,
that’s no help.’
    ‘No
other women in your life, then?’
    ‘Absolutely
not!’
    Ruth
drew her knees up under her chin and arched her back away from him. ‘Well in
that case,’ she said with feeling, ‘I think he would have been very
disappointed in you.’
    Martin
smiled ruefully and staved silent.
     
    Ruth
cleared away the coffee things and offered to fix some food, but Martin didn’t
seem interested in food. So she opened a bottle of wine and came back in front
of the fire and they drank it together and she settled back in her favourite
foetal position, knees drawn up, back resting gently, but firmly, against
Martin’s knees as he sat in the armchair, staring into the fire.
    ‘Do
you mind?’ asked Martin, after a while.
    ‘Do
I mind what?’
    ‘Do
you mind that I’m, well, that I’m like this. I never used to tell anyone what I
did. It was all private, between him and me.’
    ‘I
feel honoured, Martin,’ she said, feeling free not to mean it.
    ‘I
was so excited about the chair. I wanted it so much because it would bring me
closer to him and this is what happens.’
    Ruth
leaned back and drew on her cigarette. Martin watched as she blew the smoke
towards the fire. It merged with the wood smoke and was snatched away towards
the chimney.
    ‘It
doesn’t affect you — to be Pauline?’ Martin said to her after a while.
    Ruth
shook her head and blew out a trail of smoke. ‘I can’t be Pauline. I can read
all her books and her letters and everything about her but I can’t do what