Paris: The Novel

just downstream from the Eiffel Tower. They walked westward along the boulevard Saint-Germain until, at the intersection with the boulevard Raspail, they found a taxi and all piled into it.
    During their walk, Marie discovered from Hemingway’s wife that they already had a baby boy, not yet a year old. They also learned that Frank had been out at the open stadium outside the city during the track events ten days before.
    “The British did very well,” he informed them. “Their man Abrahams even beat our Charley Paddock to take the hundred-meter gold. But the finest thing I ever saw was the Scotsman Liddell. He’d pulled out of the hundred meters months before the games because the heats were being run on the Sabbath. So he trained for the four hundred instead, although nobody thought he had a chance. Then he ran like a man inspired. Covered the first two hundred at a speed no one thought he could possibly keep up, and just kept going. Running for God. And God gave him the gold. Almost a whole second faster that our man Fitch. It was a magnificent sight.”
    In many ways, Marie could see, Frank and Hemingway were similar. Both were clearly athletic fellows, although Hemingway was more of a showman. Hemingway was only a couple of years older, but Frank treated him as a mentor. Maybe because Hemingway was already a married man, but more likely because he’d served in the war. That was the great dividing line in the younger generation, she’d noticed—whether you’d been in the war or not.
    Hemingway, for his part, treated Frank very much like a brother, and one he respected. “I know you’re a good oarsman, Frank,” he remarked, “but you should try boxing. I know a good trainer here. I’d be glad to spar with you.”
    He also told them that Frank was writing short stories, and was quite surprised they didn’t know.
    “I hope to learn a little about writing while I’m here,” Frank confessed. “But I shall go home like my father, in due course, and become a teacher.” He smiled. “That’s a good enough life for an honest man.”
    “It certainly is,” Hemingway agreed, “but you could make a name as a writer. It may surprise you, but it won’t surprise me.”
    Claire seemed intrigued by Frank’s literary interests and wanted to know more, but Frank was keeping his cards close to his chest.
    “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” he said. “The best advice I ever had came from Hemingway here.”
    “Tell us,” Claire said.
    “Everyone who tries to write anything should know this,” said Frank. “What Hemingway told me is that he never stops a day’s work until he knows exactly what’s coming next. Stop then, and you’ll be able to get back into rhythm when you start writing again. If you don’t do that, you’ll probably get stuck at the beginning of every day’s work.”
    “So don’t come to the end of a section and put down your pen and say, ‘That’s done, now I’ll stop for the day.’ ”
    “Exactly. Natural reaction, but fatal error.”
    “I like that,” said Claire. “It’s good to know practical things.”
    Marie watched. A flirtatious young man can be attractive, but when he shows he has a serious side as well, and skills that he values, he becomes even more intriguing. She wondered what else Frank was going to say to get her daughter’s interest.
    The Vélodrome d’hiver was a big covered stadium. For the cycle races, a wooden track would be set up, and the spectators would crowd into thecenter area of the track as well as the steep tiers of seats around the sides. Hemingway told them that he loved to come to the cycle races, but that all the terms were French and it was hard to write about them in English.
    For the boxing, however, the stadium had been turned into a huge auditorium with the ring in the center, and an array of powerful lamps hanging from the metal rafters high overhead.
    They watched several bouts. Both Hemingway and Frank seemed to be well informed. The United States looked set to take the most medals, but the American strength was in the lighter weight classes. The British dominated the middleweights. The Scandinavians were strong in the heavyweight class.
    The two men discussed the boxers with some knowledge. It seemed that Hemingway sparred in a gym quite often, and Marie asked him if he went to boxing matches in America.
    “The last I went to, I saw the finest fighter in the world.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Gene Tunney. Light