Living With Miss G (15 page)

He took a deep breath, as if he was going to make some important
confession, then said abruptly, “Can’t you get that dame of yours to go to bed
with Mr. Hughes?”
It was my turn to take a deep breath. “Are you being funny? Are you
kidding?”
“No. I’m dead serious. I’m asking, can’t you influence that Miss Ava
Gardner of yours to fall into bed with Mr. Hughes?”
“You’re out of your mind,” I said.
“Maybe you’re right. I am out of my mind. You’d be going out of yours
too if you were in the same situation.”
“What situation?”
“I’m stashed in a motel room around the corner,” he said.
“So what?”
“I’m there twenty-four hours a day. I only get a couple of hours off
occasionally when I’m replaced by another guard.”
I said, “What are you talking about?”
“I keep a loaded revolver at the side of my bed day and night. I’m guarding
this priceless diamond and pearl necklace which belonged to one of the Russian
czarinas. Don’t ask me which one.”
A ray of light entered my head. A priceless necklace? First, the sapphire
ring and then the necklace?
“The night that Ava Gardner gets into bed with Mr. Hughes, that is her big
reward.”
“How do you know all this?
“Everybody knows it. It is no big secret. Everybody on his staff knows it.”
I thought to myself, only Howard Hughes could think up a scheme like
this. Here he’s been flying us around America and Nassau for three weeks,
doing his usual business deals, but all the time thinking that this is his big
chance for sex with Miss G.
The poor guy went on. “I can’t go to a bar. I can’t date a girl. All I do is sit
guarding that necklace and waiting for your girl to fall into bed with Mr.
Hughes.”
I said, “I think you are going to grow old and gray before that happens.”
“You don’t think she will do it?”
“I know she’s not. If she were, she would have done it years ago.”
“Mr. Hughes doesn’t understand women,” said the man sadly.
Of course, I told Miss G the story. She smiled, but was not very amused.
“Rene,” she said, “we’re getting out of here.”
To lighten the atmosphere I said, “Miss G you’ve got the sapphire ring.
Does this mean you’re giving up all claim to the Czarina’s necklace?”
“He can stick them both up his jumper,” said Miss G.
“When are we leaving?”
“Tonight, before dawn. To hell with all the luggage. He can take care of
that. We’ll just take a bag or two and we’ll ring for a taxi, steal down, and do a
bunk before Howard knows we’ve gone.”
It sounded so simple. We didn’t go to bed. We rang for the taxi, crept
down the stairs, and there was Mr. Hughes waiting at the bottom.
“Oh, hallo,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to see
his guests stealing away at the break of day.
Miss G confirmed our position. “We’re leaving,” she said flatly.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Mr. Hughes.
I decided to leave the drama for them to work out, saying, “I’ll put the bags
in the taxi Miss G and tell him to wait.”
When I came back I found that Mr. Hughes was holding a heavy lamp in
his hand. I have a good idea that he might have hit her with it if I had not come
back. He put it down as I arrived on the scene.
In the taxi she told me that she had thrown the sapphire ring back at him. I
could, therefore, understand he had a certain right to be annoyed.
The taxi driver asked, “Where to, ladies?”
“The airport,” said Miss G.
I said, “Where are we going?”
“Cuba,” she said. “I’ve got a standing invitation from Papa Hemingway.”

Various other incidents prevented us arriving in Havana until late that
evening. We bought our tickets and went to inspect the departure board,
discovering our flight was delayed. For the next eight hours every flight to Cuba
was delayed or canceled. Miss G swore it was the diabolical intervention of Mr.
Howard Hughes. I protested, “How does he know we are going to Cuba?”

Miss G nodded across at a newsstand. The guy who was supposed to be
guarding the Czarina’s necklace was now scrutinizing a Miami newspaper.
“Howard’s sly,” said Miss G. “You can bet your bottom dollar Howard got
that guy to follow our taxi. Howard’s got more power in the airline business
than any man on earth. He can fix a few delays.”
Another troubling incident had already occurred on our drive to the airport.
Miss G wanted a hamburger. She wanted to breakfast on hamburgers. The taxi
driver knew a place open twenty four hours a day and stopped outside it. I joined
the queue.
When my turn came, I saw the man behind the counter was regarding me
as if I’d just crawled out from under a rock.
I said, “Sir, the lady I work for sent me in for six medium rare hamburgers.
She said would you please toast the buns.”
He looked at me and reached down in this bin where he’d thrown away all
the stale buns. He took six that were so hard you could hear them crack. Then
he reached into another bin and took out six hamburgers that people must have
rejected and put them in the buns.
He said, “That will be six dollars.”
I said, “My employer wants six hamburgers medium rare and will you
please toast the buns?”
He said, “Nigger bitch, if you say one more word to me I’ll kick your ass.
You’ve got your nerve to even come in this place. Get your ass out and you take
these hamburgers or none at all.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll take none and here’s your six dollars.” I threw the six
dollars at him.
He was livid. I swear he was going to jump over the counter and come and
get me. I was too quick for him. I ran out the door and jumped into the taxi. The
driver moved off as soon as he heard the door slam behind me.
Miss G said, “Where are the hamburgers?”
I told her what happened, and she yelled to the driver to pull over. She was
going back in with me to give that bastard hell. I said gently, “Miss G, it’s no
good. That guy’s a founding member of the Ku Klux Klan, a real piece of
garbage. He’d just as soon hit you as hit me. Miss G, we’ve had enough action
to start one day. Let’s save our emotion.” We moved on.
Our wait at the airport was helped by the fact that I had stowed a bottle of
cognac in my large handbag, so we could take turns to slip into the ladies’ room
and have a swig. This sustained us until about eight in the evening when one of
the airlines decided to take off for Havana. Miss G had spent her honeymoon
there with Frank, so she knew all the best places. We caught a taxi to Trader
Vic’s and stuffed ourselves with chicken livers and water chestnuts wrapped in
bacon. I can remember the taste to this day. Funny how some meals stick on
your palate and in your mind forever.
Then we went to the Hotel Nationale. Not only did the management
remember Miss G, they were delighted to see her. They gave us a two-bedroom
suite. We both took showers and then fell into our beds. Never in my life have I
been so glad to see a bed. The last fifteen hours or so had drained me
completely.
When we woke next morning, we started working on what we termed our
strategies. Usually, they were only concerned with where we should go for
lunch, what we should drink before lunch, where we should go shopping after
lunch, and whether it was too early to start before-dinner drinks.
This time we had real serious plans. We’d been incarcerated in luxury
villas far too long. We needed freedom. Miss G knew about a pleasant hotel half
a day’s drive away at the famous Varadero Beach. We would go there for a
couple of days, cut down the drinking, swim, get sun, walk on the beach and get
ourselves fit enough to ring up Papa Hemingway and go to visit him and Miss
Mary. I had never met either of them.
After a few days at Varadero Beach, we returned to the Hotel Nationale,
called Papa Hemingway and arranged to meet him at the Floridita Bar. Every
taxi driver knew it. Miss G knew it because she and Frank had made it one of
their favorite stops during their honeymoon. It was a large, old-fashioned
Spanish bar and seafood restaurant–fans whirring on the ceilings and a clutter of
small tables served by nimble-footed waiters. The bar was long and massive,
backed by mirrors and stacked bottles. There was a brass rail for your feet and
an ample supply of tall bar stools.
Papa was waiting for us, looking very comfortable. Sun-tanned, bearded,
and fit, he gave me the impression of enormous stature. I was introduced after he
kissed Miss G on both cheeks. The smile he gave me was big and approving.
My kiss on the cheek was also welcoming. Papa ordered frozen daiquiris, the
main ingredient of which was white Bacardi rum. Papa had invented his own
Papa Double, drunk extensively by tourists forevermore. Expanding his
alcoholic vision, he had now concocted a jumbo sized daiquiri which one could
almost take a bath in. Any favored guest of Papa’s had his or her ability tested
by his capacity to drink daiquiris level with Ernest, and we did. Miss G and I
made ladylike efforts, and Papa was pleased. Then, slightly disoriented, we took
a taxi back for dinner at Papa’s farmhouse, Finca Vigia, a short drive from
Havana. The sun shone, the sky was blue, and the air was balmy. I felt fine.
Papa had downed probably twice as many daiquiris as we had and was in an
expansive mood. There were fifteen acres of wilderness, he explained, waving at
his property. Still there was room for a swimming pool, vegetable garden, vines,
and more species of mango than anywhere else in Cuba. There were about five
million cats, as far as I could see, along with dogs and chickens and cows that
gave the place a friendly atmosphere.
Mary Hemingway, “Miss Mary,” was on the veranda ready with more
drinks, inevitably cool, collected and welcoming, letting Papa hog the
conversation. Of course, Papa did have things to talk about and opinions to
express.
The house was wide and airy. A huge lounge with the heads of various
animals Ernest had shot on his African safaris were perched on the walls, carpets
and comfortable furniture and beautiful original oil paintings. Some of them
were very valuable French impressionist works, most of which I’d only seen on
posters. It was a place to relax, a house to talk and drink in. It was an oasis from
the outside world.
Late that night in our taxi driving back to the Hotel Nationale, Miss G said
happily, “Rene, honey, I think Papa’s taken a real shine to you.”
A couple of days later, Papa took Miss G and me down to the mooring
where he kept his powerful ocean-going cabin cruiser,
Pilar
. Miss G was quite
right. Papa had taken a serious shine to me–so much so that I had a dodgy time
avoiding his busy hands when we were down in the galley together. The main
trouble was that I felt seasick, and Papa was gentlemanly enough to see this and
save his more serious passes until later.
Papa used the
Pilar
mainly for fishing, but I think he could have
circumnavigated the world in it if he had wanted to. It was a bright, windy day,
and we bounced over the waves with the sun on our hair and sea spray in our
faces. Papa, the expert fisherman, with his crew baiting his lines, trailed them
overboard, but we didn’t catch anything. Maybe the booze we were drinking had
something to do with that. We had a very good trip.
I suppose I should have welcomed the attentions of the most famous author
in the world, but when you’re on the high seas and feeling lousy, only one’s feet
on dry land brings relief. In my condition at the time, I could not even have
appreciated William Shakespeare.
For the next few days we were regular visitors at Finca Vigia, spending a
lot of time in the swimming pool. It was there that Papa’s pursuit really started,
and fending off Papa’s bristly beard, wide smile, busy hands and his evocative
dialogue suggesting that we end up in bed needed real diplomatic handling.
After one flurry in the shallow end, I protested, “Mr. Hemingway!”
“Papa,” said Ernest affably.
“Papa, I’m very flattered, but your wife, Miss Mary, who is a very sweet
lady, is in the house not more than fifty yards away.”
“Rene, Miss Mary understands these matters.”
“Papa,” I retorted, “Maybe Miss Mary understands these matters, but I
don’t.”
“Rene,” said Papa, gently trying to unhook my concrete grip on the pool
rail. “I have always been very fond of ladies of color.”
“Papa,” I replied. “I’m sure you have been very fortunate with them. But
this lady of color does not have any intention of going to bed with you, whether
or not Miss Mary approves, or is standing at the edge of the pool yelling, ‘Take
your hands off that girl.’”
Papa was not at all put off by my resistance. During the next few days he
told me at length of his intrigues with ladies of color in far-off Kenya. He was
certain he had produced a son by a pretty Masai maiden probably on the pretext
that the boy might enjoy writing novels instead of wasting his time running
around killing lions. One of his ladies of color had apparently become so fond of
Papa that she wanted to share his grass hut back in the United States. Papa had
to be quite firm in rejecting that idea.
I suppose Miss G and I were in agreement that Papa Hemingway was one
of the greatest writers of our century. That didn’t mean we had to join him in
bed. We both thought he was a wonderful bear of a man who, when he entered a
room and felt like it, could bring intensity, brightness, euphoria, and expectancy
to all who were there.
He loved Cuba and never stopped talking about it. He told us how he’d
first discovered the island in 1928 on a crossing from France to the USA when
the British boat on which he was traveling had put into Havana harbor. He was
then 29 years old. His first marriage to Hadley had broken up, and he was then
married to Pauline who was pregnant and anxious to reach Key West to have the
baby. Papa settled in Key West and wrote what I–just one of a million readers–
think to be his finest novel,
A Farewell to Arms
.
The country had caught our minds, too. We wallowed through our days of
doing nothing, and every night we went back to the Hotel Nationale, where we
rested in preparation for another day of inaction. But one night the phone started
ringing. “Who?” said Miss G, listening with an attentive look on her face.
“Okay, Okay. Ring me tomorrow at lunchtime, and I’ll tell you what I think.
Yeah–it’s an exciting idea.”