“You know this cemetery?” Hemingway asked.
Quinn was alone in the backseat of the Chrysler station wagon, Hemingway in the passenger seat beside his driver, Juan, who came for him after the Cooney knockout. He would be Hemingway’s second.
“All I know is that it’s a spectacular place,” Quinn said.
“It’s where they put all the famosos,” Hemingway said. “There’s also thousands of Cubans the Spaniards starved to death back in ’98, and your grandfather’s pal Máximo Gómez is buried here.”
“Why do Cubans fight their duels in a cemetery?”
“It gets you in the mood for death. And it’s handy for the loser.”
“Cooney’s got two seconds that he flew in from Miami.”
“He can have twenty. All I need is Juan to carry the pistols. I’ve got a pair of.38 revolvers I brought back from France. Cooney wanted.38s. He can use one of mine, either one.”
“You think he’d use one of your pistols?”
“He can test it in advance if he doesn’t trust me. Juan has extra cartridges.”
“I didn’t talk about that with Cooney. We assumed you’d each have your own.”
“That’s all right. I’m not fussy.”
“You’re pretty calm about this.”
“If you get excited your aim goes bad. Cooney agreed on you being the referee, right?”
“He did. What does a referee do?”
“You’ll have to imagine that for yourself, just like chapter six. By tradition we start back-to-back. Pace off to the count of ten, then turn and shoot. You do the counting, then duck behind the nearest tombstone.”
“This is absurd,” Quinn said, “absolutely nuts, you putting your life on the line. You’re like goddamn Mount Rushmore and here you are diddling with some Baltimore salesman. I can’t believe you’re going through with it and I can’t believe I’m part of it.”
“It’ll work out,” Hemingway said.
“How?”
“You’ll see.”
“Bullets are bullets.”
“You’re right about that.”
“If you kill him that’s the end of you.”
“I’ll try not to kill him.”
“He could kill you.”
“He could, and some would say I deserved it, that I violated his honor.”
“If he kills you you won’t finish your book.”
“That’s the real tragedy. I’ve got four books to finish.”
“You shouldn’t do this. Why not apologize and get it over with?”
“Never apologize, never explain, John Wayne.”
“Every duel Wayne ever fought they used blanks,” Quinn said. “Juan, what do you think? Qué piensa?”
“Papa sabe,” Juan said, not taking his eyes from the road. “He know.”
“What does he know?”
“Lo sabe todo. Everyting.”
“If you die my career is ruined,” Quinn said. “I’ll be the one who let you do this.”
“You couldn’t stop me.”
“That won’t matter. I’ll be the goat, the man who let Papa die, the man who set up the duel. I’ll be like Ralph Branca throwing that fastball to Bobby Thomson. How will it look on my résumé?”
“A writer doesn’t need a résumé.”
“Are you really ready to die?”
“Always.”
When Hemingway blew off the top of his head with a shotgun Quinn felt he’d been cut off in the middle of a sentence that was going to explain an unknown that had obsessed him since he decided to become a writer. He hadn’t seen the man in four years and his death was a shock that lasted for days. The key to the unknown might now be lost forever. Hemingway knew where it was. He had gone there and held it in his hand and came back to write and prove he had found it. If Quinn could find that place maybe he’d be able to figure out how to write what had to be written; but he wasn’t anywhere near there yet, and with Hemingway gone the solution seemed very far off.
Wait a minute — only Hemingway had the key?
Others had it, but I knew him and could talk to him.
He couldn’t have told you any secrets. He had four books going and couldn’t finish any of them. He was fading. You met him too late.
He could still talk, even if his ambition outdistanced what was left of his talent. He found the answer early on and kept telling us what it was, but he never got it all out. It was his iceberg principle: only the tip revealed, the rest stuck in his throat.
On the street at the Romanesque Arch a new Chevrolet sedan was idling, the Cooney early birds, and a uniformed guard sat behind the wheel of another car. Juan got out and spoke with the guard and shook his hand, then went to the Cooney car and spoke to the driver. The guard opened the gate for the two vehicles and Juan got back into the car and led the way to the south section of the cemetery, a large open field of mown grass. The six participants got out of their cars. Hemingway wore a white guayabera and black trousers and black dress shoes, a dress-up occasion for him. In the new morning light Quinn could see an animation in his face akin to what it was like while Cooney was singing about slivers.
“Where’s the doctor?” Quinn asked him.
“We won’t need a doctor.”
“There should be a doctor.”
“It’ll work out,” Hemingway said.
Cooney had a small hat on, a modified Panama he’d cut into a tight brimless skullcap that covered his bandage. His lower lip quivered a bit, and why not? His friends wore pale orange Hawaiian shirts with muscles in them and they held guns in their hands, one each. They weren’t ugly or grotesque, not American Gothic, but there was menace in their haircuts. Cooney was wearing a seersucker sport coat and made a point of taking it off and tossing it on the ground as he got out of the car. He walked toward Hemingway with an earned purpose that had brought about this moment, this confrontation of a little ol’ Baltimore pissant with the greatest fucking writer of the century, and that’s America for you, except this is Cuba. But Cooney knew time, God, fervency, and the pursuit of happiness were on his side. He was facing down the smile of a man of unknown dimension. His new knowledge of Hemingway could not really encompass what the writer stood for in American history or the literary canon or even café society, and he couldn’t possibly know what this endeavor of his would lead to — a fiasco, a disaster, a tragedy, a burlesque, a fantasy, a dream, a populist manifesto, a personification of democratic eventuation? Whatever it might be it certainly was like nothing he’d ever experienced, and he was still taking his second step toward Hemingway when he decided to spit — to the left — and Hemingway noted this without comment — and Cooney wondered if there would come a moment in which he would find a new lyric for a song that was apt for this instant — this confrontation between the nobody and the somebody who doesn’t yet know I’m one hell of a shot, I can untie your shoes at fifty feet, old buddy. You’re nobody till somebody shoots you. But get on with it Cooney, never mind this nonsense. Move ahead and spit in his eye. No, don’t. He don’t rate that. He showed up. He’s some sumbitch, no doubt about it, to come and see this out with me. I’m gonna be all right. I got the best guns they are and he probably does too, but that don’t matter. Go for it, bud, say what you gotta say.
“You punched me for no reason,” he said.
“I had a reason,” Hemingway said.
“What was it?”