MANICHAEAN
02-18-2011, 12:38 PM
PAPA’S CHAIR.
He sat in what he pretended to be “Papa’s” chair at a bar in Cuba and the distinct smell of recent rain mixed with street dust was in the air. It was one of those zinc top tables, inside near the window, and outside in the crowded alleys, men played dominoes with intensity, against an overhanging backdrop of impressively faded nineteenth century Spanish style buildings.
Where Hemingway had in fact drunk, were now tour guide drop offs, complete with faked signed portraits of the writer, ridiculous drinks at obscene prices named after him, and professional con artists each of whom could relate having been on maverick benders with the great man.
Paul, who sat in the alternate location this day was a writer, who all his life had admired “Papa”, both in the genius of his writing and in the hard living, hard drinking life style he had espoused. There was so much which he felt he could relate to, but after three months in Cuba, doubts were now creeping in.
The owner of the bar, Jennie, was a strong woman in all senses of the word. Not educated in the formal sense as such, but street wise and incisive to a degree, that patrons both admired, yet were wary of her. The locals intimidated by her exclusive bareness of manner said of her “She is a smart woman.” She was fine looking with dark liquid eyes and a sheen to hair that hung loose and substantial over the delicate skin of exposed brown shoulders. There was however aside from appearances, piquancy or ironic suggestion, and an untouched reserve.
As Paul sat at a table, his customary rum and coke lay before him tactilely nurtured by the splayed fingers of one hand, the rays from the post rain sunshine, glistening on the rapid implosion of cubes of ice. He viewed outside, seemingly impassive with the objective curiosity of his trade. He saw each person as a complete figure, like a subject in a picture, a finished creation.
His love affair with “Papa,” more as a man, than as a writer was petering out as the thoughts ran through his mind. Insights that he had anticipated from this trip were failing to materialize. What confused him was how to progress. He had come to gain, as he thought, inspiration from Hemingway’s old haunts. But it had not happened, however much he tried to assimilate as a watcher into the environs, and he found to his chagrin that he could not make the next move. As a writer he knew he had to make some kind of jump, and all he had as reassurance was the knowledge that “If one jumps over the edge, then one is bound to land somewhere.”
“Or,” it hastened back in his thinking “Is that too bloody logical in a profession that sits continually on foundations of sand, viewing human frailties?”
“Then there was the suicide! Although technically not the same, it was so poignant, almost relevant and commendable as a death wish in his writing “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. But then to undertake it in real life and blow your brains out, because you feel your creativity had dried up! Was the man I admired all through my manhood, at base a coward?”
“Am I, as a writer currently losing creativity, on the same path?”
"No I'm not Hemingway!"
Paul looked across at Jennie and smiled briefly She knew she was being admired and yet resented having been called into being. To her there was something about this lean American in his mid sixties with his strange guarded look, the unconscious shine, as if he did not belong to the same creation as the people about him. In his clear northern flesh and his fair hair was a glow. His experienced maleness, like a good-humoured smiling wolf, did not bind her to the sinister stillness in his bearing. The lurking danger of his unsubdued temper.
“I shall know more of that man” crossed her mind. She wanted a man who could close the lack of robust self she held deep inside her. She made herself both beautiful in appearance and successful in business. She strove so hard, and yet there was still inside a deficiency.
In observing Paul over the time he had been regularly visiting the bar, she perceived how he subordinated himself to the common idea, almost travestying himself. He affected with the Cubans he met to be quite ordinary. And he did it so well, taking the tone of his surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his circumstances, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinary commonplaceness that usually propitiated his onlookers for the moment, and disarmed them from attacking his singleness. He was like a man on a tight-rope, pretending nothing but ease.
Jennie tried to stop thinking about him and concentrate on the bar that was her livelihood. He piqued her, attracted her, and annoyed her. She wanted to know him more and yet something kept her from him. There was certain hostility, a hidden ultimate reserve in him, cold and inaccessible. When she brought him his drink, although polite, it was almost as if he endured her. He sat expressionless as if he were his fate and reflected.
He sat in what he pretended to be “Papa’s” chair at a bar in Cuba and the distinct smell of recent rain mixed with street dust was in the air. It was one of those zinc top tables, inside near the window, and outside in the crowded alleys, men played dominoes with intensity, against an overhanging backdrop of impressively faded nineteenth century Spanish style buildings.
Where Hemingway had in fact drunk, were now tour guide drop offs, complete with faked signed portraits of the writer, ridiculous drinks at obscene prices named after him, and professional con artists each of whom could relate having been on maverick benders with the great man.
Paul, who sat in the alternate location this day was a writer, who all his life had admired “Papa”, both in the genius of his writing and in the hard living, hard drinking life style he had espoused. There was so much which he felt he could relate to, but after three months in Cuba, doubts were now creeping in.
The owner of the bar, Jennie, was a strong woman in all senses of the word. Not educated in the formal sense as such, but street wise and incisive to a degree, that patrons both admired, yet were wary of her. The locals intimidated by her exclusive bareness of manner said of her “She is a smart woman.” She was fine looking with dark liquid eyes and a sheen to hair that hung loose and substantial over the delicate skin of exposed brown shoulders. There was however aside from appearances, piquancy or ironic suggestion, and an untouched reserve.
As Paul sat at a table, his customary rum and coke lay before him tactilely nurtured by the splayed fingers of one hand, the rays from the post rain sunshine, glistening on the rapid implosion of cubes of ice. He viewed outside, seemingly impassive with the objective curiosity of his trade. He saw each person as a complete figure, like a subject in a picture, a finished creation.
His love affair with “Papa,” more as a man, than as a writer was petering out as the thoughts ran through his mind. Insights that he had anticipated from this trip were failing to materialize. What confused him was how to progress. He had come to gain, as he thought, inspiration from Hemingway’s old haunts. But it had not happened, however much he tried to assimilate as a watcher into the environs, and he found to his chagrin that he could not make the next move. As a writer he knew he had to make some kind of jump, and all he had as reassurance was the knowledge that “If one jumps over the edge, then one is bound to land somewhere.”
“Or,” it hastened back in his thinking “Is that too bloody logical in a profession that sits continually on foundations of sand, viewing human frailties?”
“Then there was the suicide! Although technically not the same, it was so poignant, almost relevant and commendable as a death wish in his writing “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. But then to undertake it in real life and blow your brains out, because you feel your creativity had dried up! Was the man I admired all through my manhood, at base a coward?”
“Am I, as a writer currently losing creativity, on the same path?”
"No I'm not Hemingway!"
Paul looked across at Jennie and smiled briefly She knew she was being admired and yet resented having been called into being. To her there was something about this lean American in his mid sixties with his strange guarded look, the unconscious shine, as if he did not belong to the same creation as the people about him. In his clear northern flesh and his fair hair was a glow. His experienced maleness, like a good-humoured smiling wolf, did not bind her to the sinister stillness in his bearing. The lurking danger of his unsubdued temper.
“I shall know more of that man” crossed her mind. She wanted a man who could close the lack of robust self she held deep inside her. She made herself both beautiful in appearance and successful in business. She strove so hard, and yet there was still inside a deficiency.
In observing Paul over the time he had been regularly visiting the bar, she perceived how he subordinated himself to the common idea, almost travestying himself. He affected with the Cubans he met to be quite ordinary. And he did it so well, taking the tone of his surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his circumstances, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinary commonplaceness that usually propitiated his onlookers for the moment, and disarmed them from attacking his singleness. He was like a man on a tight-rope, pretending nothing but ease.
Jennie tried to stop thinking about him and concentrate on the bar that was her livelihood. He piqued her, attracted her, and annoyed her. She wanted to know him more and yet something kept her from him. There was certain hostility, a hidden ultimate reserve in him, cold and inaccessible. When she brought him his drink, although polite, it was almost as if he endured her. He sat expressionless as if he were his fate and reflected.