ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway

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      “I should have asked, you know.”

      The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.

      “It’s good. Isn’t it a nice bar?”

      “They’re all nice bars.”

      “You know I didn’t believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that.”

      “Anything you want me to think about it?”

      “Don’t be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink?”

      “We’ll have two more Martinis.”

      “As they were before, sir?”

      “They were very good.” Brett smiled at him.

      “Thank you, ma’am.”

      “Well, bung-o,” Brett said.

      “Bung-o!”

      “You know,” Brett said, “he’d only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting.”

      “He’s got plenty of time.”

      “I don’t know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general.”

      “Well, it was you.”

      “Yes. It was me.”

      “I thought you weren’t going to ever talk about it.”

      “How can I help it?”

      “You’ll lose it if you talk about it.”

      “I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake.”

      “You should.”

      “You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch.”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s sort of what we have instead of God.”

      “Some people have God,” I said. “Quite a lot.”

      “He never worked very well with me.”

      “Should we have another Martini?”

      The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses.

      “Where will we have lunch?” I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window.

      “Here?” asked Brett.

      “It’s rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin’s?” I asked the barman.

      “Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?”

      “Thank you.”

      We lunched up-stairs at Botin’s. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank rioja alta. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of rioja alta.

      “How do you feel, Jake?” Brett asked. “My God! what a meal you’ve eaten.”

      “I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?”

      “Lord, no.”

      Brett was smoking.

      “You like to eat, don’t you?” she said.

      “Yes.” I said. “I like to do a lot of things.”

      “What do you like to do?”

      “Oh,” I said, “I like to do a lot of things. Don’t you want a dessert?”

      “You asked me that once,” Brett said.

      “Yes,” I said. “So I did. Let’s have another bottle of rioja alta.”

      “It’s very good.”

      “You haven’t drunk much of it,” I said.

      “I have. You haven’t seen.”

      “Let’s get two bottles,” I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses.

      “Bung-o!” Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm.

      “Don’t get drunk, Jake,” she said. “You don’t have to.”

      “How do you know?”

      “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”

      “I’m not getting drunk,” I said. “I’m just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine.”

      “Don’t get drunk,” she said. “Jake, don’t get drunk.”

      “Want to go for a ride?” I said. “Want to ride through the town?”

      “Right,” Brett said. “I haven’t seen Madrid. I should see Madrid.”

      “I’ll finish this,” I said.

      Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.

      “Oh, Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”

      Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.

      “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

      A Farewell to Arms

       Table of Contents

       Book I

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