Sixty-two years ago today, the legendary foreign correspondent and novelist Ernest Hemingway put a shotgun into his mouth and fired. Hard to believe, he was only 62.
Papa, as he was known, suicided at his final home, a woodsy cabin in Sun Valley, Idaho, after a peripatetic reporter’s existence in Paris, Key West and Havana.
A few years ago I stayed in Papa’s old room—206—at the Sun Valley Lodge in Ketchum.
And I had an encounter with his ghost.
It happened as I smoked an Arturo Fuente Hemingway Short Story cigar while scribbling into my journal with my Mont Blanc Hemingway ballpoint pen. Earlier in the evening I had dined at Papa’s favorite table in a restaurant called Christiania after visiting his gravesite.
So, I guess I sort of asked for it.
It began with his voice, staccato-like and heavy on enunciation. “I used to call this room Glamour House.”
I ignored the voice, thinking it was in my head.
However, it continued. “But if here alone, without wife, I’d call it Hemingstein’s Mixed Vice and Dicing Establishment.”
I looked up and beheld a translucent figure, full beard, head of gray hair combed forward, clad in a brown suede vest over a shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbow, shorts and bedroom slippers.
“Have you ever shown yourself before?” I calmly asked.
“Some people think they see me at Finca” [Papa’s old house outside Havana]. But it’s trick, l-lure tourists, Cuba.” He paused. “You know why shoot myself?”
“You want to tell me that?”
“I’m storyteller. Good story.”
I shrugged. “Go for it.”
“World War Two. Crook Factory. Heard that, chief?”
I had, so I nodded.
“Made Eddie mad.”
“Who?”
“Eddie Hoover. Me also for blame. Drink too much. And pills. Seconal for sleep. Can handle G-men trailing me, make faces at them.” The apparition put its thumbs in its ears and stuck out its tongue. “Eddie owns spy stuff, Cuba. I stepped toes. Broke them.” He smiled then glanced around the room. “L-Like this place, chief. Hideaway. Gets cold enough, make coyote howl off-key.” He paused. “They follow me here. No one believe, think me crazy, but for true. Eddie’s gumshoes…” He sighed and trailed off for a moment. “Would never end. Fine supper, my l-last. Christi’s. New York steak, rare, only way to eat meat. Favorite Chateauneuf du Pape. Always said, day without wine, day without sun also rising.” Papa chuckled. “L-last to l-leave, about eleven. No hurry.”
“Do you think killing yourself was a selfish act?” I boldly asked.
Hemingway crossed his arms. “Farewell justified when hope all gone. Or incarceration. Captive against will, l-living behind bars.” The apparition sadly shook its head. “Mind erased. Could not write. Think-machine destroyed.” He pointed a forefinger at his temple. “Shock treatment. Zap! Fifteen times!”
“After first time, Mayo,” he continued, “tried bringing back. L-Long walks, staring at art. Goya, my favorite. I try. Stare for hours. Nothing brings back think-machine. L-loved writing. More than women. Would’ve gone sooner. But deal with mind doctor: no bars on window, not kill self. Kept word. Waited till home, bells tolling for me. Next morning, shotgun, ammo in gun cabinet, keys left out.”
“What do you mean, left out?”
“Mary wants me gone. Fought like cats and dogs. Tell you true, l-love another gal.”
“Who?”
“Tillie. But Tillie had L-Lloyd.” The apparition looks down. “No finer place for conversation, feet under table, place to rest elbows.” The apparition drops its voice to a low whisper, looks up. “I’d do anything for Dutch Charlie’s pickled trout. Twenty-five cents apiece, eat right here, Glamour House. A moveable feast.”
“Any regrets?” I ask.
“Biggest regret, not seeing grandchild. Bumby’s wife, five months pregnant.” Papa shook his head. “But more Mayo, more zapping—or jail from taxes. Eddie’s revenge.”
“Would you change anything if you had the chance to live your life again?”
The apparition nodded. “Not spook easy.” Papa raised both arms and cupped his weathered hands into fists. “Grab bully by horns.”
“Who?”
“Bully. L-Look bully straight in eye, stare down. Rip horns from bully’s head, hang over fireplace. Time, least we have.”
“But you sounded so sure about ending your life.”
The apparition sighed. “Not right mind. Needed booze, overcome shyness. Stammer—you notice? Got carried away, martinis at noon. My novel, Death in the Afternoon? Should be titled Drunk in the Afternoon.” Papa leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “L-life all we got, have it or not.” He studied his translucent hands. “Not l-living, bases loaded against me.” Hunched forward, he looked me directly in the eye. “Want advice?”
I nod.
“L-Live each day. L-like it’s your l-last. Call everything as you see it, l-like old man in sea, to hell with everyone.”
Slouching now, Papa began to disappear, starting with his arms. “Farewell.”
And Hemingway’s ghost was gone, leaving me with a cool breeze blowing from across the river and through the trees.
Hemingway. The page was his canvas, his mind a paintbrush. When the two disconnected, he was like a patient with ALS. Passionate fans have imagined this conversation with his ghost. You brought it to life and gave us closure. Thank you. My first contact with Hemingway was elementary school - fourth grade’s reading hour. Students had an open choice. I loved the elephant, so ‘Hills Like White Elephants’. The direction of the characters was lost on my young mind. The visuals took my breath away. I was thirsty and dry. I had heard the click of beaded curtains, smelled dust of the desert, felt the rumble of the train in my feet , the sweat beads on the glass. Yet, I had not left my desk or the room. A moving experience of space, time for a 10 year old. Unforgettable.
Does SB News Press not believe in ghosts? Ann,shopglamourhouse.com