Henry Hemingway Sample Two

Sample TWO

The Short and Wonderful Life of

Henry Hemingway

Fred Schäfer

He mentioned Hemingway, casually and unexpectedly

Merrill Denison looked distinguished and grand. Like an old man who was close to God. On the outside he was made of a worn-out leather skin with ruts and cracks so deep and so full of character they seemed to go right through to his soul. On the inside there was the energy of a young man, a storyteller; there was wisdom, humour and an unconditional love for life which can only develop in people who – as David Thoreau would put it – have done whatever they did for the love of it and not for making a living. He spoke fast. Maybe he had an accent. I understood only half of what he said.

Something about his first book.

He was commissioned to write it.

Commissioned?

I had no idea what he was talking about.

It was for a big organisation.

Kind of a bank, I understood.

Why would a bank want him to write a novel?

Not a novel.

What other books are there to be written?

A book about the history of the organisation.

How boring.

It was just meant for a few hundred customers.

An anniversary initiative.

Something like that.

How disappointing.

But then, he said with a smile, he surprised them all.

He wrote a book about the history of the region.

The company was a part of it.

People liked it.

The book ended up in bookstores.

It sold well.

It established him.

Gave him a name.

Very interesting.

From then on there was no stopping him.

By pure coincidence Frau Hertel was also at Merrill Denison’s place in Bon Echo during this afternoon and she helped out where my English failed. Merrill Denison wasn’t famous outside Canada. She mentioned the titles of some of his books, Klondike Mike and The Barley and the Stream. He was also a well-known playwright in Canada. In my memory none of this is important. The man himself took centre stage. He held me in his spell. He talked about his life. How he had created meaning for himself. How he had maintained it. How he was living it.

He mentioned Hemingway, casually and unexpectedly.

They both had worked for the Toronto Star when they were young. Ernest had to be different. A bit of a bragger, Merrill said. But he was all right. Everybody who knew him was surprised when he published The Sun Also Rises. Probably his best book.

I knew it!

Oh God!

Give me the words.

The right words for a great book!

“Do you believe in God?” I actually asked the question. Merrill Denison thought about it but didn’t answer. Maybe just when he was about to formulate his answer, Frau Hertel answered instead. She said that this was too personal. She said it in German: „Das ist zu persönlich.” But she was wrong. It wasn’t.

It is the question in everybody’s mind. Or it should be.

It is the most public question one can ask.

It is the most important question one can ask an eighty-year-old man or woman and it is a question one must ask an eighty-year-old writer. (Denison was seventy-eight years old at that time, I later discovered. He died in 1975.) When I turn eighty, I hope people will ask me whether or not I believe in God. I also hope I will have a good answer ready by then. But neither Frau Hertel nor I recognized the essential nature of this question at this moment in Bon Echo. After Frau Hertel had pushed this topic aside, I mentioned Henry Miller.

“Who is he?”

“The man who wrote Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.”

“Never heard of it.”

“What about The Colossus of Maroussi?”

Silence.

A young man arrived. Eighteen, maybe nineteen years old. His hair fell down to his shoulders. His face looked Indian. It seemed to have the word dignity carved into it. But his face wasn’t red. Maybe he was a Caucasian after all. Caucasians can also have the word dignity carved into their skin. He addressed the old man as Mr Denison and said something I didn’t understand. Mr Denison, the man who had worked with Ernest at the Toronto Star, nodded.

He had worked with Hemingway.

Here was my closest link.

Only one man between my hero and me.

Frau Hertel said that it was time to leave. We had been there for two hours. I asked if I could take a few photos. Sure. I took two photos. One of the old man alone. One of the old man together with Frau Hertel. Then I gave my camera to Herbert and he took one photo of the old man, Frau Hertel and myself. In all three photos the old man looks distinguished and grand. Frau Hertel looks like the good soul she was. I look a bit lost, confused. We left. Herbert and I spent one more night in the caravan before we returned to Toronto.

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Sample ONE: Prologue

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Sample THREE: I can still see you