In the spring of 1948 I was dispatched to Havana by Cosmopolitan (then a literary magazine) on the ridiculous mission of asking Ernest Hemingway to write an article on “The Future of Literature”. Of course no writer knows the future of literature beyond what he’ll write the next morning, if that, but there I was, finding out.
I checked into the Hotel Nacional for the express purpose of knocking on Hemingway’s door, but took the coward’s way out and wrote him a note, asking him to please send me a brief refusal, which would be very helpful to the Future of Hotchner. Instead of a note I received a phone call the next morning from Hemingway, who proposed five o’clock drinks at his favourite Havana bar, the Floridita.
He arrived precisely on time, an overpowering presence, not in height, for he was only an inch or so over 6ft, but in impact. Everyone in the place responded to his entrance. The two frozen daiquiris the barman placed in front of us were in conical glasses big enough to hold long-stemmed roses.
“Papa doble,” Ernest said, “the ultimate achievement of the daiquiri maker’s art.” He conversed with insight and rough humour about famous writers, the Brooklyn Dodgers, actors, prize-fighters, Hollywood phonies, fish, politicians, everything but the Future of Literature. He left abruptly after our fourth or fifth daiquiri – I lost count – but I was able to retain in the rum mist of my head that he was going to pick me up at six o’clock the next morning and take me on a tour around the Morro Castle waters in his boat, the Pilar.
Steering from topside controls, Hemingway took the Pilar several hours up the coast. On the way back we hooked what he referred to as a “stunted marlin” but to me looked like an unstunted whale. He strapped me into the catch chair and handed me the big heavy rod and reel. I had never caught anything bigger than a 10lb bass out of a rowboat and I probably would have had a tough struggle, but Ernest guided me every step of the way, from when to pull up to set the hook to when to bring him in to be taken. The thrill of having reeled in this monster was muted, however, when he unhooked the marlin and set him free.
When we returned from the boat to the Nacional and were saying goodbye, Ernest said, mentioning it for the first time: “The fact is, I do not know a damn thing about the Future of Anything.” He asked what they were paying and when I said $10,000, he said well, that was enough to perk up the Future of Something, perhaps a short story, and that we should stay in touch.
Hemingway in Love by AE Hotchner is published by Picador at £14.99. To order a copy for £10.49, go to bookshop.theguardian.com
