by Susan Klinkenberg
At five o’clock I put down my pen and ordered a Pernod. It was good to stop writing when it was going good. I don’t think about it or worry about it until I start to write the next day. The café was crowded. I walked from my table on the terrace of the Dôme to the bar. I finished the Pernod and ordered a Chambéry Cassis with George the barman.
“Jake, don’t look, but that royal lady is heading this way.”
“Alone?”
“No, she’s with the guy who gets nasty when he drinks and a stout gentleman.”
It was almost three months to the day since the Madrid rescue. Lady Ashley and I had parted ways. It was hell, but I survived it.
“Hello chap.”
“Hi Brett.”
Mike moved closer to the bar and waved at me.
“Are congratulations in order?” I said. I raised my wine glass in a toast.
Mike was busy talking to the barman, ordering two martinis and a Kir Royale. Brett’s eyes crinkled.
“No damn hurry. Date is set for May 21st.”
“What brings you to Paris?”
“Not here shopping for my trousseau. Bored with London I guess. I’m up to here with fog. We may head over to Biarritz.”
Drinks in hand, Mike nodded at me and handed Brett her glass.
“Jake, do you remember the Count?”
“Of course, a connoisseur of good champagne is never forgotten,” I said.
“Ah yes. Brett has a way of inspiring one to bring out only the best,” the Count said.
“Except when it comes to Mike.” Brett crinkled her eyes and smiled.
Brett was still damned good-looking. She wore a stylish hat with a brim shadowing her eyes. Her tailored jacket and tweed skirt fit loosely. She had lost weight. Mike shook my hand and gave me a firm pat on the shoulder.
“Jake, good to see you ole chap. Heard you wrote a novel and you are working on a second.”
“Yes. I was out on the terrace earlier finishing a chapter.”
“Well Mike, this is news to me. What’s with the secrecy?”
“Oh Brett, I just heard yesterday from my vorticist artist friend about Jake’s shift from journalism to fiction. Although some say the novel is a roman á clef.”
Brett’s face fell and she looked directly into my eyes.
“When does your autobiography….I mean novel come out?”
“In two weeks.”
“I hope you haven’t told any tall tales about your good friends Jake.”
“It is a novel. My writing is true and honest.”
Mike was getting tight and raised his voice.
“Why the change of direction in your work so soon after the disaster with Cohn and the child bullfighter in Spain?”
“I am a writer and driven to go beyond what I have done before.”
“Think back Mike. Jake was the only one of us in Pamplona who handled things with class. Let’s toast Jacob Barnes, destined to be a great novelist.”
“On that note, I really do need to head over to Michaud’s.”
“Do you have a date?”
“Actually Brett, I’m meeting with my publisher visiting from New York and the writer Gregg Fitzsimmons who introduced us.”
“Let me walk you to the door Jake.”
Mike and the Count ordered another round.
Brett walked with me and held tightly to my arm.
“Oh Darling, I’ve been so miserable.”
“Wedding bells not helping?”
“It’s impossible. Mike is the worst….and the best. But mostly the worst lately.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Meet me tomorrow at 3 at the Closerie des Lilas. Please Jake. There’s things you need to know.”
It was cooler outside. The lights of the bars and shops on both sides of the street came on as the sun began to set. I walked along the Boulevard Raspail and crossed over to the west side of the Luxembourg Gardens. In the distance I saw a stage and children watching a puppet show. Readers sitting on benches closed their books and rose to stroll through rows of flowers. I had more than an hour before the dinner meeting with Elkins and Fitzsimmons. I wanted to get far away from the Dôme. Let Brett have Mike and her Count. Damn Brett.
I walked towards 27 rue de Fleurus. Stopping in to see Miss Kline would be nice. She opened the door, greeted me, and I left the stench of the Dôme behind. It was warm inside and we talked about her pictures. The paintings of the best artists were stacked up on the walls. She and her brother Theo each had a good eye for art.
I wanted to talk about books and told her what I was reading.
“Stephen Crane is a dead man. Why would you read a dead man. Can’t you see he is dead?”
Well he was dead, but his writing was still good.
“You should only read what is very good or truly bad Barnes.”
“I’m not interested in reading truly bad books, but if you have something very good, I’ll read it. But I still think Crane is good even if he is dead.”
“Why do you read trash Barnes? Here’s a truly good book by Sinclair Lewis. This writer will win the Nobel Prize one day.”
“I will read it and return it next week.”
“Good Barnes. I will introduce you to Lewis if you come by on Tuesday evening.”
Talking with Miss Klein settled me down. Brett. Dear Brett was like chasing the wind.
I took a taxi to Michaud’s.
This is a sequel story or chapter to Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and is written as an homage/parody.
