Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway Read Free Book Online Page A

now like our hearts beating together
it is the same I know it's only that that counts but we don't count it's so
lovely and so good so good and lovely—"
     
    She
came back to the big room and went to the mirror and sat and brushed her hair
looking at herself critically.
     
    "Let's
have breakfast in bed," she said. "And can we have champagne if it's
not wicked? In the brut they have Lanson and Perrier-Jouet of the good. May I
ring?"
     
    "Yes,"
he said and went under the shower. Before he put it on full force he could hear
her voice on the telephone.
     
    When
he came out she was sitting back very formally against two pillows with all the
pillows neatly shaken out and placed two and two at the head of the bed.
     
    "Do
I look all right with my head wet?"
     
    "It's
just damp. You dried it with the towel."
     
    "I
can cut it shorter on the forehead. I can do that myself. Or you can.
     
    "I'd
like it if it came over your eyes.
     
    "Maybe
it will," she said. "Who knows? Maybe we'll get tired of being
classical. And today we'll stay on the beach all through noon. We'll go way far
down it and we can tan really when the people all come in for lunch and then
we'll ride to St. Jean to eat when we're hungry at the Bar Basque. But first
you'll make us go to the beach because we need to."
     
    "Good."
     
    David
moved a chair over and put his hand close on hers and she looked at him and
said, "Two days ago I understood everything and then the absinthe made me
turn on it."
     
    "I
know," David told her. "You couldn't help it."
     
    "But
I hurt you about the clippings."
     
    "No,"
he said. "You tried. You didn't make it."
     
    "I'm
so sorry, David. Please believe me."
     
    "Everybody
has strange things that mean things to them. You couldn't help it."
     
    "No,"
the girl said and shook her head.
     
    "It's
all right then," David said. "Don't cry. It's all right."
     
    "I
never cry," she said. "But I can't help it."
     
    "I
know it and you're beautiful when you cry.
     
    "No.
Don't say it. But I never cried before did I?"
     
    "Never."
     
    "But
will it be bad for you if we stay here just two days on the beach? We haven't
had any chance to swim and it would be silly to have been here and not to swim.
Where are we going to go when we leave here? Oh. We haven't decided yet. We'll
probably decide tonight or in the morning. Where would you suggest?"
     
    "I
think anywhere would be fine," David said.
     
    "Well
maybe that's where we will go." "It's a big place."
     
    "It's
nice to be alone though and I'll pack us nicely."
     
    "There's
nothing much to do except put in toilet things and close two bags."
     
    "We
can leave in the morning if you want. Truly I don't want to do anything to you
or have any bad effect on you.
     
    The
waiter knocked on the door.
     
    "There
was no more Perrier-Jouet, Madame, so I brought the Lanson."
     
    She
had stopped crying and David's hand was still close on hers and he said,
"I know.
     
     

–6–
     
     
    THEY
HAD SPENT the morning at the Prado and now were sitting at a place in a
building with thick stone walls. It was cool and very old. There were wine
casks around the walls. The tables were old and thick and the chairs were worn.
The light came from the door. The waiter brought them glasses of manzanilla
from the lowland near Cadiz called the Marismas with thin slices of jamón
serrano, a smoky, hard cured ham from pigs that fed on acorns, and bright red
spicy salchichón, another even spicier dark sausage from a town called Vich and
anchovies and garlic olives. They ate these and drank more of the manzanilla,
which was light and nutty tasting.
     
    Catherine
had a Spanish-English Method book with a green cover on the table close to her
hand and David had a stack of the morning papers. It was a hot day but cool in
the old building and the waiter asked, "Do you want gazpacho?" He was
an old man and he filled their glasses again.
     
    "Do
you think the señorita would like it?"
     
    "Try
her," the waiter