Now, as the women swam, the three of us men sat by the poolside, drinks in hand. Hemingway looked tan and comfortable in a much-washed yellow T-shirt and trunks so faded that I could not even guess at their original color, and Theodor Schlegel—I could not think of him as “Teddy Shell”—looked hot and uncomfortable in a high-collar, white dinner jacket, black bow tie, straight black dress trousers, and shiny black pumps. There is something proprietary in the act of three men watching three scantily clad women swim, and there was no question that Schlegel watched Helga Sonneman with a possessive eye. Hemingway was in good form, telling jokes, laughing at Schlegel’s weak excuses for wit, calling to Gellhorn and Dietrich in a bantering way, and carrying drinks to poolside for Sonneman whenever the blonde surfaced. His possessiveness seemed to include both his wife and the actress, and possibly even Sonneman.
It was interesting to see Hemingway around women. It helped me to understand him a bit. On one hand, the writer was formal, almost shy, with females—even around the whore, Maria. He paid attention when they spoke, rarely interrupted—even when his wife was haranging him on some point—and seemed truly interested in what they had to say. On the other hand, there was a slight aura of judgment hanging around Hemingway’s dealings with the opposite sex—not the usual dismissive, locker room talk, in spite of occasional lapses such as the comment about “irrigating” his wife twice before breakfast—but in a sort of silent assessment, as if he were always in the act of deciding if this woman or that was worth his time and attention.
Obviously Dietrich was. Even after just half an hour of poolside banter, I could sense how ferociously intelligent the actress was, and how Hemingway enjoyed that. He seemed at his best around intelligent women—his wife, Ingrid Bergman, Leopoldina la Honesta, now Marlene Dietrich—and I had rarely seen that trait in active, charismatic men. Such men usually exhibited their strengths around other men and often seemed lost in the company of women—especially women not their wives. My uncle had been like that. I suspected that my father had. Not Hemingway. Whatever secret test he held for women to pass in terms of wit, appearance, conversation, and intelligence, it was obvious that Dietrich had long since passed it with flying colors.
Theodor Schlegel apparently had not passed whatever test Hemingway had concocted for men… or for secret agents, for that matter. Schlegel certainly did not look the part of the dashing German spy: a bland, round face under an almost bald scalp; a soft mouth; jowls; and basset hound eyes that looked like they might cry given only a small bit of provocation. His German accent was as pronounced as Dietrich’s, but as sharp-edged and ugly as the actress’s was soft and sensuous. I did admire the skill with which Schlegel had tied his neat bow tie. The agent’s conversation with Hemingway had been as smooth and meaningless as that tie’s knot—all silky surface.
Helga Sonneman spoke very little, but I was surprised to note that her voice held no hint whatsoever of a German accent. For someone who had been born in Germany and lived there until coming to the States for college, her lack of accent was remarkable. If anything, she held a very slight New England, upper-crust accent—not nearly as pronounced as Martha Gellhorn’s Bryn Mawr drawl—modulated by New York City vowels.
I had been introduced as a guest and colleague of Hemingway’s on his upcoming seagoing scientific venture, and that had seemed to satisfy everyone. I watched Sonneman’s face very carefully as we were introduced—waiting for that telltale tightening of a muscle around the mouth or the inadvertent widening of her pupils at the shock of recognizing me as the fireman belowdecks—but there seemed to be no recognition there. If she was acting, she was a better actress than Dietrich. Of course, that was true of most real spies—we played our roles twenty-four hours a day, and often for years without interruption.
At about seven P.M., everyone except Schlegel went to their respective rooms to change for dinner. My last glimpse of the Abwehr agent before I jogged up to Grade A was of the bald man strolling through Hemingway’s library, frowning at the titles as if they were somehow inappropriate and smoking cigarette after cigarette. I suspected that Teddy was nervous.
Somehow, Hemingway and Gellhorn had prevailed upon Ramón, the temperamental Chinese cook, to prepare traditional Cuban fare for dinner this night. Hemingway had told me that Ramón sneered at Cuban dishes, although the writer loved them. At any rate, the menu for this meal included sofrito—a paste of finely chopped onion, garlic, and green pepper sizzled in quality olive oil—for starters, then ajiaco, a country stew which included yuca, malanga, and boniato with tostones—refried wedges of green plátano, or plantain—and then more plátano on the side as fufú, a dish that Hemingway assured us had migrated from West Africa and which consisted of boiled plantain chunks sprinkled with olive oil and decorated with crunchy fried pork rinds.
The main course was roast pork—the bottom round palomilla steak which Havana gourmets loved best—with black beans, white rice, and more plantains. Spices I could detect included spearmint, cumin, oregano, parsley, sour oranges, and ajo—which was garlic in garlic with more garlic. I noticed that Schlegel’s pale cheeks were growing more florid with each course, but Hemingway seemed to love the food and urged second and third helpings on everyone.
As always, the writer had chosen his favorite wine—Tavel, a French rosé—and poured for everyone, holding the bottle by the neck.
“Ernest,” said Dietrich as he finished filling her glass again, “why do you hold the bottle such, my darling? It seems so clumsy for such a graceful man.”
Hemingway only grinned. “The bottles by the neck,” he said. “Women by the waist.” And he refilled Sonneman’s and Schlegel’s glasses. Gellhorn and I signified that we were satisfied with what was left in our glasses.
We were at the dining room table, with Hemingway at one end, Gellhorn at the other, Dietrich at the writer’s right-hand side, Schlegel across from the actress on Hemingway’s left, Sonneman across from me at Gellhorn’s right. As was always the case when I had been at the writer’s table, conversation flowed even more freely than the wine, helped along but rarely dominated by either Hemingway or his wife. There was a good feeling at Ernest Hemingway’s table, a flow of energy from the writer to all those around him, and this was true even when one of his guests was a pasty-faced spy and another a mystery woman with Nazi connections. Dietrich was obviously very fond of both Hemingway and Gellhorn—especially of Hemingway—and her energy matched that of the writer’s without ever being overbearing.
All of the essentials of Schlegel’s and Sonneman’s reasons for being in Havana with their yacht had been discussed by the pool. All of the mandatory admirations of Dietrich’s performances had been offered and brushed away by the actress. Sonneman and Gellhorn had engaged in some good-natured banter about their alma maters—evidently some rivalry existed between Bryn Mawr and Wellesley College. In the end, the two women agreed that for too many female students at each institution, the schools existed as a sort of breeding farm for future wives of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale men. Conversation had then turned to the food, the political situation, the strange energy of Cuba in general and Havana in particular, and the war.
“This dinner, Ernest and Martha,” said Dietrich. “It is like a meeting of the Bund, yes?”
Schlegel blanched. Sonneman looked quizzical.
“All of us Germans,” said the actress. “I would not be surprised if the FBI was peering in from the kitchen.”
“That’s only Ramón,” said Hemingway with a chuckle. “He’s checking to see if we actually eat this Cuban stuff.”
“This Cuban stuff is delicious,” said Sonneman with a smile not unlike Ingrid Bergman’s. “The best I’ve had since we arrived.”
After the somewhat uncomfortable moment had passed, Hemingway began to question Helga Sonneman on the goals of the Southern Cross’s archaeological expedition to South America. She led him on a lively and exceedingly intelligent overview of the empire-building era of the pre-Colombian Incans. They wo
uld search for new ruins near the Peruvian coast.
My eyes had begun to glaze over with this lecture, but Hemingway seemed fascinated. “Didn’t the Incas have a policy of resettling conquered people throughout their empire?” he said. “Moving ethnic groups around?”
Sonneman sipped her wine and smiled at the writer. “You do know your Incan history, Mr. Hemingway.”
“Ernest,” said the writer. “Or Ernesto. Or Papa.”
Sonneman laughed softly. “Yes, Papa. You are right, Papa. From Viracocha’s day to the Spanish conquest in 1532, the Incans resettled conquered people around their empire.”
“And why did they do that?” asked Gellhorn.
“To provide stability,” said Sonneman. “To make revolt that much more difficult by distributing ethnic groups.”
“Perhaps that is what Hitler will do with conquered Europe,” suggested Hemingway mildly. The war news this week had been bad.
“Yes,” said Schlegel, enunciating carefully. “It is possible that the Germans will do just that when they subjugate the Slavic peoples and the Soviet empire.”
Dietrich’s lovely eyes flashed. “Oh, Herr Shell? Do you believe that the Russian people will be beaten so easily? That the Germans are invincible, perhaps?”
Schlegel reddened further and shrugged. “As I mentioned earlier, madam, I am Dutch by birth. My mother was German, yes, and we used that language much at home, but I hold no allegiance to either Germany or its myth of invincibility. But certainly the news from the eastern front has suggested that the Soviets do not have much time left.”
“And last year,” said Dietrich, “it seemed that was true of England, but the British flag still waves.”
Hemingway refilled glasses. “But their convoys are taking a terrible beating, Marlene. No island can wage war if its sea-lanes are cut.”
“Are the wolf packs taking such a toll in these southern waters?” asked Sonneman brightly. “We heard tales before sailing from Nassau, but…” She trailed off.
Hemingway shook his head. “No wolf packs this far south, Daughter. The U-boats hunt in packs in the North Atlantic, but down here it’s the solitary submarine stalking the merchant ships. And yes, ships are going down at an alarming rate. About thirty-five per week, I’m told at the embassy. I’m surprised that your captain isn’t more alarmed at the possibility of being sunk by a Nazi sub… or at least boarded.”
Schlegel cleared his throat. “We are a peaceful scientific expedition ship composed of civilians,” he said formally. “No submarine would bother us.”
Hemingway chuckled. “Don’t be too sure, Teddy. One look through a periscope at that destroyer-sized yacht of yours and your curious German sub commander just might come up for a look-see and sink you out of sheer pique.” The writer looked at Sonneman again. “But of course I hope not,” said Hemingway, “since your ship will be research headquarters and hotel while you hunt for those ruins.”
“Precisely,” said Sonneman. “And a very comfortable hotel it is.” She drew one shapely finger down the tablecloth as if drawing a map. “The Incans left more than twenty-five hundred miles of road along the coast and an equal length of highway heading inland. Our hope is to find one of the lost cities in the southern reaches of that coastal highway.” She smiled. “And even though the Viking Fund is a nonprofit organization, there is much money to be made if certain artifacts are discovered.”
“Pottery?” said Gellhorn. “Artwork?”
“Some pottery,” said Sonneman. “But the most exciting thing… May I tell them about the Toledo tapestry, Teddy?” she said with a glance at Schlegel.
It was obvious that Schlegel had no idea what she was talking about. After a judicious moment, he said, “Yes, I believe that would be permissible, Helga.”
Sonneman leaned forward. “Viceroy Toledo wrote to Phillip the Second—the letter is still in the Archives of the Indies and I have a copy—saying that he was sending back to Spain four gigantic cloths, huge maps of his Andean realm, the beauty and richness of which exceeded all the tapestries and cloths hitherto seen in Peru or the Christian world. The letter arrived, but never the textiles.”
“And you think it might be in the jungles of Peru?” said Dietrich with wonder in her voice. “Would not cloth rot in such a climate?”
“Not if packaged properly and buried deeply,” said Sonneman, her voice almost vibrating with enthusiasm.
“Enough, please, Helga,” said Schlegel. “We must not bore our hosts with our little interests.”
Ramón and two of the serving girls came in with flaming desserts. After traditional Cuban fare, the Chinese cook had not been able to resist his instincts for elaborate dessert: in this case, Baked Alaska.
“SO WHY CUBA?” repeated Hemingway over dessert. “Why bring your exploration ship here?”
“The ship was fitted and modified on the Atlantic seaboard,” said Schlegel stiffly. “The captain and crew are conducting sea trials while the scientists refine their equipment and search techniques. Currently we are repairing some damage… to the driveshaft, I believe. Within the month, we should sail for Peru.”
“Via the Canal?” said Gellhorn.
“Naturally,” said Schlegel.
Hemingway sipped his wine. “So how long did the Incan Empire last, Miss Sonneman?”
“Please call me Helga,” said the blonde. “Or ‘Daughter,’ if that pleases you. Although you are only ten years or so my senior, I think, Ernest.”
The writer showed his winning smile. “Helga it is.”
“To answer your question, Ernest,” said Sonneman, “one might say that the true Incan dynasty lasted only about two centuries—from perhaps the early fourteenth century, during the expansion of Capac Yupanqui, to 1532, when Pizarro returned with his small army to conquer their empire. The area then stayed under Spanish control for more than three hundred years.”
Hemingway was nodding. “A few hundred Spanish in armor defeating… how many Incas, Helga?”
“At the time the Spanish arrived,” said Sonneman, “it is estimated that the Incas controlled more than twelve million people.”
“Good God,” said Dietrich. “To think that so many could be overthrown by so few invaders.”
Hemingway gestured with his dessert fork. “I still can’t help but think of our friend Hitler. He plans a thousand-year Reich, but I wonder if this year might not be the high-water mark for his little empire. There’s always some tougher son of a bitch coming along… like the Spaniards for the Incas.”
Schlegel stared stonily. Sonneman smiled and said, “Yes, but we know that the Spanish arrived during another struggle for succession to the Incan throne… and during a time when disease was ravaging the empire. Even the amazing system of Incan highways… much more advanced than anything in Europe, I might add… helped the Spanish in their conquest.”
“Like Hitler’s autobahns?” said Hemingway with another grin. “My guess is that Patton will be driving Sherman tanks down those fancy German highways in two or three years.”
Schlegel was obviously uncomfortable with this entire line of discussion. “I think that perhaps the Germans will be too busy fighting the Communist hordes to worry about expansion,” he said softly. “I am not, of course, sympathetic with Nazi aims, but it must be admitted that in many ways Germany is fighting for Western civilization in its battle with the Slav descendents of Genghis Khan.”
Marlene Dietrich hooted. “Mr. Shell,” she said sharply, “Nazi Germany knows nothing about Western civilization. Trust me, I know this. The Russians you so despise… our allies… let me tell you, Mr. Shell, I have a mystical link with those Russians. There were many of them in Berlin when I was young. They had fled there after the revolution. I loved their enthusiasm, those brave Russians, their vigor, the way in which they could drink all day and all night without losing consciousness—”
“Here, here,” said Hemingway.
“Toasts all day long!” said Dietrich, her voice rich with German acc
ent and feeling. She raised her glass of wine. “Tragic children… that is what the Russian people are, Mr. Shell. Noel Coward said of me not long ago, ‘She is a clown and a realist.’ You have there a perfect definition of the Russian soul, Mr. Shell. In that sense, I am more Russian than German. And just as I would never surrender to Nazi beasts, neither shall the Russian people!”
She drank the last of her wine and Hemingway joined her in the silent toast. I wondered what J. Edgar Hoover would make of this conversation. Someday I should look at Dietrich’s O/C file.
“Yes,” said Schlegel, glancing around the table as if seeking support, “but surely you… certainly you must…”
“The Nazis know nothing of Western civilization,” repeated Dietrich, her smile still pleasant but her voice sharp. “The Nazi hierarchy consists of degenerates… impotent perverts… vicious homosexuals… I am sorry, Martha. This is not dinner table talk.”
Gellhorn smiled. “At our table, any abuse of Nazi Germany is acceptable and encouraged, Marlene. Pray continue.”
Dietrich shook her head. Her blond coiffure fell forward around her sharp cheeks, then snapped back along her neck. “I am finished, except that I wish to know the Spanish word for such perverts, Ernest?”
Hemingway was looking at Schlegel as he answered. “Well, there’s the standard word for ‘queer,’ of course—maricón—but Cubans use that to refer to homosexuals who are passive. The dominant homosexuals are called bujarones, meaning something like the word butch applied to lesbians.”
“My,” said Gellhorn, “the conversation is deteriorating isn’t it?”