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63 • old friends In April of 1947, Patrick and Gregory Hemingway arrived at the Finca to spend their Easter vacation with us. Patrick had arrived first, since he was studying for the Harvard College Board Exams, and Gregory came directly from Canterbury School. Both boys were happy to see me as the Finca’s new majordomo. We had known each other for years and played baseball, boxed, and fished together during their long summer visits. Mouse and Gigi wanted to fish at the San Juan River in Matanzas, where we had been successful with trout on their last visit. On the morning of our fishing trip, Papa, concerned about Patrick’s strange, nervous behavior, asked me to keep a close eye on him. “There is something wrong with him,” he whispered in my ear, “but I don’t know what it is.” The day turned out to be a disaster. The fish were not biting. Patrick , jittery and restless, kept moving to different spots on the river hoping to find better luck. He lost two tackles in the process, which aggravated him even more. Late in the afternoon, Gigi and I were ready to call it a day, but Mouse wanted to stay longer and wait for the stars to come out. He had been reading an astronomy book and was eager to study the constellations from the Cuban vantage point. We tried to persuade him to leave with us (nightfall wasn’t for another couple of hours) but resorted to coercion to finally get him into the stationwagon. We had Juan park the car closer to where we were and then told Patrick he should sit in the car and wait for the sun to go down. Juan kept the engine running, so when Patrick got in the car 64 rené villarreal and raúl villarreal Gigi and I got in after him on either side, trapping him in the middle, not giving him an opportunity to escape. Back at the Finca, Patrick told me he had a headache and asked me to get him a glass pot with boiled water for tea. I took a small aluminum pot filled with hot water to the guest bungalow. He appeared distressed and complained that the pot was dirty and began to argue with Ramón, who was not even present. I told him that it wasn’t Ramón’s fault, that it was my fault. I told him that I wasn’t able to find a glass pot but assured him that the aluminum pot was brand new and clean. Hemingway heard his son’s complaints in the main house and came to the bungalow. Mouse apologized for being loud. He said he knew it was not Ramón’s fault, but the water was dirty. He grew more and more agitated. Hemingway suggested Mouse to go to the main house and get medicine for his headache. I had never seen Mouse behave that way. He had always been very courteous and respectful. I knew that something terrible must be wrong with him. Later, I learned that Patrick had had an automobile accident in Key West and banged his head. After the accident, he slept all night out on the lawn of the house on Whitehead Street. He also had been under a lot of pressure preparing for his college exams. In Papa’s workroom, Patrick seemed to calm down. He sat on the large wicker recliner, Hemingway next to him speaking softly and gently stroking his head. I prepared the bed, and Papa and I moved Mouse from the recliner to the bed. Papa asked me to call Dr. Kholy and ask him to come over as soon as possible. Dr. Kholy wanted to speak with him, so I went and stayed with Mouse while Papa spoke to the doctor. “Today’s fishing excursion wasn’t worth the long trip. It was too hot and there was too much sun,” Mouse said in a low voice. He then excused himself for his behavior. I told him that it was fine and that I had only seen him upset once before. It had been a few years ago, I reminded him, when he and Gigi had visited the Finca, when we all played baseball together and sometimes boxed by the almond grove. Patrick used to box a couple of rounds before going off to draw and paint by the cistern. One day a group of boys from the pueblo...

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