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39 • the ghost in the darkness When I started working at the Finca, Martha Gellhorn was the lady of the house. A sophisticated, attractive, independent woman, she didn’t approve much of having the local kids running freely around the Finca and swimming in the pool. I had little contact with her. I only heard the arguments between her and Papa. It wasn’t long before she started spending more time away on Collier’s assignments than at the Finca. I don’t know what Martha Gellhorn and Hemingway argued about, but I do recall the arguments were extremely heated, loud, and frequent. When Martha was away, Hemingway entertained himself in the afternoons by joining us kids in baseball games or by teaching us how to box with boxing gloves he had purchased along with the baseball equipment. As I excelled at my after-school responsibilities at the Finca, Hemingway’s trust in me grew. When he realized my frustrations on the baseball field—that I couldn’t hit or catch the ball well— he took the extra time to teach me how to box. When I didn’t have school, he gave me lessons in the morning after I fed the cats. He had me use his stomach as a punching bag. I was strong and agile and learned a great number of boxing combinations. I also had a good defense. I developed the reputation as being a good, tough boxer, and boys from the pueblo and other neighboring towns came to challenge me. Almost every week I had a new challenger come to the Finca to defeat me, Kid Vigía. Hemingway was clearly very pleased that I, his student, was such a good boxer. And I was proud to make him happy. I loved the sport. I loved seeing the fear in my opponent’s eyes. I loved winning. I was a good fighter—strong, fast, fearless. 40 rené villarreal and raúl villarreal But Papa Hemingway taught me so much more than just how to box, shoot a rifle, fish, and appreciate nature. One very important lesson he taught me remains with me to this day. Luis, María, Fico, and I had finished our dinner when Papa came in looking for a box of razor blades. Luis excused himself for neglecting to order the blades that morning and suggested that Fico or I go down to the pueblo to the corner bodega and buy the razor blades. Fico looked at me with eyes wide open. I knew he was afraid of the dark and hated to walk around the Finca’s grounds at night—above all in the vicinity of the well. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, so I volunteered to go. Luis gave me money for the razor blades and wrote down the brand name of the single-edge blades on a piece of paper. I put the piece of paper in the back pocket of my pants and ran out of the house into the night. I ran along the path through the pine trees and cut through the almond grove. My shortcut took me close to the sealed well where Don Pedro had drowned himself a year before. I stopped short. The horrible, ghastly image of his bloated body in the well sprang into my head, and fear got the best of me. I knew death lurked there. I ran fast toward the gate of the Finca. But as I ran accross the open field where we played baseball, I saw what appeared to be a body lying on the ground close to home base. A shapeless mass. And for a second I thought I saw it move. I closed my eyes and dashed to the gate. I hesitated for a moment and thought of stopping at my own house and asking for help. But the thought of being wrong and then ridiculed by my brothers convinced me not to do it. I kept running until I reached the bodega. My fright-stricken face prompted the store owner to chuckle and ask me if I had seen a ghost. “There are no such things as ghosts,” I responded too quickly, not appreciating his teasing. With the razor blades in hand, I walked out of the store and braced myself for the trip back. I slowly walked along the deserted road, past my family’s house, and through the gate. As I passed the ballfield, I turned my head from the...

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