Hemingway's Cuban Son: Reflections on the Writer by His Longtime Majordomo

In Dreams

156 • in dreams I walked down the steps from the terrace that led to the pool and saw Papa Hemingway swimming. He swam a breaststroke, exercising his powerful arms and chest. He saw me and waved me over. I walked over to the edge of the pool, squatted down, and waited for him to reach me. “How’s your swimming?” he asked. “Not that good,” I said. “Why? You know how to swim?” “It’s hard for me now,” I told him. “It’s easy.” “It’s easy if you know how to do it,” I smiled. He touched my edge of the pool and turned. “No. It’s easy. You just have to take your time,” he said, slowly moving away with strong, steady strokes. He reached the other end of the pool, touched the edge, and headed back to me. He didn’t tire. He swam, keeping the same pace. “You make it look easy. You’re a natural,” I said. “But believe me, it’s hard.” “No te apures,” he said, continuing with his slow and easy breaststroke . “Take your time and relax.” He parted the water with his hands, pushing forward, reaching my edge, touching it, and turning. He reached the other edge and turned back. He took his time with each stroke and kick. “When you get tired, take a rest. Give yourself time to think about what you’re doing. It will come easy.” He slowed down in the middle of the pool. He looked up and smiled. hemingway’s cuban son 157 “You’re a natural, a great swimmer,” I said. “Some are born good swimmers, others not. All you can do is try,” he said, still smiling at me. “It’s just very difficult for me now. I’m not a natural.” “Suave. The more you do it, the easier it gets.” “You just make it look very easy.” “I was born a swimmer. I’ve had lots of practice.” He turned. He reached the middle of the pool, looked back at me, waved, and continued swimming freestyle, moving faster. I stood up and thought about what he had said. Turning to go up to the house, I looked up to the sky. Then I woke up. It had been a dream. I got out of bed, looked at the clock. It was not even 6:00 a.m. “It’s hard for an old man to sleep late,” I said to myself. Then I went to the kitchen table with my clipboard, pencils, and paper to write. ...