The Old Man and the Brand-name

"AROUND MIDDAY YESTERDAY A FRIENDLY HOMAGE FOR ERNEST HEMINGWAY took place in the gardens of the Cervecería Modelo, in Cotorro. It was given by the Cuban cultural institutions for the great U.S. writer, author of The Old Man and the Sea and resident of Cuba for years."

This was all the newspapers said. But this is not everything.

Lunch was served late and Ernest Hemingway seemed tired. He arrived a little past one and he was immediately assaulted by a throng, among which the photographers lifted their cameras, like a swimmer who carries his dry clothing in his hands. This time the monument moved. Wearing a white guayabera, gray-haired, with a face weathered by the years, he appeared prematurely aged and with a sort of tiredness in his gaze. There was also surprise in his eyes and this was perhaps the first time in his life that he was really scared.

The group moved a few inches around the pool which adjoins the brewery's snack bar, and among casual conversations, admiration expressed in a loud voice, and anonymous greetings, the voice of a photographer arose, asking for one more photo, making a place for his camera, requesting a smile.

The writer finally smiled. It was the first time in a long time that he has appeared smiling in a photo. Later, the Fishermen of Cojímar arrived, a group as unique as the Cossacks of the river Don and almost as numerous. Hemingway humbled his enormous humanity and all the fishermen were able to be photographed. Then the man spoke: "For a solitary man, I have a lot of friends."

Few were able to hear him, since a fleshy man, of medium build and an incredible vigor, took the novelist by both arms and shook him, demanding retribution for his admiring gesture. Hemingway fought to escape and he did not manage. On another occasion, the admirer would not have lasted long in his ecstasy, but this time it was a matter of his homage and an homage is the most similar thing there is to a martyrdom. Even for the one being honored.

In the background there was a sign: "HATUEY beer salutes the "old" ERNEST HEMINGWAY." Meanwhile, the vigorous old man continued to testify to his appreciation of the writer.

Now a man who is still young, sheathed in a costly suit of very wrinkled drill one hundred—the cost of a suit of drill one hundred is always measured by the number of wrinkles that it can handle—shared the admiring effusion with the old man and made his jumpy eyes spring up even more. The man was small and leaned so that he wouldn't seem even shorter beside the writer. Hemingway is taller than six feet.

On one side there was a wooden stage with two streamers—Hatuey Beer, Bacardi Rum—on the two ends and a Cuban flag in the middle. Next to the stage was a bar, at which people crowded ordering daiquiris and beer, all free. In front of the stage long tables decorated with artificial flowers and tablecloths and surrounded with stools and folding chairs and at the end another sign: "BACARDI rum welcomes the author of THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA."

Hemingway had managed to get away from the old man, but two young writers took his place. Bespectacled, agile, they were less forward than the elder man, but no less adhesive. Nonetheless, the group, decisive, self-assured, opened the way to the tables.

On top of the stage, a trio provided music for the event. Two electric guitars and bongos produced melodies in the fashionable rhythm. The man hitting the drums was in himself a spectacle of facial expressions: each face emphasized his musical ability. They stopped and...