Unspoken Treasure

Ernest Hemingway was the love of my life. We met when I was a young woman in my twenties. He had just come back from one of the things he most loved to do in this world, go fishing on Pilar, his boat, accompanied by my father, one of his best buddies. I remember when I saw him for the very first time. He was a legend, larger than life. He was not like some of those writers who wrote books filled with suspense and adventure, but led lives of dull, boring normality. This man actually lived the stuff he wrote about. Despite being much older than I was, I felt a breathlessness and my heartbeat quickened when he gazed in my direction. He must have noticed the impression he had made on me, when he glanced away from my direction with a smile on his face.

He showed off the biggest red snapper he had caught and admired it in the moonlight. My father said, “We’re going to have a delicious dinner tonight, mi niña.”

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I was always going to be my father’s little girl. I was hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect his friend had had on me.

He expertly skinned the fish and I seasoned it with a little olive oil, salt, and pepper.

“With a catch as fresh as this, a little seasoning is enough,” my father said. And it was true.

He grilled it right then and there in front of our house that sat facing one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, Varadero Beach. The smell was intoxicating as it mixed with the salt-sea breeze as the palm trees swayed in the wind.

Finally, the fish was ready and we accompanied it with some white rice and maduros, that Mama and I had made.

Ernest sat there with us on the porch, drinking beer, and enjoying his meal.

“That was excellent, my dear. You’ll make a fine wife, one day.”

“Agreed. After she finishes university first,” Papa replied. Mama nodded in agreement.

“Absolutely,” responded Ernest. “A good education is of the utmost importance.”

“We want the best for her. She is staying with her aunt and uncle in La Habana while she is attending classes. Now we have her here because she is on vacation with us,” Mama explained.

“I understand completely,” Ernest replied. “I would love for my children to study at La

Universidad de La Habana or La Sorbonne in Paris. Salamanca would be excellent too. So they

can be more cultured.”

“I never had a chance to finish my education,” Mama replied. “We got married so young.”

I started to feel uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking, so I quickly

finished eating and excused myself.

“I think I will go rest. I’m a little tired. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir.”

“Oh, please! Your father and I are old friends. Please call me Ernest,” he pleaded.

“A pleasure meeting you, Ernest.”

“I’m Marisol.”

“A pleasure meeting you too, Marisol.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wondered about Ernest’s life, and if he was married or single.

Even though I had just met him in person, his reputation preceded him. I knew that he had been married twice already at least and that he was quite a ladies’ man. I need to stop thinking about him, I thought. But it was too late. I couldn’t erase the image of Ernest’s wise blue eyes, his chiseled tanned face, with his silver hair blowing in the wind, and his roaring laugh.

I didn’t see him again for a year after that. I went back to the university, studied hard during the week, went to the movies with my friends, and sometimes went to the dance clubs close to the Malecon, the harbor in La Habana. I graduated with my degree in English literature. I

planned on teaching English as a second language to teenagers or adults. Little did I know that everything was about to change that following summer.

Fidel Castro overthrew the government on July 26, 1959. I started working immediately as a translator close to Varadero with the tourists. My parents were very busy trying to save every

peso they could because the economy was looking grim. Then, one day, walking home from the bus stop, I saw him. His tall, imposing figure was unmistakable.

“Hello Marisol,” he said.

“Hello Sir! I mean…Ernest! Nice seeing you again!”

“Same here, my dear. Have you just got off work? Your father told me how proud he was of you. That you’ve begun translating to make a little money.”

“That wasn’t my plan, but with the economy the way it is…”

“That’s all right, my dear. You just have to be strong.”

“How are things with you? I’m a fan of yours, Ernest. I really enjoyed the last book you wrote, The Old Man and the Sea. I liked the others too. Another favorite of mine is The Sun Also Rises.”

“I’m quite flattered. I’m happy that you have enjoyed them.”

I smiled. Ernest stopped suddenly. Everything was bathed in a golden hue. We locked gazes and kissed against the backdrop of the sinking sun. The kiss was gentle at first, and then slowly became more passionate. We walked hand in hand, and then stopped at his house.

Ernest suddenly looked serious. “I can walk you home, Marisol. You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to,” she replied. And kissed him again.

From then on, we were together as often as possible. I was so happy I didn’t want this to end,

I knew it would. I wanted to capture every moment and savor it; like a photograph in my mind.

The end of summer came. And as the days grew shorter, I felt a sense of melancholy and dread.

One day, Ernest gave me a wrapped gift. “This is so you don’t forget,” he said.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?” I asked him horrified.

“Just unwrap it,” he urged.

I removed the wrapping. “Oh my God! I love it!” I exclaimed. It was a little black leather

notebook, and it contained a rough draft of The Old Man and the Sea.

“This is the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received,” I said softly, trying to hold back tears.

“You know I have to leave before the situation gets any worse,” he said sadly.

“Won’t I ever see you again?”

Ernest said nothing. We held each other tightly and didn’t want to let go.

Ernest walked away, and I never saw him again.

The situation grew steadily worse on the island. My family made the decision to leave the island and everybody and everything we had. We boarded a plane to New York with only a change of clothes. I packed my clothes, a few family photographs, and the notebook that Ernest had given me.

When we arrived, the feeling I had was a mix of overwhelming fear and nostalgia all rolled into one. It was like a wave. We had lost everything. Our family who was still there. Our friends. Our jobs. Our homes. Everything. I was lucky to at least be with Mama and Papa.

We had to live in a cramped apartment in the New York City with some cousins who had also managed to leave. The situation was dire because we had to take whatever odd jobs and housecleaning jobs were available until our green cards came in. I noticed my parents’ health deteriorate day by day. The hard work and lack of food was taking its toll.

“Marisol, I feel very weak. I need to sit down,” said my mother one morning. I glanced in her direction, and saw how pale and drawn her face was. She had bags under her eyes, and her hair was suddenly gone gray. Her ill-fitting clothes hung loosely on how body.

I wanted to scream. I felt so helpless. I needed to do something. We were going to lose her if something wasn’t done immediately. But what? Then, I remembered. I had Ernest’s old

manuscript. It must be worth something! I didn’t want to let go of it because that was all I had to remember him by. But I had to do what I had to do.

“Here Mama. I will make you a sandwich and some café con leche. You need to rest,” I said.

But Marisol, one of my customers is waiting for me to clean her house today!” she protested.

“Call and tell her you can’t make it!” Papa demanded. “I won’t let you go!”

Mama stopped protesting and grew quiet. She slowly ate her sandwich and drank her café con leche. She seemed relieved to be able to lie down, finally.

“And where are you going?” Papa demanded.

“I’m going to look for a translating or tutoring job. Don’t worry,” I reassured him as I tied a scarf around my neck and put on my coat, gloves, and boots. I took my prized possession and put

it into a large handbag. I decided that the safest way to sell the notebook and obtain the highest price for it was to go to one of the auction places that I had heard about.

My precious notebook was sold at the auction that week. It sold for $20,000! The lady who appraised it said that it was invaluable. She was wondering how I got a hold of it. I just told her that Hemingway had gifted it to my family and me as a token of his friendship before he left Cuba. She believed the story because Ernest had written a dedication inside the front cover that

said, “To Marisol and Family with all my love, Ernest Hemingway.” I knew that he had written that so if any family members ever found it, they wouldn’t suspect that our relationship had been romantic.

When I got home with the $20,000 check from the sale of the book, I had to tell my parents.

“What’s this? Is this real?” Papa said when I showed him the check.

“Yes, Papa. Your friend Mr. Hemingway mailed it to our beach house because he was leaving for the United States. Nobody had picked it up so it was in the post office.”

“And you sold it? But that book was special!” Mama exclaimed.

“I had to do it, Mama. I don’t want to lose you or Papa,” I said with tears in my eyes.

“