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"I almost forgot, you have a house in Havana," Matilde purred. "The rebels are, I think, presumptuous, self-serving hoodlums."
"And the Moncada Barracks attack itself?"
"Slapstick." The question remained: was she anti-Castro, or lying?
"We'll see. What do you think?"
"I'll handle the questions, senora. Did you know Peter Cuthbert?"
"Yes. Honestly. Never met him. My condolences, by the way."
"Thanks. Do you sleep with Galko?"
"Never. Though I do fuck him occasionally."
"Because I have no money." She said this with pride in her voice, which sounded fishy.
"You're a liar."
"I am?"Tell me I'm wrong."
"You're right - I've just told two lies. Which are they?""You're still lying. You've told only one. You're from old cigar money, you've never worked a day in your life, not even as a whore. Not even as a rich man's wife."
"Mr. Hemingway, you are deft."
Hemingway was sweating, he discovered, as if from sexual exertion. Laughing, he bellowed to Marisol for not just two more drinks, but a pitcher.
Neither wanted to sit, they wandered around the room as they talked, in circles as if bullfighting.
"And what of you, Hemingway."
"Call me Ernest."
"Hemingway. You are world-famous. Maybe the most famous writer, novel writer, in the world. And you are on what number of wife?"
"Four. And you ask as if being a writer and an unsuccessful monogamist should be, and normally are, mutually exclusive occupations. I would suggest the opposite."
"You'd be neither right nor wrong, of course. For every comemierda you name, I can name a devoted husband."
"I doubt it. One out of four, maybe."
"But I wasn't suggesting that. I meant, being famous has done you no favors. You cannot find love."
"You're wrong. My days are filled with love, more than I can normally stand. I'm not looking for love, so I can hardly be unable to find it. Women aren't my problem."
"Then what is?"
The gimlet pitcher arrived, right on time.