Chapter 10

My dear old Papa

I was at my desk when my brother Giacomo - called Jackie after a doll I had when he was born - came to ask me if I had any stamps for his collection. "Look in the trash can: I just threw away some letters," I said. 

Jackie bends over, rummages through the papers and: "Are you crazy?" he asked.

I raised a questioning glance at him. 

"They come from Cuba!" he announced waving pieces of paper. 

"I know," I said. "And the stamps aren't bad."

"There is 'Finca Vigia' printed on the envelopes and sheets," Jackie announced again.

"I know this too," I said and resumed writing. 

"And you tear envelopes, letters, everything?!" 

"I've already read them." 

"But do you know... do you know that they are from Hemingway?" 

"Of course I know." I looked up. It was starting to make me nervous. "Do you want me not to know who is writing to me?"

"But you know who Ernest Hemingway is. You know?" he almost screamed.

"Of course I know. He is my friend." I put down my pen. It was impossible to continue writing with that agitated man. "What if...