Page 309

live in Havana in order to better exploit the Hemingways."

I got up, went to the desk. I had looked at the scattered papers. "They even implied that Papa wrote my book of poems for me. We laughed about it, Papa and I. He was willing to change: he would take my poems and my name, he would give me his name and his books and, by joke, Ernesto Ivancich had signed some of his letters. But as time passed, the desire to joke also passed. See this folder?" I asked leaning my hand on it. "Above it is written: 'Adriana. Prose. O.K.' The date, 1953, and his initials, E. H. I asked him for a judgment. But if I were to publish something, it would seem that Hemingway wrote it for me. As you can see, not only the present but also my future is conditioned by that Across the River. But why Carlo, why? What is my fault?"

"Besides being beautiful, you are intelligent: this is too much. This, no one will ever forgive you." 

I returned to the chair. Absent-mindedly I piled up a few magazines. I took the pack of cigarettes from the table, lit one.

"It's terrible what they manage to say." Carlo continued. "I argued, I defended you, I got angry. But they don't listen to me because they know I'm your friend." 

I looked into the clear, careful eyes. In one of my poems I wrote for his son Tinker: "Thank you / my dear friend / because when you look me in the eye / you believe in me. / You do not know the gift you offer me." Carlo is like that too.

"I wish I could help you but I don't know how. I can only tell you to be careful when Ernest is in Venice. Be careful." 

"Be careful of what?" 

"Don't be seen around with him. Don't go and see him...