A Troubled Night Along the Manzanares River By Ernest Hemingway
(Here follows an unreleased and unfinished short story by Ernest Hemingway. It is not appropriate for all readers.)
The man watched Robert Smith shift uncomfortably. He was not nervous, for there was no danger in this delivery. Something else was troubling him. When Robert Smith shifted again and crossed his legs, the man spoke.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine, yes. I just want to finish our work and return home.”
“It will not be that simple sir. The colonel expects us to drink with him afterward, and the colonel will likely keep us drinking all night. “
“ I see.”
“You will not see home until the morning dove sings.”
Robert Smith did not want to hear this. The man had treated Smith to some fresh clams earlier that day and they were not settling. Smith needed to relieve his bowels. But being miles from his home, the relief would have to come here. In the city center. Smith would need a public bathroom.
“I must be off. I will leave the paperwork with you. Make sure the colonel gets it.”
“What am I to tell him of your whereabouts?”
“Tell him nothing. Or tell him everything. Either way, I must go.”
Robert Smith headed off through the market. Past the ripe vine tomatoes and the old women who guarded them. In the shadow of the great Plaza de Toros. I will not make it, he thought. You have waited too long, damn you! He cursed himself as he hurried to the nearest establishment. A coffee house, part of a populist chain within Madrid.
When he stepped inside his heart fell. There was already a line for the toilet. A line comprised of the lost class. The vagabonds and drifters. They would take their time and leave the toilet in an unsavory condition. One seemed to be reading himself to bathe. This wouldn’t do.
He moved onto the street but he did not have much time. He stepped into a well lit hotel lobby. Only to be greeted by a most disagreeable man. A short stocky type who built his character on power. A Fascist no doubt. The stocky man turned him away because he was not staying at the hotel. A fact Smith thought to be arbitrary.
A bar. A bar will let him through. They don’t question your place. In a bar you just are. Robert Smith stepped into the Malecon Bar on the north side of Calle de Ayala. He moved past the life long drunks and those learning the profession. Through an oak door in the back he found the stall. A stall without a door. Dear God why? How could one defecate while others used the urinals? It would take a man of stone cold confidence. Robert Smith reluctantly left, even though he was as dynamite now. About to blow.
Robert Smith was adrift on the cobblestone streets. Lost in gut wrenching pain. When inspiration struck him. The woman he had slept with a few years back, during the war. She lived around here. Right on this very corner, in the house painted the color of dandelions. He could use her restroom. It would be strange, yes. Possibly crazy. To return to a woman he had bedded and left. Gone in the morning before she stirred from sleep. But it was his only option. Smith was out of time. He was losing his grip.
The woman answered the door. Still beautiful. Soft. It had been her first time when they met. He saw that in her eyes. Robert Smith rushed through his dilemma. It was dire. He was sorry. He would explain everything in a moments time but he must use her toilet. He was about to wreck his pants. The woman starred him up and down. A breath left her lips before she spoke.
“Now we are even.”
She closed the door and locked it. Robert Smith was speechless. Then it came. The warm feeling of shame and failure. An unsuccessful mission. Poop in his pants. —
(The rest of the story is incomplete. It was the last piece Hemingway started before killing himself.)
