Dear Ernest:
It’s been such a long time since you wrote. What has become of you? And it’s been such a long time since you came
down here, and spent some time with us.
You haven’t blown your brains out have you? I’m joking of course, but you did say they
had let you out of the asylum, and that you were feeling pretty lonesome - if
you do choose to shoot yourself, make sure you’ve a table saved for us both at
the bar in Hell for when I join you – ha!
Anyway, since you haven’t asked, I am writing to tell you I
think Loretta is about to leave me for good.
It’s a damn shame. But she thinks
our romance is dead, and that being friends is all we have left, and that we were never really ‘in it’ for the friendship, i.e. we are worth nothing together
anymore.
You know when I first met Loretta I had doubts, I remember telling you over a few drinks at Henky’s.
I was wearing that white panama suit, if you recall, and you kept on
poking me with your big, stubby finger and making fun of it, and me for not
falling head over feet in love with the girl.
I thought you might have fancied her then. You didn’t. And I did, but on the sly –
that’s me all over, you might say. Well,
now she’s going she better not come shack up with you (that’s if you haven’t
shot yourself), and know that I love her deeply etc.
I am not a fool, Ernest, I do know when I am being lied to,
or being told half-truths;. or, when
someone is trying to keep something from me as if I am not man enough to take
pain. You were there when that damned antelope
got too close to the wagon out in Africa and
nearly impaled me, I was up the next day shooting, one arm in a sling. Physical and emotional pain, what’s the
difference? (You’ll probably have an answer to this, if you do, tell me, write
me!).
So, the future without Loretta … it will be a mighty strange
place, and one where I’ll have to consolidate whatever I have left. You know, Ernest, after all these years of
living high on the hog I am damn near bankrupt?
If the bloody publishers could sell my books then I might be alright,
but none of the wretched amateurs they employ at Scribner’s these days know
their Steins from their Steinbecks.
(Sorry to bring up old Gertrude, I know you can’t stand to hear her name
anymore).
By the way I finally read some of those bullfighting
articles you wrote for Life magazine
last summer, in the last few months. I
know you’ll hate me for saying this, but while you write as well as ever, I’m
not sure I can countenance the sport (?) any longer, poor animals – it may be
I’d rather the bullfighter die, if anyone has to.
Ernest, you’re an old man now, be wary of blood-lust, and
blood-letting: it surely isn’t good for your blood pressure; besides haven’t
you had enough excitement for about three life-times?!
But my mind keeps dragging me back to Loretta. She said some things to a friend of ours the
other night when we were out for dinner and I was chatting with Archie (you’ve
met him – the artist), and in the way drunk women do they simply couldn’t keep
a lid on it, be discreet, and I overheard, or thought I overheard some things
I’d rather have not; I had been sinking rums all evening, still, it hurt me. And a damn sight more than that antelope: flesh
wounds heal quickly, hearts don’t, and with heart wounds sinews can turn
dark and ugly, the whole thing becoming scar tissue. Can a heart beat after that? Perhaps it is I who needs to blow my brains
out?! (I hope you haven’t? Why the
silence?).
Well, probably time I should be getting on, although with
what, heaven knows. Can’t write anything
decent while this whole Loretta situation is so prevalent in my mind; only old
Scott (the silly sod), could of gotten anything profound from it – and look
what happened to him, not to mention Zelda, the first American flapper! Anyhow, no more flapping from me today. Please read this, and respond: life could be
about to get jolly empty, and I am fond of you.
Yours,
Ivan.
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