martinsmithstories

Image by MasterTux from Pixabay

Two evenings later, when Mary returned from her Book Club meeting, she found Hemingway sitting on a barstool at the kitchen bench, staring at his reflection in the oven door and chewing ponderously.

‘Earth to Hem?’ she said, followed by a polite cough.

Hemingway stirred from his reverie and said, ‘Oh, hello, my dear. How were the girls?’

‘Full of prattle and a cheeky Sauvignon Blanc, as usual. What’s for dinner?’

‘I’ve eaten mine. Yours is in the fridge. I made you my signature dish. A quail egg on a bed of Beluga caviar resting on a French toast cracker and garnished with a sprig of garden-plucked parsley. All washed down with a lovely, crisp Pouilly-Fuissé, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Mary opened the fridge and returned to the kitchen bench with her dinner plate and a wine glass. Hemingway filled the glass and leant back on his stool.

‘Mary, I’m seeking asylum.’

‘When did you last have it?’

‘Have what?’

‘This silum thingy you’re looking for.’

‘Not silum, Mary. A-sy-lum. I’m going to renounce my citizenship and re-enter the country and seek political asylum. Lots of the successful grant applicants seem to have been born overseas and ended up here as political or economic refugees and gone on to make a motza by flogging off their life stories. The grey brigade at those writers festivals just lap up that stuff.’

‘I think you’ll find those refugees have lived through some harrowing experiences, Hem. And I’m sure their stories speak a little closer to life’s truths than amusing anecdotes set at wine-tasting events.’

‘Exactly my point, my dear. I need to walk in their shoes, their “lived experience”, to give my application grit, gravitas and verisimilitude and thus improve my chances of success.’

‘I wouldn’t wish anyone to walk in their shoes, Hem. But don’t let me get in the way of your hare-brained scheme. How do you plan to re-enter the country?’

‘By boat.’

‘We don’t own a boat.’

‘I’ll borrow Fossy McWilliams’ skiff.’

‘Make sure you take your Quell. You know you get seasick in a puddle.’

‘Will do, my dear.’

Late next afternoon, the front doorbell rang. Mary placed her pencil next to her cryptic crossword and went to answer.

When she opened the door, she saw two police officers standing either side of a naked, wet and red Hem.

‘Good afternoon, madam,’ the taller officer said. ‘I’m Sergeant Pimms and this is Constable Amaro.’

‘Good afternoon, officers,’ Mary said.

‘Is this the Whyte premises?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are you Mrs Whyte?’

‘Yes.’

‘We believe this gentleman resides at this address. Do you know—’

‘I Hem Locke!’ Hemingway shouted. ‘I refugee! I wish seek asylum!’

The officer replaced his polite smile with a scowl. He turned to a shivering Hemingway, tightened his grip on Hemingway’s arm and said, ‘Sir, if you please.’ He returned his attention and a renewed smile to Mary and said, ‘Now, Mrs Whyte, is this man your husband?’

‘No, not husband! Not Whyte! I Locke! Hem Locke! I refugee! I wish seek asylum!’

‘Please, sir.’

‘I not know this woman! I boat person! I asylum seeker!’

‘Sir, desist, or the only asylum you’ll end up in is a psychiatric hospital.’

Hemingway winced as the officer twisted Hemingway’s arm behind his back. His shoulders slumped, and he cast his eyes downwards, away from Mary’s bemused face.

‘Now, Mrs Whyte, we found this gentleman’s wallet, and his driver’s licence indicates that his name is Hemingway Whyte and he resides at this address. We asked him to confirm this, but all he said was “I wish seek asylum”. Can you confirm this man is Hemingway Whyte?’

Mary placed a cupped hand under her chin and looked Hemingway up and down. ‘Hmmm, I’m not sure. Can you have him turn around?’

As the officers swung Hemingway around, he said, ‘I not know this woman! I boat person! I asylum seeker!’

‘Quiet!’ the sergeant said.

Mary ran her eyes up and down her husband’s naked back. Yep, she thought, there was no doubt. Despite the sunburn, she’d recognise those jiggly, hairy, portly buttocks anywhere.

‘Well, Mrs Whyte, is this your husband?’

‘No, not husband! Not Whyte! I Locke! Hem Locke!’

‘Hmmm, I’m still not sure. Where did you find him?’

‘In the middle of the bay, naked, sunburnt, wave-washed, wind-whipped and clinging to a capsized dinghy.’

‘Well … ummm … no, Sergeant, this man is not the man I married.’

A grin appeared on Hemingway’s face. ‘See! I refugee!’

‘No, the man I married would be horrified when he heard I invited you two fine law enforcement officers inside to share a bottle of his Domaine Leroy Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru—’

Hemingway’s eyes shot towards Mary. ‘You …’

‘No, the man I married would be horrified when he heard I gifted you both a crate of his Champagne Krug Clos d’Ambonnay 1995—’

Hemingway’s face reddened. ‘… wouldn’t …’

‘And, officer, the man I married would be horrified if we opened his last bottle of Cheval Blanc 1947 St-Emilion—’

Hemingway’s eyes bulged. ‘… dare!’

Hemingway raised himself to his full height, and with an extended arm he pointed at Mary and said, ‘Officers! Arrest that woman! That thief! That—damn you, Mary. How could you suggest such a thing? You? My wife!’

Mary smiled and said, ‘I’ll take it from here, officers. Thank you for your kind help to bring my husband home.’

That night, Hemingway, standing naked and covered in calamine lotion, went online and updated the Citizenship Status section of his application with his “lived experience”.

***

Two weeks later, Hemingway sat at a mall, and as he waited for Mary to finish her shopping, he stroked his latest attempt to impress the grant assessors: the makings of a Hemingwayesque beard. Why not follow in the five o’clock shadow of giants? he’d told Mary. Nothing exudes literary earnestness more than Ernest.

Earlier, he limited his shopping to a perusal of The Wine Cellar, a quaint little retail outlet carrying a ho-hum range of so-so wines unworthy of his cellar. He then paced a lap of the shopping mall and lamented the cheap, inferior foreign content that filled the shop shelves. Oh, for goodness’ sake, people, buy local! he silently admonished his fellow shoppers. Except for imported wine, he qualified.

When he arrived at the agreed meeting point, he sat next to a group of old, pale men. All wore beige cardigans over check shirts, fawn trousers and orthopaedic shoes. All had walking sticks resting on their loins. And all had nodded off. Shoppers’ buzz, mall Muzak, resonant pensioner snores and a restroom aroma filled the air about Hemingway.

He sat and waited and was pondering how to further improve his chances of grant success when Mary flopped down next to him.

‘Phew! I’m pooped,’ she said. ‘Say, Hem, do you mind waiting while I go and have a massage?’

‘Not at all, Mary. Besides, I’ve something I need to do. I’ve had a good ponder about the brevity of life and the blandness of old age, and I’ve decided what I need more than anything is a bit more hue in my life.’

‘Do you want me to grab some charts?’

‘Charts?’

‘To select colours. I’ve been dying to paint the pool house for ages.’

‘No, not the house, my dear. Moi! I’ve noticed that the successful modern writer, the successful grant recipient, tends to be—how shall I put this?—less pale than his or her predecessors. So I’ve decided to get on board and un-Whyte myself.’

‘But surely, Hem, the grant assessors judge applications on the quality of the applicant’s writing and not on the colour of their skin.’

‘That may be so, my dear, but a little splash of colour won’t do my chances any harm. No, you won’t talk me out of it. I’m committed. There’s a tanning studio next to the post office over there. I’ll pop in while you’re having your body pummelled.’

Hemingway kissed his wife on the cheek, and as she headed towards the massage therapist, he walked over and entered the tanning studio.

As he sat in the waiting room, surrounded by posters of bronzed, white-toothed models, he mulled over what shade of brown to select.

An attendant—chewing gum, dressed in black and with a complexion as pale as a ghost—entered from a doorway at the rear of the waiting room and motioned him to follow her. She led him to a changing room and handed him two plastic packs and a slip of paper with a PIN code.

‘What are these for?’ he said, holding up the packs.

The Ghost pointed to her black, dank hair and then stroked either side of her pallid face.

‘Ah, yes. I understand,’ he said. ‘Hair and beard.’

He stripped to his white Y-fronts and placed a paper hat on his head and a paper mask over his beard. He put on a white robe and exited the changing room. In silence the Ghost led him down a corridor. She stopped, pointed to a cubicle and nodded, only to produce between her black lips a huge pink bubble of gum which burst as she walked away.

He stepped into the cubicle and removed his robe. He briefly pondered whether to remove his underwear but decided not to as he was pretty sure the grant assessors would not ask him to strip naked to prove the authenticity of his hue.

A screen in front of him pinged on, and a woman’s voice with a husky tone welcomed him. He covered his Hemhood with his cupped hands, embarrassed about his near-nakedness.

‘Please enter your PIN code,’ the voice said.

Hemingway punched in 122.

‘Please select service: Face, Face and limbs, Full body.’

He tapped on Full body, confident that Mary could apply a little NapiSan to his Y-fronts in the next wash.

‘Please select durability: Permanent, Semi-permanent, Wash-off.’

He figured he needed the tan to last until after the grant winners were announced, so he selected Semi-permanent.

‘Please select tan colour.’

A listing appeared on the screen, and he scanned down the list. He’d expected to see various shades of brown, but he did a double take when he saw such choices as Promiscuous Pink, Randy Red and Salacious Cerise. Good God, he thought, why does everything need to be about sex these days?

‘Please select tan colour,’ the voice repeated.

Hemingway, now rushed and flustered, quickly scrolled the list until he came to Mocha Brown, which sat between Martian Green and Molten Blue. His nose itched and his eyes watered, and as he reached forward to make his selection, he released a huge sneeze that sprayed his hand, the screen and his selected tan colour.

‘Pardon me,’ Hemingway said.

‘Bless you,’ the voice said, followed by what sounded like a bubble popping.

The motorised spraying arms whirled, and he held his breath and raised his arms as a sea mist filled the cubicle.

Later, when Mary returned to the agreed meeting spot, Hemingway was nowhere to be seen.

‘Now where has he got to?’ she said.

As she set off for The Wine Cellar, she thought she heard a “pstt”. She ignored it and picked up her pace. Now 11 am, she wanted to get home, unpack the shopping and get to water aerobics by noon.

Another “pstt”, louder and more urgent, met her ears. She turned around and looked at the men in the lounge area. All were asleep with mouths agape and dentures gleaming. She looked into the chocolate shop and only saw the sparkle of chocolate wrappers. The soap shop next door was empty, and the plant shop beside it was an uninhabited jungle.

‘Psstttt! Mary!’ a familiar voice whispered.

It seemed to be coming from the plant shop.

‘Mary! I’m over here!’

‘Hem? Is that you?’

‘Yes. I’m over here. In the plant shop. I need your help.’

Mary peered into the plant shop. All appeared green. Except for a dash of blue. She stepped towards the shop and saw, camouflaged by fern fronds and spiked cacti and hanging succulents, a hunched someone wearing a huge green towel draped over their head and shoulders. Within a small split in the towel, two eyeballs—white, bulging and surrounded by blue flesh—stared out in fear, and a pair of blue lips quivered within a white beard. Not the blue of asphyxiation, not the blue of hypothermia, not even the blue of cyanosis, but a much deeper, richer blue like a spring sky on a cloudless, smogless day.

Mary walked into the plant shop and parted the fronds and stood before the hunched hider.

‘Oh, Hem, what on earth have you been up to?’

‘Mary,’ the towelled head whispered, ‘this is no time for interrogation. Just go get the car and pull up at that exit over there. Give the horn three toots, and I will come running.’

‘But, Hem, what—’

‘No buts and whats, Mary. Hurry!’

As Mary exited the shop, Hemingway covered all of his face except for a beady, blue-lashed eye. Then he waited and waited and waited.

‘Where the devil is she?’

A toot sounded. Then two more toots. Grasping the towel tightly at his throat, he surged from the viridescent vegetation and onto the speckled white of the linoleum savannah. With his single eyeball exposed and fixed upon the exit, he took three rapid steps, only for his shin to bang into something solid. Pain seared up his blue leg, through his blue torso and exploded in his blue head.

He grabbed for his leg, and his towel slipped from his shoulders. He abandoned the towel and hopped towards the exit as embarrassment turned his blue face purple.

As he neared the exit, so close to salvation, he heard a little girl’s voice say, ‘Look, mama, a Smurf. A real-life, blue Smurf.’

Once he arrived home, Hemingway rushed to his study and updated the Person of Colour Status section of his application with his “lived experience”. He sat back in his chair and released a satisfied sigh, then headed for a long, hot, vigorous shower, armed with a packet of baking soda, a container of white vinegar and a large scrubbing brush.

***

Early the next afternoon, Hemingway poured two glasses a third-full with a Masseto Toscana IGT. He handed a glass to Mary and hobbled over and sat on the edge of his recliner chair. Holding his glass by the stem, he raised it towards the chandelier and studied the wine’s colour and clarity. He swirled the glass three times, plunged his nose into the glass and inhaled gently and savoured the wine’s bouquet. Then he sipped from the glass and held the sweet juice in his mouth and gave the fluid a jolly good swish around his mouth, before he swallowed and let out a sigh of contentment.

He waited until Mary mimicked his sigh.

‘Mary, I’ve decided to do something about our privilege.’

‘The trimmer is in the shed, Hem.’

‘The trimmer? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The trimmer. So you can trim the privet hedge. It’s been annoying me for months.’

‘No, not privet hedge, Mary. Priv-i-lege. I’ve decided to renounce my wealth and live the life of a bohemian. You know, penniless and reliant on a kind benefactor. Bit like that Rodolfo chappie in La Bohème. Nothing like being a scruffy, emaciated squatter of a poet to garner empathy from the grant assessors.’

‘That sounds lovely, Hem. Though may I suggest you have another tipple before you face the bitter Parisian cold.’ Mary picked up the wine bottle. ‘Refill? This Masseto is wonderful.’

‘Just a drop. After this, it’s cask wine only for me.’

Again Hemingway studied and swirled and plunged and inhaled and savoured and sipped and held and swished and swallowed and sighed.

‘Ah, delicious, my dear. Now, back to business. Tonight, I’m going to transfer my share of the house, the holiday home, the vineyard and our investment portfolio over to you. Oh, and Barnie, of course.’

‘Do I get his doghouse as well?’

‘Of course, my dear.’

‘And the wine collection in the cellar?’

‘Only if you let me have the occasional tipple. After all, you will be my kind benefactor. Yes, all I have shall be yours. But on one condition.’

‘What’s that, Hem?’

The front doorbell rang.

‘Could you lend me a couple of hundred dollars so I can pay the courier for our Gaston’s Gusto Hamper that’s just arrived?’

That night, Hemingway, bloated and sated, went online and updated the Income and Assets Profile section of his application with his “lived experience”. He then sat back in his chair and released a hearty belch.