Swimming with
the Dolphins

Section 4

June 6, 1920:  I remember falling asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. Sometime later I sensed movement in the room. Moonlight streaming in the window fell on CeCe’s body as he stood before the open window. I peered through the mosquito netting at his charcoal silhouette. After minutes he stepped silently like a cat toward my bed. I kept my eyes relaxed but open unable to tell if he knew he was being watched. He squatted down and touched my foot through the net. I didn’t move. I felt joy and fear at the same time.

He didn’t move his hand. I lay thinking he would surely return to his bed. I was not oblivious to his intense glances since our day on the beach. He had never touched me except when we practiced dancing. I was groggy. I thought of me and Steve in France. We were intimate but we were never going to be more than friends. All Steve talked about was returning to Pittsburgh to work for Westinghouse. Steve went to college and learned engineering and that was what he was destined to do. We never spoke about being together after the war. He could be in bed with me but couldn’t see himself with me. We ate in the trenches and cleaned up after each other when we were sick. He thought the United States was doing the right thing helping the British. When I talked about politics his eyes would glass over, but he never interrupted as I cursed the whole American war machine and our politicians.

Even with CeCe gently holding my foot I remembered how Steve had a difficult time expressing his feelings. I could never get him to tell me how he felt about me. We were just together. The last night when the thugs came to the hotel I hadn’t even buggered him. We were lying in bed after some bread, cheese and red wine that the mademoiselle had saved for us. We were remembering family Christmas’s. We laughed at the way mademoiselle looked at me. We knew she was in love with me and loved for me to kiss her the French way on each cheek. She held me closer each time we went there. To Steve we were just close friends and when the war was over we’d go home and settle down. Steve viewed our intimacy as fine while the fighting was going on but when the war was finished we would just be friends. I wanted more.

CeCe moved his smooth hand under the netting onto my thigh. He was handsome, charming, but distant. I tried to tell him about my life in Philadelphia but he always changed the subject. I tried to talk politics and all he wanted to talk about was the fantastic party or the wonderful meal at the Gardenia or the Copa. I wasn’t sure how, or even if, I wanted to open the door to his mind. I stirred slightly and he pulled his hand away but didn't leave. I threw off the covers, rolled over onto my back, and slowly drew my hands up under my head. Softly I spoke, “Hi.”

“I’m sorry I just couldn’t sleep knowing you’re here.”

“I can ask for another room tomorrow.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

I pulled the net up and threw it to one side and slid out onto the wooden floor with him. The cool boards touched my warm legs as I leaned against the bed. He said, “Can I lay with you?”

“Sure, but let’s first get this straight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“How could you hurt me?” He pulled close. He pulled up my undershirt. I didn’t resist. Naked we climbed onto my bed. His softly kissed my lips before moving down my body. As he took my dick into his mouth I gasped. It felt wonderful. We continued to give pleasure to each other without speaking. After reaching our mutual climax he parted. A soft, wet kiss ended out first lovemaking.

When I opened my eyes the room was bright. I was aware of a light tapping on the door. I looked across the room and CeCe sat on the window box dressed in his velvet dressing gown. He rose slowly and in his bare feet reached the dark wooden door that separated us from the intruder. He looked my direction and smiled, “I rang for breakfast. Will you join me?” I lay covered as the cute little girl with her eyes focused on the floor carried the silver tray with its breakfast contents onto the balcony that overlooked the exquisite foliage of the inner garden. I watched as she snatched a look at CeCe. He caught her glance and smiled. She giggled quietly and backed out of the room. I looked around for clothes that were close enough for me to reach. There were none so I pushed the mosquito netting aside, pulled the sheet away and drew it around me. CeCe laughed, “Ceasar, yes?”

“Ceasar, yes!” He slowly poured one cup of coffee and then a second. He carried both already sugared and creamed to the window box where I sat. “Well, last night was a real treat,” he said smiling. A breeze pulled at the curtains and fanned the hot, sticky air. He ran his right hand through his shiny black hair and smiled. “Join me?”

“Sure.” I wasn’t sure why the formality in his manner. I stepped into the bathroom and snatched a dressing gown from its wall hook. I took my place. He sat staring at me as I arranged my gown. “You’re beautiful, you know that.”

“Growing up on the Mainline of Philadelphia does not prepare one to know how to appropriately acknowledge such compliments”. I grinned feeling stupid.

“No, I mean it. You are a beautiful person, so all together.”

I laughed, “If you only knew.”

He raised his bushy eyebrows exposing his intensely brown eyes. “Well, you aren’t some pathetic bastard.”

“No. Are you worried? You’re handsome. You have wonderful friends in Hector and Orlando. You ended up in a nice family who cares what happens to you, especially Senor and Senora.”

“I know but what if you came from a casual fuck. Your parents hoping that you wouldn’t even exist. Just a fuck.”

“Your mother…”

“She pined over the fucker and ended up killing herself caring nothing about me.” I reached across the table and placed my hand on his sleeve.

“Do you want to know your father?” He gave me a puzzled look and he drew his arm back. “We can try to find out who it is? A Spanish army officer in Trinidad in 1899-1900 should not be that hard to trace.”

He sat quietly. “Maybe?” Silently I stared into the luscious garden of shiny green leaves and pink and red bougainvillea. Returning my gaze to his handsome face I did not speak even though I suspected that his father was not a Spanish officer but was a businessman from New Orleans. If my memory was correct the Spanish were defeated several years before CeCe’s birth. Did his mother romanticize about the guy being a soldier? I would find out if the guy was an olive skinned American who spoke Spanish? CeCe surprised me, “We’re going to mass at the Cathedral. Get dressed.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“I want to get out of here. I don’t want Orlando and Hector to offer to take us to the Ingleterra or the National. Get dressed. I mean dress up we will not be back until late.”

“Goddamn, what if I don’t want to go?”

“You do, you know you do. You’re curious what I have in mind…like last night.” He was right I was curious. But I wasn’t going to tell him I was that easy. I took several sips on my coffee. He did the same. “Your bath is ready. See you downstairs in fifteen minutes. He got up and walked into a dressing area out of my sight. I went into the bathroom to find a full tub of warm water waiting for me. I couldn’t concentrate thinking about last night.

An hour later at eleven sharp the hooves of the horses stopped the vis-à-vis at the limestone steps of the Cathedral. The choir was beginning to process in as the organ sent lofty chords across the plaza. CeCe marched in front of the priest, the acolytes, and the choir to an empty row in the front of the church. The metal taps on his shoes announced our entrance as he and I walked swiftly through the impressive holy space. The congregation silently stared. He loved the attention. During the mass the priest looked directly at us from the altar and the lectern. I couldn’t wait to get out but CeCe insisted that we wait in line to shake hands with the priest. The priest’s bony white hands the color of his hassock protruded from his sleeves as he took CeCe’s hand in both of his and said “Que Dios los bendiga chico maravilloso.”

He hardly touched my hand that I had extended to him. The sun was blazing down as we walked across the plaza. CeCe stopped momentarily in front of a shuttered façade and said, “We’re partying here tonight.”

“Who?”

“We are but later. Now we’re going to eat. The Hotel Ingleterra or the Floridita? Take your choice. I don’t care.”

“I was starving. Which is closer?”

“Floridita.”

“That’s the one.”

We trotted through the narrow streets crowded with Sunday pretties flirting with the men who eyed them from head to toe as they swished and swirled in their full skirts and multiple layers of petty coats. Their shiny black hair matched their sparkling eyes. On almost every corner old men with the guitars and marimbas beat provocative rhythms for the girls. We wove our way in and out not disturbing the show.

We waited for an hour at the Floridita bar before getting a table. CeCe wanted a certain table by the open window so he could continue to survey the Sunday afternoon parade. Intermittently he would yell, “Peppy! Fernando! Muriel, hermoso Muriel, Buenos Dies!” The person to whom the call was directed would invariably turn and come toward him. He didn’t rise. He just smiled and pressed a hand or kissed cheeks. He was the prince.

I had a bit part in the drama. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. This was his play and he was the star. Finally, I got impatient and rose to leave. He grabbed my hand and pulled me down. “No, not yet senor. There’ll be plenty of time you’ll see.”

See what? For the next hour I sat watching. The shadows were getting longer. By the time we left evening was descending on the old city.

“We’ll go rest,” he finally said.

“You mean we’re going all the way back before the party.”

“No, Peter, we’re going to the party.”

“I’m hot and dirty. Can’t we clean up before?”

“Sure, I brought all the clothes we will need. Geraldo took the trunk over after he dropped us at mass.” I couldn’t believe him. He owned me. He was deciding what I was going to wear and telling me I was going to parties I may not have wanted to go to.

“Wait a minute. Don’t I have anything to say about this?” I said in my most irritated tone.

“I hope you don’t mind. They will love you and they have heard all about you from Hector.” We walked up to the closed front door of a townhouse. CeCe pulled back the iron circular knocker. The door shook as it dropped. Moments passed before a little brown boy sheepishly opened the door a crack. He screeched, “Senor CeCe.” He ran inside. We were welcomed by a large woman in a black mourning dress under a white apron. She smiled when she saw him.

He said, “Buenos noches, senora.” She bowed as the prince entered. I was beginning to wonder who he really was. Moments later a man in his late 50’s in a black, shirt waist jacket over a ruffled shirt escorted a young woman with ribbons holding back her long black hair down the staircase from the second floor. They strolled toward CeCe. This time it was CeCe’s turn to bow low. He stood sharply upright and reached for the senor’s left hand and lifted it to his lips where he kissed the enormous red jewel of the ring. He turned and bowed, as an afterthought to the lovely senorita and softly cooed: “Maricel eres hermosa como siempre.” He rose and stepped back and spoke gesturing to me, “Senor Calva , este es mi amigo Peter Hearn para Filadelfia . Él no habla español.”

With a sorrowful look the man said, “Buenos Dies. Usted sabe que el camino a la sala . Peter , damos la bienvenida a los huéspedes en cualquier momento . Date prisa a lo largo.”

We followed the lady in black whose muffled steps led us across an open courtyard surrounded on all sides by rooms that looked down into the palm filled space with a gurgling fountain. Once up the polished risers of the stairs we were led into a tall room that was light filled from the grand plaza before the Cathedral of The Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception.

CeCe sat down hard on a straight carved chair by the window. He looked confused, “If they only knew. They would hate me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He turned his face to the outside light and did not speak. I stood staring at his handsome dark face which only moments before was confident and strong. Now he seemed miles away. Minutes passed before I moved to one of the unoccupied beds and sat down waiting for him to move. I leaned back against the cool white plaster wall. I could hear voices and sounds from the city which were hidden from my view.

I waited. An hour later even though we were dressed for the party we had not spoken. I washed at the glassy white porcelain commode on the mahogany wash stand. I oiled my hair like CeCe’s. I was self-conscious in the white ruffles of the starched white shirt that CeCe wore so well. I put on the shirt waist jacket that was the fashion in Havana and followed CeCe from our room across the courtyard.

That evening I played a small part in a CeCe’s one act play. He initially rebuffed a lovely senorita in white starchy appliquéd dress with a red satin ribbon in her jet black hair. He played the reluctant partner. She finally bothered CeCe enough that he agreed to dance with her. He took command of the dance space with dramatic flair and flourishes. Without warning he graciously deposited her and picked another. With a rum drink and a fat Monte Christo cigar I retreated to the balcony with Hector and Orlando. Each took turns speaking in improving English. Almost on cue one would take over the responsibility for the conversation from the other. Even from a distance I could not take my eyes off of CeCe.

On two occasions I saw CeCe leave the festivities and step onto a balcony with one uncle or other. I tried once to approach them only to have them quickly disperse. When I found my own private balcony CeCe came rushing over inquiring if something was wrong. I assured him, “Everything is fine, just fine.” He smiled and quickly returned to the party. Dinner was followed by more cigar smoking and brandy. The affair ended after midnight with the last few people off to one of the many bedrooms hidden at the end of oil lit passageways.

With CeCe something was different. He put his hand on my shoulder as we walked up the stairs and across the balcony to our room. There was a lone oil lamp on a bedside table which cast a warm light as we undressed. CeCe didn’t speak.

“What do we do tomorrow?” He came toward me and I hoped he would hug and kiss me. I hoped we would be more than friends. CeCe was fragile with dreams that were unrealistic. He wanted to live in New York City and dance in Vaudeville. I wondered if that was the best thing for him. He seems to be afraid that he is going to disappoint me. He can never do that because he is so wonderful.

He stood close to me and we are stiff. He takes off his shirt and poses provocatively. I know CeCe is all I could ever want. I let CeCe completely undress me. I am afraid he is doing this just to make me happy. We get sexy. I knew there would never be penetration. Cuban men don’t let themselves get buggered. The petting of his wonderful, smooth skin from head to toes is fantastic. I love his wiry black hair. He turns me over and gently lifts my legs. His slick dick pushes into me. I winch and he stops. I pull on his butt cheeks to pull him closer. I enjoy every second of my sex with CeCe.

CeCe is tentative and ambivalent which I can feel lying next to his naked body. I don’t want him to be that way. I want him to be happy. After he leaves my bed I can’t help feeling mad at myself for letting the sex happen. I loved it but it didn’t need to happen to keep our friendship going. What will happen next time?

By morning a light had been turned off in CeCe’s head. He didn’t stir until noon. As I lay looking at him I thought he had a hangover. He assured me that was not the case. Sometime later I offered him food and drink but he refused. I didn’t know what to do and felt trapped until Hector came to the door and beckoned me to join him in the darkened corridor.

“CeCe tired. We go. You come.”

“Does he need something?”

“No, no he be fine tomorrow.” That day stretched into seven days. I felt it was my fault. Hector and Orlando kept me busy with tours of refineries and distilleries. Their English got better and so did my Spanish. I slept in the same room with CeCe but he never came out. He brooded in the darkness and I slowly came to realize how depressed he was. He could not tell me the reasons. I lay in the darkness at night listening to his soft sobbing or his labored breathing. I didn’t know what to do.

While CeCe confused me another complicated situation was revealed to me. Hector told me that Mr. Chandler planned to bring rum to New Orleans. The details were slowly and carefully doled out to me. Comments like: “The St. Petersburg will take the sugar to Mr. Chandler…Draper must be careful…CeCe will know how to deal with the United States government people.” I was intrigued with the plans because I thought the United States government was completely crazy stopping the consumption of alcohol. If the people want to drink let them drink. Why should the government tell people how to live their lives?

One afternoon Hector and Orlando took me to their accountant’s office. The man was a short, stout man about forty. His vest barely held together by his watch chain. His office was piled high with papers. Every ashtray was overflowing with used cigar butts. In British English he said through his yellow mustache. “So you are CeCe’s friend? I understand you know Mr. Chandler.”

“It is more correct to say that Mr. Chandler is a friend. I met CeCe here in Cuba.”

“Hector tells me you want to know about the sugar business.”

“Yes, I guess I do.”

“For years a few Spanish families controlled sugar. About twenty years ago American companies began to buy land. They have been buying our harvest for years. They wanted to control the whole process. There is more to it than that. Sugar prices have been dropping like a stone since spring. There is too much sugar. Hector and Orlando own a distillery, as you know. They have been making rum for several years. Now this United States law Volstead. But they still want to make rum but the United States government is saying ‘Not here’.”

I stopped him, “I don’t know very much but I do have questions. Before I left the states for Cuba Mr. Chandler gave me a piece of paper that said I was to deliver ten thousand pounds of sugar to the American Sugar Company on August 23. The contract, I think he called it, has a price of $1.71 per pound. How am I supposed to buy ten thousand pounds of sugar and transport it to New Orleans.”

Mr. Buckle laughed grossly, “My boy, Mr. Chandler has made you a rich young man.”

“How?”

“He never intended for you take delivery of the sugar. What he gave you is a contract, some people call it a futures contract. This is how it works. What is the date of the contract?

“August 31.”

“No that’s the delivery date. I mean the day the contract was sold. The date at the top of the document.”
“April something.”

“In April sugar was selling for $1.90 to $1.93 per pound. It was high, really high but we knew it wouldn’t stay up. He managed to get that contract for $1.71 per pound for August 31st delivery. Well, my boy, sugar prices have fallen below eighty cents per pound and they are heading down.”

“So I should buy sugar now.”

“No, no you don’t’ want to ever own the sugar. What you and I should do is to go down to the exchange and sell your contract. There are plenty of brokers who, I am sure, will give you thousands of dollars for that contract because they believe the price is going down further.”

“So if I hold the contract until August 31 and the price is fifty cents a pound I would make over $10,000.”

“Well, first you can’t wait until the last minute because it takes some time to transfer money and the product. But you are correct. Except you have to have an approved bank account in Havana that will guarantee that you have the five thousand you need to buy the ten thousand pounds. This is what I suggest. When you think sugar prices are as low as they are going to go we will go to the exchange and sell the contract. There are plenty of brokers who will buy on the spread that you have.”

“Will you help me? I’m going back to the states soon.”

“You can sell the contract in New Orleans, too.”

“I’m not going there. I would rather sell the contract here. Is there a branch of the Philadelphia National Bank in Havana?”

“No, but I’m sure the money can be wired if you have an account in Philadelphia.”

“Can we do it tomorrow?”

“Are you sure you want to sell? Prices are still going down.”

“Yes. Now I understand what Mr. Chandler was so excited when he gave me the contract. I am sure I was not appreciative enough.”

“This is an exceptional time for sugar. I will have to charge you to handle the transaction.”

“I understand. How much?”

“My usual commission is 2% but let’s just say I’ll do it for five hundred dollars.”

I was a little surprised and snapped, “Maybe I should check with Hector first.”

He calmly continued, “You’ll find my offer is fair but if you want to wait that is fine.” He turned his eyes to the papers in front of him as if dismissing me. I stood for a few moments before turning. Hector who had been in another office joined us.

“We go. Come back tomorrow?”

When we returned to the hacienda CeCe was sitting in the parlor with Senora. Color was returning to his face but the black rings around his eyes told me he had been very sick. I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “So you’re feeling better?”

“A little. I am sorry. I just can’t control myself. I get so depressed.”

“I had a very interesting day. I met a Mr. Buckle and he told me I was a rich man. He told me that the sugar contract that Mr. Chandler gave me was worth a great deal of money. I am going to sell it tomorrow and have to deal with the money.”

“I need to talk to you about a plan Mr. Chandler has for me.”

“I think I know a little. Does rum have anything to do with the plan?”

“Yes. But let’s talk later.” He slowly rose and motioned for me to follow him. I steadied him as we walked up the stairs to our room. “Let’s get out of here. Are you ready to go out to Hector and Orlando’s for a night or two before we leave. Are you ready to go back to the states?”

“I guess so. I’m sorry about the other night.” I am afraid our sex set off your depression.”

Without responding he said, “Draper is due on Friday, day after tomorrow, and we are ready to ship the sugar and the rum. I told senora that we will be leaving.”

“I want to sell the sugar contract and make sure the money is transferred before we leave. That might take a day or so. Can we delay?”

“We’ll get it done tomorrow.”

We mounted the vis-a-vis about three thirty and were in the swimming pool at Hector and Orlando’s by seven. The pool was perfect on the hot, humid evening. We ate with the brothers in the main dining room along with three other men who had come to gamble. We excused ourselves to swim. As we floated CeCe said, “Peter, I don’t know what happens but I get so depressed I can’t function. I really had it bad in Havana. I am so sorry you had to see me.”

“Don’t worry. Have you seen a doctor?”

“I have and I may see another in New Orleans.”

“I told you I am not going to New Orleans. I have to build a house for Chandler in Florida. You can come and see it before you go to New Orleans.”

“I can’t I have to stay with the cargo.”

“Well, at least, we can have a night or two in Key West.” We agreed that we would try to convince Draper to drag his feet. That turned out to be unnecessary because the next morning a cable arrived saying that because of engine trouble the St. Petersburg and Draper would not be coming until the following Tuesday. After conferring with Hector and Orlando we decided to sail on the Tampa on Saturday and then catch the St. Petersburg with our cargo when Draper came through Key West. Sale of the contract netted eight thousand nine hundred dollars after I paid Mr. Buckle’s his five hundred. The money was wired to the First National Bank of Philadelphia to my account. I hoped that mother and father were not opening my mail. I had no idea how I would explain that much money. The following day we boarded the Tampa and sailed toward the United States.

***

June 21, 1920:  With bow and stern lines pulled taut on the massive iron cleats the steamer Tampa was secured. That was June 14 - Flag Day. The American flags flapped laboriously in the sticky Key West humidity. We walked down the blistering steel gangplank to the strains of a military brass band. CeCe and I drank three bottles of rum and stayed up all night on the crossing from Havana. We made sure we drank all the rum we had.

We were exhausted, sticky, and hot. We snatched our bags from the neatly lined luggage near the gangplank in front of the iron gates topped with pointed spears. A sailor in the customs house with biceps the size of melons took my letter, glanced at it and handed it back to me.”

Even though CeCe traveled regularly to the United States on business his papers were scrutinized. Unruffled he passed through and joined me on the sidewalk. CeCe touched the rim of his Fedora acknowledging a buxom woman standing outside of the departure zone. Her droopy eyes were decorated with heavy mascara and hilariously long eye lashes. She was dressed in a sky blue chiffon, floor length evening gown accented by crystal sparkles. Her white gloves stretched to her bony elbows. An excessive wide hat trimmed with white netting completed her ensemble.

“We looked at each other almost sniggering as we walked toward her open parasol. I asked, “Mademoiselle do you know where CeCe and I can find a place to sleep?”

In a sugary southern slur she purred, “Well, honey, you can sleep with me.”

Almost laughing I responded, “That’s not what I mean!”

She graciously turned her ample self, twirled her blue parasol and cooed, “Follow me, honey. I’m Miss Miriam and who might you be?”

“I’m Peter and this is my friend CeCe.”

We fell in step behind her and with every step got more drenched in our own sweat. My tongue touched a droplet streaming down my nose. I tasted the rum. We walked slowly with our bags pulling at our arms three or four blocks in the middle of the palm-lined street that led away from the pier. We looked like baby calves following their mother’s swollen teats in hopes of getting a milky breakfast. No one spoke. Minutes evaporated before Miss Miriam stopped at a gated entry in the middle of a leafy hedge. She pulled on a brass handle that swung from a delicate chain. We heard a bell faintly tinkle. A short Negro man appeared directly to open the gate. “Harvey, the boys come to visit.” He took our bags and led the way up the steps onto the mahogany planks of the polished front porch. Miss Miriam followed him through the beveled glass front door. We brought up the rear assuming and never asking if we were going to stay.

The dark front hall had a damp, musty smell. The dark chandelier hung motionless as Miss Miriam glided to a stop. She slowly loosened her left glove finger by finger and pulled it off slowly. This was repeated on her sun-spotted right arm. She handed her gloves to Harvey and then proceeded to remove two lethal hat pins from her bonnet. Her long slender fingers floated up to the far flung edges of the hat and lifted it up revealing mounds of white woolly hair tied in a bun and decorated with a tortoise shell comb. She pulled the comb away and like a willow swaying she moved her head from side to side as her hair cascaded onto her shoulders and down her back.

She turned toward us for the first time since we left the dock. “Boys come onto the porch for some iced lemonade.” We followed her. The back porch was like the front except that it was enclosed by screen. We were invited to remove our jackets before sinking into mammoth wicker chairs with faded cushions covered with tropical flowers. The rattan fan moved laboriously. Harvey appeared with a silver tray and three tall glasses. He handed the first glass to Miss Miriam, then CeCe and then to me. The lemonade was the best I have ever tasted. We tried small talk but within ten minutes we couldn’t keep our eyes open. Some minutes later I stirred and was embarrassed to find Miss Miriam quietly watching us. She rose as I stirred and said, “Why don’t you boys go upstairs. I hear guests coming.”

I rousted CeCe and we followed Harvey through the darkened dining and living rooms to the stairs. With each step my legs grew heavier and heavier. The walls up the stairs were covered with photographs. My tired eyes fell on images of one famous person after another standing with Miss Miriam. I stopped on the landing and looked at a picture of President Theodore Roosevelt with Miss Miriam. The caption read: “Miriam, Thank you. Gratefully, T.Roosevelt.” There was another photograph of a soldier that I knew had to be Mr. Chandler.

Harvey stood in the doorway of a bedroom. The four-poster canopied bed had the covers drawn back. CeCe and I stood for a few moments waiting for Harvey to leave. He didn’t and indicated that he was waiting for our clothes so he could launder them. We obliged him. He closed the heavy wooden shutters giving the room an eerie orange glow. As I lay my head on the pillow the soft swish of the big fan blades was the only sound other than CeCe’s relieved sigh. We slept.

When we awoke we didn’t move quickly. I detected distant voices. I felt as if I was floating suspended above the bed. I did not have a headache which was a miracle considering all the rum I drank. I was hot and wet. The shutters were open but the orange glow persisted. The orange haze frightened me as I remembered the sky over the fields of Verdun two summers ago. When the guns silenced the smoke from the gunpowder mixed with the sun’s late afternoon rays caused the same eerie orange. I shivered.

CeCe eyes cracked open and he whispered, “How could you be cold?”

“I’m not,” I answered more harshly than I had intended. At which point he pushed me out of the bed onto the polished floor three feet below. I groaned loudly as I hit the floor. The fall reminded me of my war-wounded knee.

He looked down at me, “Clumsy.”

I was sitting on the floor holding my knee when I noticed two women standing in our doorway. I stood and grabbed for a sheet leaving CeCe completely exposed. CeCe was quickly conscious. Smiling at the ladies he said, “Disculpeme! Por favor.” He got out of bed and walked straight toward them and closed the door. Standing naked we were laughing when Harvey knocked bringing us light dressing robes.

He pointed, “Labortory thar.”

The cool water was fantastic as it refreshed my sweaty bodies. After toweling and returning to our room we did not find clean clothes. Neither our bags nor our clean laundry was around. Harvey informed us that Miss Miriam was waiting for us on the porch. He instructed us to come the way we were. CeCe smiled, “Well, if the lady beckons …”

I hesitated but led the way across the cool planks in my bare feet. The orange glow persisted as we walked to the back porch. The two women who had been standing in our doorway sat across from a young man with scraggly black hair in short pants topped by a sleeveless undershirt. A young couple joined us from the backyard, as did two other young guys, one black and one white. They wore matching swim costumes but neither wore the top of their suits. We waited for someone to start introductions which did not happen.

As we stood Miss Miriam came onto the porch and enthroned herself in a high backed white wicker chair. She admonished CeCe and me to take a seat as she began to serve tea. She smiled as she looked at me and said, “With or without?”

“With,” was my reply as if I was having high tea at the Rittenhouse in Philadelphia. I said softly but sarcastically, “Miss Miriam, we aren’t properly dressed.”

Without raising her eyes lashes she spoke, “There’ll be plenty of time.” We sipped our tea sitting on the white wicker sofa whose pillows collapsed as we sat down. The ladies who we had informally met had an eye-full. Our robes made modesty virtually impossible. They had seen it all earlier so I didn’t worry.

There was small talk at first. I kept looking at the young guy. I blurted out toward him, “Hemingway, right? My name is Peter Ahern we met in France, in Paris. I was pretty damn drunk but so were you as I recall. Weren’t you driving an ambulance? I remember you were shot up?” He didn’t respond. Annoyed I continued, “I just… I mean we just returned from Cuba.”

He spoke in a low, gravelly voice, “I still live in Paris. I’m here visiting my friend Miriam.”

“Have you been to Havana?”

Instead of answering my question he turned to CeCe, “Como se llama usted?”

“CeCe. Ouien es tu?”

“CeCe, what brings you to Key West?”

“Peter brought me. I’m going to Tampa.”

Sarcastically Hemingway smirked, “Is this Peter honorable? I wouldn’t trust him.” He turned his glance back to CeCe. “What’s your story?” he snapped challenging CeCe.

I knew CeCe would answer only if he wanted to. He didn’t appear disturbed by Hemingway’s journalistic intrusion. He said, “I am Modesto Casanova Casilda. I come from the east near Trinidad on the southern coast. I have been living near Havana for the last ten years.”

“You know Havana?”

“I have many friends in Havana.” As he spoke I could see CeCe’s eyes sparkling like crystal.

Hemingway said, “Why two last names? Most folks get by with one.”

Miss Miriam detected the tension and offered. “More tea?” The tea was different than the first. Something was in the tea and it was going straight to my head. Hemingway’s questions didn’t let up. “Was Casanova you father’s name?”

“No, Casanova was not my father’s name. Rodriquez was my mother’s name. Most children in Cuba get both the father’s and mother’s names. The man who fathered me wasn’t married to my mother so they gave me a bastard’s name,” CeCe snarled at him.

Tears were streaming down his face and his chin was quivering. He continued, “My mother told me my father was gunned him down like a stray dog. I know that’s a lie. My mother hung herself. The plantation foreman, Senor Gonzalez took me into his house.” CeCe had regained his composure and looked at me. The other guests squirmed nervously.

I leaned forward toward the arrogant jerk and challenged, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? He isn’t a spy.”

Hemmingway was undeterred. “Just curious. I’m a writer and I am fascinated by people’s stories. Let the man tell me his story.”

“Shut the fuck up. This is Miss Miriam’s party not your interrogation room!”

CeCe cut the tension, “It was not a happy time. When Gonzalez took me he said I needed to be raised in a family headed by a man. I was not his only child.” He stiffened and stood up. He said, “So I’m Casanova-Gonzalez really; but I changed from Gonzalez to Casilda when I moved to Havana. Senor and Senora Gonzalez treated me well. They sent me to school where I learned English. I was not treated well by their kids who were older than me. They treated me as an outcast. They called me their bastard brother whenever they wanted to embarrass me. I went to Havana when I was fifteen. I started working for my two uncles who made sugar and I still work for them.

Hemingway had his curiosity quenched and turned his questioning on me. I ignored him. I prepared to walk away from the arrogant Mr. Hemingway. Before I moved Harvey announced dinner. I reminded Miss Miriam we had to dress. She shooed us along. From the tea my head swirled in time with the fan spinning overhead. CeCe and I staggered up the stairs. Our clothes were lying across our bed.

When we entered the dining room I was directed by Miss Miriam to sit to her left with CeCe sitting next to one of the two women. The newlyweds sat across from Hemingway and the other woman separated the black boy from his white friend.

A halo surrounded each candle flame. The conversation was soft and intimate with our tablemates until the main course of grilled grouper, plantain, white rice and black beans was served. Hemingway abruptly shot my direction. “I saw the scar on your knee, that from the fighting?”

“It happened in Europe but not romantic like saving a buddy from shrapnel spray. I fell off a goddamn muddy, slimy ladder trying to climb out of the trench. No medals and little sympathy. You injured?”

“Yeah, but I can’t show you the scar in polite company.” There was nervous laughter as people continued eating. I was in Italy driving an ambulance like you said. Where were you? What unit?”

“33rd Division when we engaged the enemy at Meuse-Aragon.”

“How many men killed?”

“Too many.”

He responded, “Stupid war, really stupid war. All we’ve got to show is fucking diplomats sitting around in Geneva. What a price for nothing.”

“So you still live in Paris?”

“That’s where my friends are and that is where the action is. I’ll move here someday when I’m older. Miriam will find me a bed.”

“You kin have mine, honey, anytime,” Miriam suggested in her slushy voice.

“Not yet, in a few years I’ve got a wife. I’ve got things to do before I come here to fish and find happiness.” Abruptly Hemingway pushed his chair back and stood. He said, “Miriam, thank you. I have a friend to meet at Harry O’s. Thanks for dinner.

“He pulled his undershirt over his gullet and walked out without an acknowledging anyone else. The conversation continued about summering in the Hamptons, the jazz clubs in Harlem and the sleek fashions from New York. The black boy, Darius and Bill seemed to know all there was to know about all the topics.

Darius said, “I love to wear the silk shirts and tight pants. The illustrators love the way I stand when I model.”

“Darling, you look good even when you aren’t wearing anything,” Bill gushed.

“I know,” he gushed. “I love to dress and go up to Harlem. The women are luscious and the men in tails divine. No place like that in this one horse town. Why did I come anyways?” He said smiling Bill’s direction.

Bill blushed and picked up the coffee cup that Harvey had filled and sipped. His eyes stared into the dark brown liquid. Darius said, “What’s this Harry O’s?”

“Not for you, honey. You stay here and we’ll party. That crowd is not ready for your type, not yet.” No one else seemed inclined to troop off to Harry O’s after Miriam’s comment. Miriam suggested retiring to the porch. Harvey followed us with a tray of brandies and liqueurs he placed on a mahogany cart. He stepped down into the yard and lit the smoky kerosene torches. The gramophone sent jazzy ragtime music floating over the yard.

The mood was dark and smoky. I moved toward the cart to find booze and plenty of white powder. I guessed it was cocaine. I stood too long because Darius came and said sweetly, “Know what to do with it soldier boy?”

“No, ’cause booze is my vice not this.”

“Wanna try some?” He took my hesitation as a positive response. He put a line of powder on his index finger and ran it under his nose sucking it into his nostrils. The powder disappeared. He said, “Try it.” All went well until I inhaled and began sneezing violently. Everyone was laughing. “Do it again, slower.” I did and it was better. I didn’t feel anything immediately. Slowly arms felt light and the smoky torches became glowing balls of fire. A warm tangerine glow surrounded Miriam. She kissed me on the lips.

The music grew louder. Miss Miriam excused herself. She was followed by the two women. Darius walked out the screen door toward the pool with Bill following him. The newlyweds preceded them. I heard a splash. When CeCe and I reached pool the young woman was floating in her chiffon dress. Her husband dropped his shoes and coat and jumped in after her. She squealed as he pulled her to the edge. Darius and Bill dropped their clothes on a big white chair and dove in to help. The woman was tangled in her dress. Her husband pulled over it over her head exposing the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties or a bra.

I pushed CeCe but he begged me to let him take his clothes off. He stripped to his skin. The tangerine torchlight made his brown skin look like velvety milk chocolate. I pulled him to me before pushing him into the water. Eventually the girl and her husband retreated leaving the four of us cavorting. Darius grabbed CeCe and began playfully wrestling. CeCe squirmed teasingly but stayed in contact. He pushed Darius away and came after me. We wrestled, embraced and kissed. The look in his eyes troubled me because he looked confused. I held him tightly scared he might have a relapse. He relaxed in my arms.

CeCe and I spent five spectacular days at Miss Miriam’s. Each day I felt more self-imposed pressure to leave the palm-lined streets and candle lit dinners for the construction site of that ridiculous cabin on the shell ledge on Captiva. Both CeCe and I reluctantly acknowledged that we had to get going. We checked with the steamer office and confirmed that the St. Petersburg was due back from Havana on Tuesday.

Miss Miriam insisted that she honor us with a dinner party on our last night. I think she secretly hoped that we would repeat the antics of our first night. Her guests included an elderly couple dressed for a Victorian steeplechase. The woman’s dress was floor length and her hat similar to the one Miss Miriam wore on the day we met her. She forcefully informed us that her male companion was not her husband. He was wearing a brown wool waistcoat and maroon cravat. They seemed impervious to the eighty degree muggy night air. Darius and Bill attended. Ernst Hemingway came with his companion, Pauline. Apparently since Hemingway had arrived in Key West his pregnant wife left for Oak Park, Illinois. I thought what an arrogant, selfish man to let his young wife return to Illinois alone. Hemingway spoke at length about the bars he had visited since we met and told us he had decided to build a new house with its own swimming pool.

Miss Miriam’s escort was a small wiry man named John Dos Pasos. He was a leftist writer and the reason Hemingway stopped in Key West. Dos Pasos constantly looked at CeCe and me as if we were sitting for a painting that he was sketching in his mind. We had properly dressed for dinner for the first time since we left Havana. As we drank cocktails on the breezy cool porch the smoky torches intensified the curves and colors of the vegetation. Harvey called us to dinner at seven. As we were ready to be seated we were joined by two older dandies whose effeminate nature put me off. One man, George, was introduced as a Flagler which meant nothing to me. I came to understand listening to the conversation that Key West owed a great deal of its success to the Flagler’s railroad. His companion Barton smoked all the time oblivious to Miss Miriam’s disgust.

Harvey served the heavy Havilland china plates filled with a white fish filet, a risotto with mushrooms and stewed tomatoes and okra with melted white cheese. Polished silver serving dishes were then placed in the center of the table catching the sparkle of the two eight point candelabras. The conversation was quiet considering Mr. Hemmingway had an opinion on every subject. After the dessert was cleared Miss Miriam invited us to the porch for port and cigars. The invitation ended the evening with Hemmingway, Pauline, George Flagler and his friend, Barton and the older couple all taking their leave. Miss Miriam was gracious but her face told us she was not happy that her guests left they way that they did. There was little conversation as we enjoyed the brandy and Cuban cigars. There was no repeat of our first night because we had to be at the dock by eight the next morning.

***

June 26, 1920:  CeCe and I boarded the St. Petersburg and set our valise in a starboard stateroom. We undressed into our swimming outfits and settled into deck chairs facing the westward breeze. We didn’t talk much. I wondered if Mr. Chandler had returned from New Orleans. I had not been to Captiva for six weeks instead of the three I had planned. I wondered how and if the construction was going. After lunch CeCe and I retreated to the stateroom about two hours before we arrived in Ft. Myers. We lay together under the slowly oscillating fan with his face pressed into my neck. The port holes were open wide but little breeze made it through. After our sultry intimacy we wondered when we would be together again. We kissed and dressed.

In Ft. Myers Captain Draper got off of the ship and accompanied us to Mr. Chandler’s house. We were graciously greeted by Mrs. Mason. She convinced Drper to stay for dinner because the St. Petersburg wasn’t scheduled to leave until midnight. CeCe and I showered and returned to the kitchen where Mrs. Mason handed me a pile of letters and wires from Mr. Chandler. I decided to open the one that arrived most recently first. The telegraph read: “PETER, EXPECT WE SHOULD BE UNDER ROOF BY NOW. STOP. CALL IF YOU NEED MONEY. STOP. SEE YOU JULY 3. YOURS CHANDLER.”

CeCe wandered in the garden as I read the rest of the mail. There was a letter from mother telling me that I had received my registration information from the University of Pennsylvania. She told she sent the pertinent forms back. Her real reason for writing was to remind me of the commitment to return to school in the fall. Mr. Chandler’s suggestion of attending Tulane University sounded more appealing. I put the letter down concluding I would worry about that decision later.

One letter contained extensive drawings of windows and cabinets for the inside of the cabin. I hoped there was still time to get everything done the way he wanted. He gave specifics for the toilet, the tub and plumbing fixtures that he was sending from New Orleans. I decided the house had to have shower either over the tub or separate. I thought about a shower outside to wash off the sea water. His letter admonished me to check every carton before accepting the plumbing fixtures. He obviously spent his time on the steamer going north drawing and sketching. I put the letters down and looked into the garden. I wondered if I could get everything done in three weeks.

Mrs. Mason fixed a delicious dinner for CeCe and me. She insisted that we open a bottle of Mr. Chandler’s wine. After dinner Captain Draper left as we lounged around enjoying our cigars. I walked CeCe back to the St. Petersburg and in the shadows we hugged and kissed. Tears ran down his cherub cheeks as he mounted the gangplank. He didn’t turn to wave.

Next morning I was out of the house by nine. I walked to the city dock to hire a launch to take me to Captiva. Mrs. Mason packed me a small lunch. I planned to go out and return when I found what supplies were needed. It was softly raining even though the temperature was probably eighty-five. My clothes were soaked by the time I reached the city dock. Tied to the pier was Mr. Chandler’s launch with the engine compartment lid up. A mechanic with his butt crack clearly exposed was straining to reach deep into the motor. Marcus was standing quietly watching him work.

“Marcus, what brings you into town?”

Looking surprised he said, “Food, but Misser Peter, the work ain’t goin’ so well.”

He confirmed my fears. “Could you pick me up at the Chandlers?” He squirmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Da boat, she’s not ready ‘til dis afternoon.” He looked down. “Misser Peter, wees can’t git ta Captiva and back ‘fore dark.”

I stepped back and ran my hands through my sticky hair. “OK, pick me up at Chandlers when you are ready.”

At three-thirty he came with the provisions neatly boxed. I gathered a few more things for overnight. When we arrived I had hoped to find a cabin but found a roofless shell with cots and trash littering the floor. The smell of piss and stale whiskey hung over the site. Instead of getting mad I began to take control. I had practiced being firm without getting huffy. I confronted the men with my practiced introduction: “Men, we really behind what can I do to get going?” They were startled that someone showed up to see what they weren’t doing. I was totally aware that the lazy bastards were living on Mr. Chandler’s food and booze. “Men, I’m Peter Hearn. Mr. Chandler sent me out here to get this cabin built. What do you need?”

One burly guy belched loudly, “More booze.” I was startled and put off at this crude character with a dirty tee shirt full of holes. The other two guys laughed.

I gathered myself and returned his remark, “So you need more booze. I’ll see to it on Friday when I pay you.” I wanted to keep them on my side and had to get them working faster because Mr. Chandler was due in less than three weeks. That afternoon nothing happened because they were too drunk by the time I arrived. I closely examined what had been done, cleaned up the work site with Marcus’ help. I showed the men the drawings that Mr. Chandler drew.

Miser Jones had a successful day fishing and fixed a meal better than they deserved. No wonder they weren’t working. They were being treated too well. The next morning I was determined to get some work out of them. Miser Jones made strong coffee and built the cooking fire close to the work site to reinforce me. The three white men showed up alert and early. I told them we had three weeks to complete the work. The work went well on Thursday and Friday morning until the big cross cut saw broke several teeth. Work slowed and I decided to go into Ft. Myers to get the payroll money, their booze and a new saw.

Uncle Peter’s journal ended with no further entries. I know the cabin must have been completed close to time of Mr. Chandler’s arrival because of the excerpts in my grandfather’s journals. I only suspected that Uncle Peter and CeCe were more than friends until I read this section and the following two letters which were tucked in the back of the Uncle Peter’s journal. They verify that Uncle Peter was gay. The first letter seems to have been one of several written by my great uncle to Harold Royer-Smith (written in the return address) during and immediately after the war. Uncle Peter refers to him as Hal. The second letter is Hal’s response to Uncle Peter. No other letters were found.

September 2, 1920

Dear Hal,

Sorry it has been so long since I wrote you. As I wrote you shortly after I returned from Europe I went with my little brother to Florida and Cuba. Despite my own desires I am starting at the University of Pennsylvania, at least for now. You asked me to recount my time in France which I have been putting off since I really don’t have good memories from my time in the army. I know I have written some of this before but here goes.

I was part of the U. S First Army under the command of General John J. Pershing. We trained in England for three weeks in October 1917 before we were landed in France. We traveled directly to the front line near Verdun. The fall leaves were completely off of the trees and the nights were regularly near freezing. The conditions for living were subhuman. The trenches were muddy quagmires and the sleeping and mess quarters not much better. Frequent gun battles defined every day but nothing seemed to be happening. I was convinced that an attack over the top would prevail if our troops could get out of the mud. However, my superiors didn’t ask my opinion which I would have freely given. My superiors weren’t particularly fond of me and called me “Pretty Boy” which pissed me off. I was determined to see the end of this God-awful war with limited damage to myself.

I volunteered to sneak behind the enemy lines and cause mayhem. I have perfected my construction skills. A “friend” named Steve Cantelli and several other guys from New York built our own mess quarters and furnished them with furniture and bedding stolen from local farms. We set up a relay system that allowed one or more of us to sneak away to get eggs, butter, wine and bread. Steve, my best friend, was an idealistic graduate from University of Pittsburgh. We were close mates, which I know you understand. When we weren’t on the front lines we were in little cafés in the countryside sipping coffee, or more often wine, and discussing how the wealth could be more fairly distributed. Lenin had some good ideas.

In the summer before the armistice was signed the fighting slowed down. Steve and I were back in a small village. We had been granted a two day short leave. After checking into a small hotel we ate in their small café. The sweet, round madam served us poularde a l’estragon. I was amazed how in the midst of war the French can cook amazing meals. Steve and I were relaxed and went to our room. Suddenly the door crashed open and there stood four Frenchmen who stripped us naked and beat the shit out of us screaming ‘fagot’ and ‘gai’ over and over. After they were done with us I managed to drag myself back to camp and got the medics to come to the village. The madam stayed with Steve until I returned. The medics patched him up and took him to a hospital away from the front line. The police came to the hotel and the madam told them something that I could not understand. They shrugged their shoulders and left. After returning to camp I got reprimanded by our Lieutenant. He relieved me of most of my duties and left me to heal in our mess. I wasn’t able to see Steve for a couple of weeks and was shocked when I saw him lying in his hospital bed. His face was puffy and he could barely smile. I cried and held his hand for as long as the nurses would let me.

I withdrew and kept to myself apart from the other men hoping this nightmare would end. I gave up our mess quarters to some officers and lived invisibly until the armistice. I did go to Paris for a couple of weeks before I shipped out. That was fun but without Steve it wasn’t great. The fucking Frenchmen hurt Steve so badly that he never returned to our camp and died on the trip across the Atlantic.

I think I shot three German boys. That is the short version of a part of my life I don’t plan to relive again. That is all for now. See you in New York.

Yours friend,

Peter

The following appears to be Hal’s response letter:

October 28, 1920

Dear Beautiful Boy,

Thank you for your latest letter. I can imagine it was painful to write. So thank you. I have reread your letter detailing your time in Havana, Key West and Captiva Island. Please be careful which is a quality you lack. I wish you and CeCe the best and please come to New York when you can so we can catch up.

I can’t wait to meet CeCe. I can imagine the two of you dressed to the “nines” at the parties and dances in Havana. I long to get swept up in the arms of smoky, sweaty brown men for whom I have a passion. I have been trying to get Harvey, Mark and Ted to consider taking a steamer to Havana for a vacation. So far they have dismissed the idea as silly “Hal’s Junket.” I remain hopeful.

It seems like so long ago that we met at the Crazy Cat on Stonewall Street in the Village. The bar is gone for the third or fourth time. Last time the cops beat up some of my friends but luckily they have all recovered. I have a little news for you. David purchased a lovely two-story townhouse on Union Square. He is living there with two or three dancers from the New York Ballet. Basil and the Baron bought a 12 room “cottage” on Fire Island which is the new place for people like us to summer. He has invited me out next summer. I plan to spend as much time there as I can.

I have been thinking about the “conversations” we had when you came to New York from Lawrenceville. I imagine that you will be so busy with your new lover that you will forget the fantastic times we had together in New York. You and CeCe are always welcome in my bed on Barnaby Street. I relish my memory of the first time you spent time in my bed. You were so young and beefy and “Oh what a body”. You never told me how you found the Crazy Cat. That first night I saw you in your blue stripped buttoned-down oxford cloth shirt unbuttoned halfway down your chest I couldn’t wait to have you. You had your blue blazer tossed over your shoulder. I remember you had your left hand in your tan chinos straightening out your equipment. You blushed when you saw me watching you.

You allowed me to take you, Charlie and your other friend whose name I don’t remember to dine with me at the Madison Club. The reason I like that club is no one looks twice as men and boys dine together. You became my regular companion but always left my bed about 4am so you could get back to Lawrenceville. I take full responsibility for giving you culture and teaching you to dress in fashionable, natty clothes. I am happy I am the person who got to introduce you to the world of men. You were fascinated and never afraid to try something new. After I improved your taste in clothes you looked fantastic even though your father said you looked like a “Dandy”. He just doesn’t understand how we are.

I don’t understand why you went off to fight in that stupid war in Europe. I know you loved military history and I suspect you wanted to see for yourself. All you talked about the last time I saw you was the Great War in Europe and the nobility of the fight against the German thugs.

I remember how horrified I was when you told me you decided to join the army and even though you weren’t eighteen. You told your younger brother, Bucky, and no one other than me. I told you were crazy and would be killed. I remember ranting and raving for days trying to make you understand that wars are fought by the commoners to assure the freedom and prosperity of us. You told me your father was livid when you finally told him.

You remember the night before you were to report to Fort Dix. We had a lavish dinner party attended by our friends, Basil, Mark and, I think there were about ten of us. I arranged for Georgie to cater because he could keep his mouth shut. He prepared Chateaubriand, some rich wine sauce, new potatoes, etc but the best was the Tiramisu. There was plenty of champagne, wine, booze and powder. Even though you may not remember what happened in my bed, I do. You were drunk or acted so but you let me in for the first time. I hoped that you would come back from Europe in one piece and come to live with me when you went to Columbia University. Thank goodness you came back in one piece. I cry when I think that some Kraut might have messed up that sculpted body of yours.

I have kept all your letters and will be happy to return them to you when I see you if you would like to have them.

Lovingly Your “Friend”,

Hal

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