Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 4, Issue 6 by Ryan O'Neill

Author:Ryan O'Neill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Review of Australian Fiction
Published: 2013-06-30T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Hemingway waited for her at the station in the shade of the building that housed the Stationmaster’s office and the booth where passengers came and went clutching their newly-bought tickets. An announcement was made that the train was delayed. Hemingway crossed the street and followed a young woman into a bar overlooking the point where two separate tracks came into the station.

It was late in the afternoon. There were few people in the bar. The young woman was already sitting at a table by the window. She had just taken off her hat and put it on the table. She was alone and Hemingway went over to her. The woman looked up at him and, seeing that he was not inclined to move on, gestured for him to sit in the vacant chair opposite. ‘What should we drink?’ the woman asked.

‘Let’s just drink beer now.’

‘For now?’

‘All the best things in life begin with beer.’

The girl laughed disingenuously.

Hemingway leaned back in his chair, calling for the barman to bring beer.

The barman came with two glasses and two felt pads. He put the felt pads and the glasses on the table. Hemingway flashed a smile at the barman and the young woman looked off at the glistening rails in the sun.

‘They look like black mamba,’ the woman said.

Hemingway drank his beer and licked the foam from his lip. ‘I have seen one.’

‘No you haven’t.’

‘I might have,’ Hemingway muttered. ‘Just because you say I haven’t doesn’t prove anything.’

‘You started it,’ the young woman said. ‘I was being amused. I was having a fine time.’

‘Let’s not argue,’ Hemingway said and then, raising his eyebrows at the young woman, added, ‘That’s what a wife is for.’

The young woman looked away toward the station.

‘The beer is nice and cool,’ Hemingway said.

‘It’s lovely,’ the young woman said. She looked down at the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I am here just like you. To report on the conference.’

‘No,’ the young woman said. ‘What are you doing here with me now in this bar drinking this beer with those black snakes laying out there in the sun?’

‘I’m just drinking beer,’ Hemingway said.

‘No, you have come from the station across the street. I saw you come across from the platform. You followed me here.’

Hemingway nodded.

‘Why would you do such a thing?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Why would you though?’

‘Because,’ Hemingway said, grinning immodestly. ‘You look like the kind of woman who should be followed by a man like me.’

‘What sort of man is that?’

‘The kind that a woman like you should wish to be followed by.’

The girl stood up and moved closer to the window. Across the other side of the street, a train came in along the rails and stopped at the station. ‘There’s someone on that train expecting to find you waiting, isn’t there?’

‘There is a woman.’ Hemingway ran his thumb and forefinger down the smeared surface of his glass. ‘My wife.’

‘And tell me,’ the young woman said. ‘Do you love her?’

Hemingway nodded. ‘There is much to love about her.

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