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A wet night in Hemingway’s

Tony Cassidy

    I met her in Hemingway’s Bar in Helsinki on a rainy night when I had ducked in to shelter from the sudden shower. The place was dimly lit, and the background music was quite sombre, creating an atmosphere that matched my mood. I had not planned to stay but when I saw that they had Guinness on tap I was tempted. It was Monday evening, so the place was deserted except for a bartender and a solitary woman at a corner table. I ordered a large Guinness and as my eye perused the top shelf, I spotted the familiar logo of two Scottish Terriers on a bottle of Black & White scotch whisky. It had been my father’s favorite tipple. He bought a bottle each year just before Christmas and it lasted him until December came around again. I hadn’t seen it since his death almost twenty years ago, though I had asked in several establishments over the years. I had come to assume that it was no longer produced. I ordered a large one and asked if I could look at the bottle. It brought back bittersweet memories. My father used it as a medicine. A little drop on a teaspoon cured sore throats. When my ears ached, as they often did as a child, he would spill a drop on a piece of cotton wool and apply it to the offending organ. I savoured it now and its warmth revived my flagging mood.
    I had flown into Helsinki that afternoon a day early for a conference to find that the hotel didn’t have a room reserved for me. It turned out I wasn’t due to arrive until the next day but after a bit of negotiation and paying an exorbitant amount I was accommodated on the condition that I would move rooms the next day. After a short rest and a shower, I set out to find the conference venue. The city seemed almost deserted, and the dark clouds matched my mood.
    “You here for the conference?” The woman who had been sitting alone now stood by my side. Her accent was soft and musical and sounded Antipodean.
    “Yes,” I replied. Close up I estimated that she was quite young, probably early twenties. Her short blonde hair framed a pretty face in which her large brown eyes seemed too big.
    “I’m Tom,” I continued.
    “I know,” she answered, “You’re Tom Jameson, or should I say Professor Jameson. You presented a keynote lecture at a conference in Edinburgh last year.”
    “Hope it wasn’t too boring” I ventured, “Did you enjoy the conference? I take it you’re not from Scotland.”
    “South Africa,” proffering her hand, “My name is Isabel, I’m a PhD student at Edinburgh.”
    I noticed that her glass was empty, so I indicated to it saying,
    “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “Very kind of you, can I have a vodka and cranberry juice in a tall glass with ice?” Partly to me and partly to the barman who had come over in anticipation of something to alleviate his boredom.
    “Very specific,” I joked, and “Yes I’ll have another Guinness,” to the barman’s querying look.
    “What sort of music do you like?,” was her surprise question.
    “I’ve a rather eclectic taste, why do you ask?”
    “I thought I might ask the barman to change the music” she looked at him as she said it. He laughed and nodded indicating willing.
    I suggested Passenger and thought it might be a cooler choice than some of my older favorites and the barman nodded agreement as he fiddled with the music machine. Passenger was a hit and she enthused about her enjoyment of acoustic music and songs with meaning. We seemed to have similar tastes and as the evening wore on, she introduced me to First Aid Kit. The change in music lifted the atmosphere. Conversation was easy and drifted into relationships. I was newly divorced, and she was in the death throws of a relationship. Her interest was sparked when I said that I was still friendly with my ex-wife, and she seemed to find it hard to understand.
    “How can you still be friends after breaking up?”
    I explained that there hadn’t been any extramarital affairs, we just drifted apart. I reflected on how our relationship had fallen apart. I guess it had been lots of small things, but one event stood out in hindsight. I had been the oldest of a large family and become a carer for my younger siblings when my father died. In many ways I had been a replacement father which meant that when I married having a baby wasn’t a priority. My wife hadn’t shown any great desire to rush into motherhood at the start but eventually the issue was raised.
    “Sure, sweetheart, of course we can have a baby if that is what you want,” was my response. The sharp intake of breath from my companion echoed the one from my then wife.
    “I guess, that was a key moment in losing her,” I sighed.
    “I can see that, with Bells on,” she laughed, “She wanted you to say that you really wanted to have a baby with her. Or at least show some indication that you were equally ready.”
    “I know, I know - obviously too late, but I now understand,” I grimaced, “I somehow got the idea that she didn’t really want a family and thought she was just checking if I would be ok with that.”
    “You clearly didn’t know her,” she scolded, “Typical man.” She punched my arm. We were both quite tired and getting quite drunk and the barman was looking like he would like to close as there were no other customers. She was staying in the conference hotel just a short walk from mine, so I insisted on walking with her. When we said goodnight, she squeezed my arm and kissed me on the cheek.
    I walked with a much lighter step the short distance back to my hotel and as the bar was still open, I stopped for a large Jameson as a nightcap before retiring.
    I slept late next morning and was awakened by hotel staff knocking on my door. I had a quick shower and tidied up my few belongings so that they could be moved to the already booked room. I took my laptop bag and headed off for the conference. I was presenting my research on the psychology of Assisted Reproductive Therapy in the afternoon so as soon as I registered, I found a quiet corner to rehearse my talk. The day drifted by until lunch, which I was ready for as I had not had any breakfast. I met up with a few friends and colleagues all the while keeping an eye out for Isabel from the previous evening. I was setting up my presentation in the lecture room when I saw her. She came in with a group and took her seat at the back, sending me a bright smile across the room. I smiled back and took my seat at the front as the session was about to start. I have never in all my years managed to overcome that nervous anxiety that preceded a public talk and today was no exception. However as always once I had managed the first few sentences, I settled into it, and it began to flow. I caught my erstwhile companion’s eye a few times and she was smiling and nodding agreement. When I finished hers was the first hand to be raised with a question.
    She waited by the door at the end of the session and when I joined her, she squeezed my arm and said how interesting she had found my talk. I was flattered by her compliment and by the fact that she had chosen to continue our acquaintance. She introduced me to her companions and invited me to accompany them to the exhibition hall where there was a wine reception.
    Wine in hand she led me to the hotel foyer where we found a seat in a corner.
    “I found your talk interesting,” she whispered, “because I have contemplated having In Vitro Fertilization treatment.”
    She responded to my quizzical look by confiding her background. She had been in a long-term relationship since high school and had married during her first year at university. In hindsight she now saw her husband’s rush to marry as a mark of his own insecurity and jealousy. At the time it had seemed so romantic and a mark of his commitment to her. As time went by the marriage became a mechanism for limiting her freedom and now that it had all soured, she regretted missing out on the social side of university life. Instead, she had focused on her maternal instincts. There had been several years of fruitlessly trying to conceive but no green shoots.
    She had gone for fertility tests, but they didn’t uncover any problem, everything seemed to be in working order. Her husband promised that he would go for tests and consequently assured her that his equipment was in perfect working condition. They had considered various options and agreed that after graduation they would seek some assisted reproductive therapy. She had read everything she could find on IVF and made contact with the IVF unit in her local hospital. While she talked I had rapidly revised my estimation of her age.
    It was during her graduation ball she discovered her husband’s infidelity. The tragedy was that when she found out that he had been sleeping with one of her friends for years, she had a drunken fling with some stranger and fell pregnant, only to lose the baby before she had time to consider the implications.
    There were tears during the telling and I apologies if my talk had brought past memories to life. She insisted that if anything it had been therapeutic and thanked me for listening. She confessed that she was still determined to have a baby. She saw thirty looming large on her horizon and was desperate to have a baby. She confided that she had promised herself if she reached thirty and wasn’t in a relationship, she would find someone to make her pregnant. I guess I was a bit shocked.
    “That seems a bit risky,” I queried, “he might not turn out to be much of a father.”
    “Oh, that wouldn’t matter,” she replied, “I would only want his sperm.”
    The conference dinner was organized for later that evening and although I had a ticket I had not intended to attend. She insisted that I do and promised to keep a seat for me at her table. We parted and I went back to my room for a shower and rest. I felt tired but energized by the fact that my talk had gone well and the thought of spending an evening with my new companion.
    The TV news was less than cheerful. The war in Kosovo was raging and a missile had cause devastation in Belgrade. In Russia Yeltsin’s leadership had come to an end and a new young leader called Putin had taken the reins. Back home peace seemed to have broken out with the signing of the Good Friday Peace Accord. It was unusual to have good news from our little province. I was early and having some time to spare I decided to pop into Hemingway’s for a Black & White whisky. The same barman was on duty, and he greeted me warmly. I followed his gaze and who should I see at the same table as the evening before.
    “Great minds think alike,” she greeted as I joined her, “I see you’re on the hard stuff tonight.”
    I told her the story of my father and the elusive Black & White whisky.
    “I thought maybe it was Dutch courage,” she laughed. I complimented her on her attire. In fact, she looked stunning in a long green dress which clung comfortably to her shapely body. Hemingway’s was a little busier tonight. Someone told me that in Helsinki the weekend starts on Wednesday and runs through Sunday. Monday night is socially dead, and I guess Tuesday attracts a few souls in training for Wednesday. Our mood was jolly and upbeat when we left to head for the conference dinner. Tables were set out in a grand ballroom in the hotel and the place was sparkling like a royal ball from a fairytale. Her colleagues had kept her a seat and made way so that we could sit together. Everyone was in good spirits and the dinner was generally quite good for a mass cooked meal. As the last plates were being cleared the band which had been warming up struck up with a rousing dance tune. It was all very classical, and my novice ear recognized some Strauss waltzes. I enjoy dancing though I am no expert and when my new friend grabbed my hand, I allowed her to lead me willingly to the dance floor. She was an elegant dancer, and I was quite physically fit and thus ensued some very flamboyant fast steps which in hindsight were quite risky. We whirled around the floor in what may have appeared graceful glides but could just as well have ended up with us both in a heap on the floor. I think we survived by just trusting completely in each other and giving in to the music. Each break returning to our table saw us becoming even closer, holding hands, or hugging joyfully. It felt as if we had known each other forever.
    As the evening wore on our energy dissipated somewhat and the dancing slowed until a point where I was holding her close and barely moving as her lips brushed my cheek and her breath felt warm on my face.
    “Can I come back to your hotel?” she whispered, looking up into my face. I didn’t respond with words. Instead, our lips met, and we kissed passionately. We slipped out into the cool of the night which was a refreshing relief after the heat of the dance. We hardly talked at all as we walked hand in hand past Hemmingway’s to my hotel where the receptionist greeted us with a knowing smile. In my room there was no hesitation as we deftly fumbled with our clothes until we were undressed on the bed. I was ready and she was very willing. We had a crazy night of love making interspersed with periods of sleep until eventually exhaustion overtook me and I fell deeply into the arms of Morpheus.
    The morning sunlight through the unshut curtains awoke me and I reached out to find I was alone. The words of a Beatle’s song trickled through my consciousness,
    “When I awoke in the morn, this bird had flown.” I smiled at the thought and the idea that I would see her again later that day at the conference. I was staying for another day as the conference didn’t officially end until tomorrow.
    I looked for her all day, but she was no where to be seen. Neither were her colleagues. I wondered that she would leave with out saying goodbye. By evening I had resigned myself to having had one of the only one night stands I have had in my life. When I returned to my hotel in the evening the receptionist handed me an envelope. Inside was a note. In it she thanked me for a lovely couple of days and for the night we spent together. I had barely known her name and she did not mention it in her note. Instead, she urged me to enjoy the memory but to forget about her as we would be unlikely to ever meet again. It was a bittersweet goodbye.
    That night in Hemingway’s I finished the bottle of Black & White whisky. In fact, I convinced the barman to let me have the bottle and a glass. I sat at her table I allowed the burning liquid to dull the pain. I do tend to fall heavily when I fall. The rest of the conference went by in a blur, and I left Helsinki in a similarly despondent mood to that in which I had arrived.
    Back home I couldn’t stop thinking about her and eventually I decided to see if I could find her through her university. After some frustrating searches I finally found her. I noted her e-mail address and spent over a week debating as to whether I should message her. I gave in and sent the message. As the days passed with no response, I assumed that I had the wrong address. But when I checked and found it was correct, I regretted my silly immaturity. She clearly wanted to forget. I should have moved on and left her alone as she had requested. Ten days later I got a response. In it she was quite curt and castigated me for harassing her. She claimed she was in a new relationship and didn’t want to hear from me again. The words stung as did the tears of sadness and anger that welled up and I tried desperately to hold back.
    I resisted the urge to respond and gradually her memory began to fade. I had almost forgotten about her when I bumped into one of her colleagues at another conference. She recognized me and we had a coffee together. In conversation she volunteered the news that Isabel had just had a baby. She insisted on showing me the photos on Facebook. There in Isabel’s arms lay a baby girl who looked like her mother. Despite everything I couldn’t help being pleased for her.
    “A little Gemini just like her mother,” smiled her colleague. The memories of that wet night in Hemingway’s last September came flooding back.

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