33

The next time I went to the ballet, Scott and I didn’t rehash the argument; we just made plans for me to meet him afterward. So when the performance was over, I left Sara and took a cab to the Dingo, where Scott was supposed to be playing cards.

The night was warm, the air scented with roasting chestnuts, and my head was aswim with the sights and sounds of Flore et Zéphire. The cab let me off at the corner of rue Delambre; I leaned into the window to pay, and then when I stepped away from the car, there was Hemingway walking in my direction, toward the boulevard du Montparnasse.

“The incomparable Zelda Fitzgerald,” he said, embracing me and then kissing both my cheeks. He smelled of soap and sweat and whiskey. “Fine night, isn’t it?”

“I’ll guess it has been for you. You seem jolly.”

“Yes, now that your husband has graciously lent me a hundred so that I can make a trip to Pamplona to see the bulls. We went a couple of rounds in there,” he said, raising his fists while he inclined his head toward the bar. “I almost let him win.”

“So he’s here, then. Good.” I wondered how badly bruised Scott was going to be. What is it with men, I thought, that the ones who don’t instigate these stupid contests can’t seem to resist a challenge?

“He’s a real sport, your husband. Gifted. Lucky. Soused, I should add. He’s right now holding court on the bar—note that I say on and not at or even in.”

“My English teachers always did stress the importance of prepositions.”

I imagined Scott seated on the bar, legs dangling, a coterie of the also-soused grouped around him on barstools. “Where’s Hadley tonight? Be sure to tell her hello for me.”

“Insecure, though, isn’t he?” Hemingway went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. He put his hand out against the wall and leaned on it, blocking my path forward. “Obsessive. Can’t stop worrying about Gatsby’s sales and make progress on a new book. A writer’s life is a difficult one. He should accept this and embrace it fully. No greatness is possible without failure and sacrifice.”

“We’ve sacrificed plenty for the writer’s life he’s living—sleep, mostly,” I joked.

Hemingway put his free hand on my shoulder, then slid it down my arm to my wrist, which he gripped tightly. “All the men want you, you know.”

“And speaking of sleep,” I said, trying not to let my annoyance show, “seems like you could use some.”

“But you’re discriminating. You think most men are fools, I’ve seen it in your eyes. I know you’re devoted to Scott and I admire that and it raises you up above many women. No one would say he’s manly, though, and I see your passionate nature and wonder if you’ve ever been truly satisfied.”

He’d been drinking, which excused his behavior somewhat—and certainly I was accustomed to excusing the poor behavior of inebriated men. This man, though, had crossed a line no one had crossed with me before. There were no best intentions here.

How could he disregard his wife like this, not to mention his supposedly great new friend who also happened to be my husband? What made him think he could approach me this way? I’d certainly never encouraged him—but then, he didn’t need encouragement. I stood there for a moment, looking into his eyes. A glint of humor told me this wasn’t the first time he’d behaved this way with someone else’s wife, which only made me angrier.

“Is this what you do? You can’t box with women, so you try and seduce ’em?”

“I am a man.” He maneuvered us so that my back was pressed against a door and he pressed against me. His interest in me, or at least in sex, was plain. He put his palms on the wall, bracketing me between his arms. “It’s man’s nature to prove himself, to take what he desires.”

Bad enough that he’d spoiled what had been a gorgeous night of music, dance, and art; I was not about to become one of his conquests. Thinking my anger would only amuse him, I decided to turn the tables on him instead. I reached between us and put my hand on his erection through his pants. I rubbed the length of it, taking my time, letting him think he might yet take advantage of both Fitzgeralds tonight.

“Not bad,” I said, my mouth real close to his ear, and he chuckled. “But,” I added as I ducked beneath his arm and slid out, “here’s yet another area where Scott’s got you beat.” Laughing, I hurried away toward the Dingo’s door, sure that I’d gotten the better of him.

“Bitch,” he said with such calm assurance that the hair on my neck stood up, and I knew right then I’d made a mistake. “Go on. Go make sure you tell your half-impotent hero what a cocktease he’s married to. I can’t wait to hear how he takes it.”

I’d underestimated how astute Hemingway was, how much he already knew about us: He had seen into Scott’s soft heart and knew what hapless prey he’d be if he should decide to attack. And he knew that I wouldn’t tell Scott what had just gone on between us, that I would want to avoid provoking another bout of jealous misapprehension. Whether Scott had told him about Cole’s party or not, he knew.

I continued on to the Dingo without looking back, without replying. My step never faltered but my stomach lurched, as if it understood better than I did just how awfully stupid I’d been, and what it was going to cost me.