The Site of the Bite

Ernest Hemingway, Demon Hunter

Ernest Hemingway was a humorless man.  But he was a clever one.  He wrote many stories.  Some were longer than others.  He liked to hunt and he killed what he liked.  This did not help his humor.  He was loved by many women, but could not love them back.  He romanticized many things and was a survivalist.  War was in his nature.  Truth was in his heart.  His beard was on his face.

Once, in Barcelona, he met a man.  They shared a few drinks.  They argued late into the night, which was a sure sign of Hemingway’s friendship.  In a haze of conviviality, the man leaned toward Hemingway, who thought he was about to be kissed.  Shocked, H stood up abruptly and upset the table with their drinks.  He didn’t see the sly smile on the man’s face, who went quickly out the door.

This incident, though treated as a joke by H’s buddies, bothered him more than it should have.  A sense of humor might have helped at this point.  But, as you know, that was like wishing for rain, in a dry country. 

Several days later, Hemingway saw this same man on the other side of a room, where he was attending a party.  Their eyes met and, this time, H saw that smile.  He confronted the man, who only said he wanted to get to know him better.  Hemingway said, “How much better?”  The man answered, “Let me show you a little trick.”

By this time, several partygoers were looking on.  The man moved his hands like a magician and following these, Hemingway was taken by surprise, as the man suddenly, but gently, leaned over and bit his neck.  H reflexively raised his hand to the site of the bite.  When he brought it down, everyone could see the blood.  He started to say something, in an immoderate tone, but the man had vanished.

H looked round, the victim of this urbane, but hideous creature.  H was red and furious.  He tried to make a joke to the people gathered there, but, of course, the joke fell flat.  He said, That Dracula son of a bitch! 

At the time, He didn’t know how close to the truth he was.  Though he gave no sign, he made a vow in that moment, to find and kill the man who had so completely scared and humiliated him.  This was how Hemingway, now haunted by this mysterious and, somehow, erotic encounter, became known not only as a celebrated writer, defined by his own ideas of masculinity, but also a dedicated and persistent Demon Hunter.  His nights would never be the same again.

Indeed, many years later, in Cuba, desperately tired of the campaign he had waged against the Demons for so long, and losing his will, he famously took his own life.  Hunters come and go, but the creatures of the night, eternally on the prowl and dashing, in their own way, continue to disturb and taunt mankind throughout the ages.