his guest. He held the drink up to examine it in the light and decided it was not of a hue acceptable at Sloppy Joeâs. He laced it with more liquor until it darkened to an acceptable shade.
âAs a matter of curiosity, Ernest, where did your mother meet Hemingway?â he called through the doors.
âI was conceived during a romantic afternoon in Hong Kong. Papa was in China to cover the Chinese-Japanese War. My mother was the daughter of missionaries and was attending a convent school in Hong Kong. On that particular afternoon she was having tea at an outdoor café ⦠She was very young, and in those days Papa was really quite handsome. He graciously commented on her beauty and she coyly responded. One thing led to another that exquisite day and â¦â
Lyon returned to the patio and gave Ernest his fresh drink. âAll this happened in one afternoon?â
âThatâs all it takes, Wentworth.â
âSo Iâve heard.â
âThey were only able to share a few precious hours together. Their love affair may have been brief, but the height of their passion made up for its brevity.â
âIâm amazed that your mother would discuss these intimate details with her child.â
âMother was too much the lady of the old school to talk about her sexuality. She never revealed any intimate details, but there were enough facts for me to piece together what actually happened.â
âErnest, did your mother ever specifically say that she had an affair with Hemingway and that you are the offspring?â
âNot in so many words, but the evidence is irrefutable. Look at the facts. She named me Ernest when I was born. Mother and Hemingway were in Hong Kong at the same time. She was forced to leave the convent when they discovered her pregnancy. Her lips remained sealed for the rest of her life and she never told anyone who my father was. But look at me!â He thumped his chest. âYou can see the family resemblance. My God, man, the evidence is practically prima facie. And most important of all, when I put all the facts together and presented them to her, Mother just smiled enigmatically and never denied it.â
So be it, Lyon thought. Men have died for lesser truths. âI suppose itâs all harmless,â he said.
âWhat do you mean harmless! Damn it, man, not only am I proud of my heritage, but I have always acted with grace under adversity. In addition to that, like any true man, Iâve got the proper cojones.â He paused in his tirade and lowered his voice. âHave I mentioned this to you before?â
âOh, possibly youâve made some brief allusions, a hint here, a sprig of suspicion there.â
âThe Hemingway family has never recognized me, of course. But I know my heritage and Iâve spent the majority of my adult life dedicated to the study of my fatherâs work.â
âSome people consider your book, Machismo , a benchmark in American literary criticism,â Lyon said.
âYou wouldnât know that from reading the crappy articles Morgan writes. That junk he published in New Forward really got to me. âBloody Rights or Bloody Rites.â If the goddamn Brotherhood of Beelzebub hadnât vowed to get him, I might have contracted a hit myself. I probably should have gone ahead and made arrangements as job insurance, since the bastard is never going to give me that endowed chair.â
âMorgan doesnât have the final word on that, you know,â Lyon said. âThe department head only recommends, and the full faculty council has to vote.â
âThere are only two of us in the department who have published enough to be really eligible. And no one in their right mind would vote the chair to Garth Wilkins.â
âThat might depend on literary taste,â Lyon said. âAnd whether or not you preferred writers like Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote. His book, The