The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway - Ernest Hemingway [253]
“My father lives in a city where he stands under the clock tower and looks down on a thousand pigeons, all of whom are his subjects. When they fly they make a noise like a rushing river. There are more palaces in my father’s city than in all of Africa and there are four great bronze horses that face him and they all have one foot in the air because they fear him.
“In my father’s city men go on foot or in boats and no real horse would enter the city for fear of my father.”
“Your father was a griffon,” the wicked lioness said, licking her whiskers.
“You are a liar,” one of the wicked lions said. “There is no such city.”
“Pass me a piece of Hindu trader,” another very wicked lion said. “This Masai cattle is too newly killed.”
“You are a worthless liar and the son of a griffon,” the wickedest of all the lionesses said. “And now I think I shall kill you and eat you, wings and all.”
This frightened the good lion very much because he could see her yellow eyes and her tail going up and down and the blood caked on her whiskers and he smelled her breath which was very bad because she never brushed her teeth ever. Also she had old pieces of Hindu trader under her claws.
“Don’t kill me,” the good lion said. “My father is a noble lion and always has been respected and everything is true as I said.”
Just then the wicked lioness sprang at him. But he rose into the air on his wings and circled the group of wicked lions once, with them all roaring and looking at him. He looked down and thought, “What savages these lions are.”
He circled them once more to make them roar more loudly. Then he swooped low so he could look at the eyes of the wicked lioness who rose on her hind legs to try and catch him. But she missed him with her claws. “Adios,” he said, for he spoke beautiful Spanish, being a lion of culture. “Au revoir,” he called to them in his exemplary French.
They all roared and growled in African lion dialect.
Then the good lion circled higher and higher and set his course for Venice. He alighted in the Piazza and everyone was delighted to see him. He flew up for a moment and kissed his father on both cheeks and saw the horses still had their feeet up and the Basilica looked more beautiful than a soap bubble. The Campanile was in place and the pigeons were going to their nests for the evening.
“How was Africa?” his father said.
“Very savage, father,” the good lion replied.
“We have night lighting here now,” his father said.
“So I see,” the good lion answered like a dutiful son.
“It bothers my eyes a little,” his father confided to him. “Where are you going now, my son?”
“To Harry’s Bar,” the good lion said.
“Remember me to Cipriani and tell him I will be in some day soon to see about my bill,” said his father.
“Yes, father,” said the good lion and he flew down lightly and walked to Harry’s Bar on his own four paws.
In Cipriani’s nothing was changed. All of his friends were there. But he was a little changed himself from being in Africa.
“A Negroni, Signor Barone?” asked Mr. Cipriani.
But the good lion had flown all the way from Africa and Africa had changed him.
“Do you have any Hindu trader sandwiches?” he asked Cipriani.
“No, but I can get some.”
“While you are sending for them, make me a very dry martini.” He added, “With Gordon’s gin.”
“Very good,” said Cipriani. “Very good indeed.”
Now the lion looked about him at the faces of all the nice people and he knew that he was at home but that he had also traveled. He was very happy.
The Faithful Bull
ONE TIME THERE WAS A BULL AND HIS name was not Ferdinand and he cared nothing for flowers. He loved to fight and he fought with all the other bulls of his own age, or any age, and he was a champion.
His horns were as solid as wood and they were as sharply pointed as the quill of a porcupine. They hurt him, at the base, when he fought and he did not