GARDEN OF EDEN by Ernest Hemingway

Now there was no danger and no emergency. It was only disaster now. But it couldn’t be. She must have hidden them someplace. They could be in the storeroom, or in their own room, or she could have put them in Marita’s room. She couldn’t really have destroyed them. No one could do that to a fellow human being. He still could not believe that she had done it but he felt sick inside himself when he closed and locked the door.

The two girls were at the bar when David came in. Marita looked up at him and saw how things were and Catherine watched him come in by looking at the mirror. She did not look at him, only at his reflection in the mirror.

“Where did you put them, Devil?” David asked.

She turned away from the mirror and looked at him. “I won’t tell you,” she said. “I took care of them.”

“I wish you’d tell me,” David said. “Because I need them very much.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “They were worthless and I hated them.”

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. .

“Not the one about Kibo,” David said. “You loved Kibo. Don’t you remember?”

“He had to go too. I was going to tear him out and keep him but I couldn’t find him. Anyway you said he was dead.”

David saw Marita look at her and look away. Then she looked back. “Where did you burn them, Catherine?”

“I won’t tell you either,” Catherine said. “You’re part of the same thing.”

“Did you burn them with the clipping?” David asked.

“I won’t tell you,” Catherine said. “You talk to me like a policeman or at school.”

“Tell me, Devil. I only want to know.”

“I paid for them,” Catherine said. “I paid the money to do them.”

“I know,” David said. “It was very generous of you. Where did you burn them, Devil?”

“I won’t tell her.”

“No. Just tell me.”

“Ask her to go away.

“I really have to go anyway,” Marita said. “I’ll see you later, Catherine.”

“That’s good,” Catherine said. “It wasn’t your fault, Heiress.” David sat on the tall stool by Catherine and she looked in the mirror and watched Marita go out of the room.

“Where did you burn them, Devil?” David asked. “You can tell me now.

“She wouldn’t understand,” Catherine said. “That’s why I wanted her to go.

“I know,” said David. “Where did you burn them, Devil?”

“In the iron drum with holes that Madame uses to burn trash,” Catherine said.

“Did everything burn up?”

“Yes. I poured on some petrol from a bidon in the remise. It

made a big fire and everything burned. I did it for you, David, and for all of us.”

“I’m sure you did,” David said. “Did everything burn?”

“Oh yes. We can go out and look if you like but it isn’t necessary. The paper all burned black and I stirred it up with a stick.”

“I’ll just go out and have a look,” David said.

“But you’ll be back,” Catherine said.

“Sure,” David said.

The burning had been in the trash burner which was a former fifty-five-gallon gasoline drum with holes punched in it. The stick used to stir the ashes, and still freshly blackened on one end, was an old broom handle which had been used in this capacity before. The bidon was in the stone shed and contained kerosene. In the drum were a few identifiable charred bits of the green covers of the cahiers, and David found scraps of burnt newsprint and two charred bits of pink paper which he identified as those used by the Romeike’s clipping service. On one he could dis tinguish the Providence RI dateline. The ashes had been well stirred but there would doubtless have been more unburned or charred material if he had cared to sift or examine them patiently. He tore the pink paper with Providence RI printed on it into small pieces and dropped them in the former gasoline drum which he had replaced in an upright position. He reflected that he had never been in Providence, Rhode Island, and replacing the broom handle in the stone shed, where he noticed the presence of his racing bicycle, the tires of which needed inflation, he re entered the kitchen of the hotel, which was empty, and pro ceeded to the salon where he joined his wife Catherine at the bar.

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