As a young man I went to Spain to run before the bulls in Pamplona. I knew about the Festival of San Fermin from Hemingway's book The Sun Also Rises and the film that followed, starring Ava Gardner, Tyrone Power, Errol Flynn and Mel Ferrer.
On the morning of the first day, siete de Julio, (July 7th), I was standing outside the Plaza de Tores double-checking tickets and examining the programme for the afternoon's fight. Suddenly I saw him, the centre of a small group not five yards away, the tall, burly figure, crew-cut grey hair, spade beard. Even before I heard the deep American voice I had him copped, unmistakably, "Papa", himself, the great Hemingway.
I was edging a step or two closer, trying to look nonchalant, when, unbelievably, he detached himself from his group and came over to me: "Can I borrow your programme, please?" "Certainly, certainly," I nearly fell over myself handing it to him. Imagine, giving Ernest Hemingway a loan of a bullfight programme!
An invitation
An hour or so later I spotted him and his entourage, sitting in an open-air cafe on the main square. As I was passing shyly, he waved and said: "Hi!" and invited me to sit down and have a glass of wine. His companions eyed me coldly enough, especially one thin-faced fellow with lips like pieces of string who said: "Hadn't we better be going . . . you're not forgetting . . .?"
And Papa said: "Plenty of time" and clapped his hands for the waiter. He ordered a glass, handed it to me and said: "Slainte, Irish," and I nearly fainted at the thought that he'd have learned the word from James Joyce in Paris 40 years before.
I don't remember what we talked about that first time. Being there was all . . . sitting in a cafe in Pamplona with Ernest Hemingway.
When the importuning of Thin Lips deteriorated to a whine he gave in. "Awright, awright". And to me: "He worries too much. Adios." Even when he'd gone people were looking respectfully in my direction. Friend of Mr Hemingway.
Even better was to come. After the bullfight, after the ritual slaughter of the seis to- ros hermosos with its mixture of ballet, bravery and butchery, I came across him again and found myself sitting with him alone, a bottle of wine between us on the table. How we both happened to get detached from our friends I don't remember, but there we were, the two of us sitting like buddies in that Spanish cafe drinking wine. Imagine me, wet behind the ears, looking across the table at the greatest hero of the age, the Great White Hunter, the winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, the inventor of a new literary style. I was an aspiring writer and he was the most famous writer in the world.
Puzzling remarks
I began to talk about his books. He made occasional remarks, most of which I found puzzling. After a while I couldn't escape the conclusion that the man sitting opposite me knew very little about the published works of Ernest Hemingway.
The man sitting opposite me was not, in fact, Hemingway. His name was Frederick J. Hungerford, Jnr, and he liked to go about pretending to be the world's greatest writer. He went to some trouble about it, the hair, the beard; but he hadn't read the books. Hemingway had been told of his activities and that he very occasionally signed Hemingway's name for autograph hunters. Papa - the real Papa - had said: "I don't mind so long as he doesn't start signing my cheques." His act was for tourists only. The Spaniards knew him well. They had even given him a name, "El diente postizo", "The false tooth".
Passers-by
After the disappointment, a new game began. It was fun to be there with him and watch the reactions of passers-by. People would get his autograph, look at it and say: "But, Mr Hemingway, I asked for your autograph," and old Fred would say: "You asked me to write my name and I wrote my name." And they'd go away, smiling, thinking it was some huge Hemingway joke that they just didn't understand.
When Thin Lips joined us, he seemed to have mellowed. Maybe he had had a glass or two of wine. He introduced himself as "Angus McNab" which I took to be another cover-up identity, a name chosen at random from the cast-list of Brigadoon. I thought it was pushing it a bit, though, when he claimed to be an expert on bullfighting and, indeed, to have written a book on the subject. I declined his invitation to go to his hotel for an autographed copy.
As I left them, I wondered if their common bond was the fact that they lived fantasy lives.
Postscript One: Weeks later, in Foyle's Bookshop, London, I inquired about a book on bullfighting by Angus McNab. Instead of bursting out laughing, as I half expected, the assistant brought out this huge volume, The Bulls of Andalusia, by Angus McNab, costing about £50. The photograph on the dust cover was of old Thin Lips himself, no mistake about that. It was the authoritative work on the subject, I was told.
Postscript Two: It was only a year or two later that Hemingway put a shotgun in his mouth and blew his head off. I wonder what became of poor Frederick J. Hungerford, Jnr.
