America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Hemingway arrived in New York at noon on the third day.

He didn't notify anyone in advance to pick him up, and walked out of Central Station carrying an old leather suitcase and wearing a worn brown jacket.

The wind was strong in New York in November, making him squint. He bought a copy of the New York Herald from a newsstand outside the station, flipped to page two, and found the column, "Yes, Mayor."

He stood in the cold wind and finished reading the latest issue, folded the newspaper, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and hailed a taxi.

"Go to the New York Herald."

The neighborhood where the newspaper was located was more dilapidated than Hemingway had imagined.

It was an old four-story building, with some of the bricks and stones on the exterior walls already peeling off. The first floor was the printing workshop, and the roar of the machines could be heard even through the glass doors.

Hemingway pushed open the door and walked to the front desk. A middle-aged woman looked up.

"I'm looking for Arthur Kennedy."

The woman glanced at him. "Do you have an appointment?"

"no."

"Mr. Kennedy is very busy right now. You can leave your name and contact information."

"Tell him that Ernest Hemingway is looking for him."

The woman's expression changed. She had clearly heard of this name before. She picked up the phone and dialed an extension number.

"Mr. Kennedy, a Mr. Hemingway is looking for you. Yes, Ernest Hemingway."

After hanging up the phone, her attitude became more respectful.

"Mr. Kennedy requests your presence upstairs. Third floor, the office at the end of the corridor."

Hemingway walked up the stairs. The wooden stairs creaked under his feet. In the third-floor corridor, there were piles of old newspapers and cardboard boxes, and a few young editors hurried by, carrying manuscripts in their hands.

The door to the office at the far end was open, and a young man stood in the doorway. He had black hair, was tall and handsome, and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong muscles.

Hemingway guessed that it must be Arthur Kennedy.

"Mr. Hemingway."

"Mr. Kennedy."

The two shook hands. Hemingway's hands were rough, the marks of years of fishing and typing. Arthur's hands had calluses from using fountain pens.

The office was small, with an old wooden table by the window, piled high with manuscripts and newspapers. Several clippings and photos were pasted on the wall.

Hemingway sat down.

Arthur sat down opposite him and said in a friendly manner, "I just received your letter this morning. I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly."

A young woman came in carrying two cups of coffee. She glanced at Hemingway, gently put down the cups, and then left.

Hemingway recognized her as Isabella Harrison; he had seen her in a newspaper photograph.

"That's Miss Harrison," Arthur said.

"I know."

Hemingway picked up his coffee, took a sip, and exchanged a few pleasantries:

"Your article is very well written."

"Thanks."

Hemingway put down his cup and emphasized:

"This isn't just polite talk. I say it's good because it's useful. Good writing should be useful. It should either make people think or make them act. Your writing does both."

Hemingway's appearance and manner of speaking were exactly as Arthur had imagined: a tough, combative man.

Arthur smiled and said, "You said in your letter that we are all people who fight with words."

Hemingway took out his cigarette case from his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and asked Arthur, "Is that alright?"

After Arthur agreed, Hemingway lit a cigarette, slowly exhaled a smoke ring, and then said:

"I fought in Italy, real combat. Bullets, artillery fire, death. But when I returned to America, I discovered there was combat here too. Only the weapons were different. Your weapon is irony. My weapon is reality. But the goal is the same: to tear apart the lies."

Arthur nodded. "I agree."

Hemingway then continued:

"But your situation is more dangerous than mine. You know where the enemy is, but you can't directly attack them with guns. So you have to use other methods. Your 'Yes, Mayor' is one method. But I think you can do more."

Arthur leaned forward and asked, "For example?"

Hemingway took another puff and slowly exhaled the smoke.

"When I was in Paris, I knew some playwrights. They wrote plays and performed them on stage. The audience sat in the audience watching the actors portray the stupidity of bureaucrats and the hypocrisy of politicians. It was very effective. Laughter is sometimes more powerful than literature."

"You mean, adapt 'Yes, Mayor' into a stage play?"

"Yes. Articles can only circulate in newspapers. But stage plays can be performed in theaters, can tour, and can be understood by more illiterate people. Workers, immigrants, housewives. These people may not buy newspapers, but they will go to see plays."

Arthur considered the suggestion. It would be a good idea to bring these scenes to the stage and have them performed by actors.

However, he hadn't considered this approach before: "But theater needs actors, theaters, and production teams. That requires money and connections."

"You can find people. There are people in New York who are willing to sponsor this kind of play. Left-wing theater companies, unions, even some wealthy idealists. The key is that you have to write a good script."

"I have never written a screenplay."

"I don't have that either. But the essence of writing is the same. A good story is a good story. You can learn from it."

The two remained silent for a moment. The faint roar of the printing press downstairs could be heard.

Suddenly, Arthur thought of what a future American emperor would do, and immediately said, "There's another possibility. A radio drama."

Hemingway raised an eyebrow: "Broadcast? Broadcast on a radio?"

"Yes. More and more families now have radios. People sit in the living room in the evenings listening to the news, music, and comedy shows."

"If we turn 'Yes, Mayor' into a radio drama and broadcast one episode a week, it can reach thousands of households directly. No need to buy tickets, no need to go to the theater. Just turn on the radio and you can hear it."

Hemingway pondered the idea. He recalled how, at his home in Key West, he would listen to the news on the radio in the evenings.

Arthur continued to explain:

"Radio is also much harder to control completely. Newspapers can be bought out, theaters can be shut down. But radio signals can travel very far. Moreover, radio has a sense of intimacy. Listeners feel that the announcer is speaking to them alone."

Hemingway stubbed out his cigarette.

"You can do both. Stage plays are for intellectuals and workers. Radio dramas are for housewives and ordinary citizens. Different channels, different audiences."

Arthur was somewhat intrigued, but still unsure, and continued, "But this requires the collaboration of many people: screenwriters, actors, directors, and technical staff. Unfortunately, I don't have the resources for that yet."

Hemingway paused, looking at Arthur:

"I know some people in New York. Writers, journalists, artists. Some are rich, some are influential. We can organize. You're fighting alone. It's brave, but it's also foolish. You need allies, real allies."

"Would you be willing to help me?" Arthur asked.

"I'm not here to help you. I'm here to join the fight. Your fight is my fight too. Only the battlefields are different," Hemingway said.

There was a gentle knock on the office door. Isabella pushed the door open and entered, saying softly:

"Excuse me, Mr. Hemingway, two gentlemen downstairs are looking for you. They say they have an appointment with you."

Hemingway glanced at his watch and said to Arthur:

"I'm the one who sent them. You should meet them."