Verne and Ernest Hemingway. ®.

 Verne and Hemingway. ®.

(In the Spanish Civil War)

Short Stories.

Episode. 7.

Serie Sueños Verne.

Jorge Ofitas Author. ®.

Verne, concerned by the imminent shadow of a new world war, felt an urgent need to understand the conflicts that forge the human soul. As always, he resorted to his potion, a substance that not only allowed him to travel through time but also through the currents of consciousness and history. But this time, his destination wasn't just a year or a place, but a key figure: Ernest Hemingway. He knew that to grasp the pulse of the great conflict looming in the near future, he had to go to the source, to the eyes of one who had already felt the fury of cannons. His destination, therefore, was Spain in 1937, though unaware that his search would lead him to an unexpected corner of the south.

The world around Verne dissolved into a whirlwind of colors and sensations. As he materialized, the first thing that struck him wasn't the chaos of war, but the soft murmur of waves and the salty smell of the sea. He was on a secluded beach in southern Spain, the sun shining intensely on the golden sand. There was no trace of the battle he expected, only an almost unreal peace.

Verne stood up, shaking the sand from his clothes. Perplexity etched his face. Had he made a mistake in his calculations? He walked a few steps along the shore, searching for any sign of civilization or conflict. It was then that, in the distance, he spotted a small fishing boat and, next to it, the unmistakable silhouette of an old man with deep wrinkles and weathered hands, holding a fishing line.

Verne's heart skipped a beat. That man, with his air of stoic solitude and his gaze fixed on the horizon, wasn't Ernest Hemingway, but he was someone Verne knew as well as his own characters. It was Santiago, the Old Man of the Sea. Verne had read him, had felt his struggle within the pages.

He approached slowly, the sea breeze stirring his hair. Surprise prevented him from speaking immediately. How was this possible? Had he traveled not only to the past, but also into a literary work... again? And, if so, where was Hemingway?

Verne tried to call out, gesturing with his arms from the shoreline, waving them desperately. But Santiago remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the vast blue of the ocean, as if Verne didn't exist, as if he were an invisible breeze or another ripple in the air. Frustration and a growing sense of unreality overwhelmed Verne.

It was then that he heard nearby footsteps on the sand, a rhythmic sound that wasn't the waves. He turned and saw a robust man, with a broad smile on his face and a mischievous glint in his eyes, walking leisurely along the shore. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand, and his relaxed demeanor contrasted with the tension Verne felt. It was Ernest Hemingway.

—What's up, young man? You look a bit lost. Are you looking for something in particular on this edge of the world? —Hemingway said, his voice gruff yet friendly, offering him the wine bottle.

Verne, recovering, took a drink, the "special magic" in his pocket already taking effect, softening his surprise and opening his mind.

—Ernest Hemingway, I presume —Verne said, with a smile—. Jules Verne, novelist. And yes, I'm looking for something. I seek understanding. I come from a time where the echoes of another great war threaten to erupt, and I need to comprehend the madness that has led humanity to conflicts like this. I've come to see you, knowing you were at the heart of it.

Hemingway nodded gravely, his smile fading, but the warmth remained in his eyes. He gestured towards the nearby sand.

—Come. This isn't a place to talk about what we saw while standing.

They walked a few meters from the shore, where Hemingway spread an old blanket on the sand, under the gentle sea breeze. They sat, the waves breaking rhythmically. Hemingway took a long drink of wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

—Madness, you say? —Hemingway began, his voice now grave, each word heavy with meaning—. War, my friend Verne, is a ravenous beast. Here, in Spain, we've seen its first bite. It's the rot of the human soul, ambition, fear, twisted ideology... all fermenting until it explodes. I've seen men fight with indomitable courage for a cause they believed in, and I've seen the vilest cruelty born of blind hatred. There's no glory in war, Verne, only sacrifice and loss. You fight for what you love, yes, but you always lose more than you gain.

Hemingway took another drink, then continued, his gaze now fixed on Verne, a spark of deep recognition.

—What you'll see after Spain, that Second World War you speak of, is just the beast growing. Bigger, bloodier, with more machinery for destruction. The lesson is always the same: man is capable of the most sublime and the most atrocious. War isn't just about fronts and strategies, but about the shattered human heart, the constant choice between despair and dignity. The survivors aren't the strongest, but those who, in some way, manage to cling to a fragment of humanity, however small.

Verne listened, his gaze fixed on Hemingway's weathered face. The author's words weren't a report of facts, but a raw and essential testimony of the human soul under pressure. He understood that the next war, and perhaps the one he feared in his own time, weren't merely historical events, but repetitions of the same painful lesson about man's unchanging nature. Hemingway's wisdom wasn't found in history books, but etched into the soul by blood and experience. Hemingway's gaze softened, a smile appeared, one that went beyond mere literary knowledge.

—I always felt a connection to your vision, Jules. That ability of yours to see beyond, to intuit futures that others only dreamed of. It's not your books I recognize, although they are grand, but the light you projected, that very light that made you a visionary, ahead of your time. It's good to finally see you. Though, of course, you couldn't have known. Not everyone is prepared to see as far or as clearly as you.

Verne felt a chill. Hemingway's familiarity wasn't just that of a colleague or a reader, but of a kindred spirit, capable of perceiving that uniqueness he himself didn't always fully grasp. Reality bent again, revealing invisible connections.

They were finishing the last of the wine bottle when, from the shore, a familiar figure approached, walking slowly on the sand. It was Santiago, the old fisherman, the late afternoon sun reflecting on his face and, surprisingly, a large fish in his hand, a magnificent specimen, without the marks of the fierce struggle with the sharks that Verne remembered from the novel. Santiago, with silent dignity, placed the fish by the boat and sat near them, looking out at the sea.

Hemingway smiled, a satisfied smile that was more than simple joy. He looked at Santiago, then at Verne, and finally returned his gaze to the sea.

—This time the sharks didn't eat it, did they, old man? —Hemingway said, his voice soft, with a hint of triumph in the question that only Santiago and Verne seemed to understand.

Verne, comprehending the meta-literary miracle he had just witnessed —a story rewritten, a destiny altered—, nodded, a tear of wonder and hope welling in his eyes. He understood then that intervening in time wasn't just about traveling, but also, perhaps, the opportunity for humanity to write a different ending to its own tragedies. He looked at Hemingway. On his face, weathered by life and war, Verne no longer saw the shadow of a known tragic end, but the immortality of a spirit that endures in his characters, in his words, and in the minds of those who read him, a testament that the essence of a being transcends its physical destiny.

The air around Verne began to vibrate, the potion announcing his return.

—Thank you, Ernest —Verne said, standing up, with a new and profound understanding in his gaze—. 

Thank you for the lessons. For your truth.

With a final glance at Hemingway and Santiago, who now seemed more real than ever, an intense glow enveloped him, and with a sudden blink, Jules Verne vanished. He left behind the whisper of the waves, the smell of salt, and the stillness of a beach where, for an instant, fiction and reality had danced, rewriting destinies.

END

Short Storie Author: 

Jorge Ofitas.

Europe: 2025. ®.