From Chango’s Beads and Two-Tone Shoes by William Kennedy:
Hemingway’s home, Finca Vigia, was twenty minutes southeast of the Floridita, a long, formidably handsome one-story white limestone Spanish Colonial built in 1882, uphill from the town of San Francisco de Paula. From an adjacent four-story white tower where Hemingway famously wrote and kept his cats, there is a distant view of the sea he made famous. Since he moved into the Finca in 1939 it had become a place where the grand and the great among writers, generals, movie stars, journalists, baseball players, sailors, drinkers, and women queued on the front steps to talk, swim, party, flirt with, or just shimmer in the waves of mythic glow that emanated from this maestro to the word, the hunt, the deep sea, the saloon, the bull-ring, the self. The crowd pilgrimaged to this American hero in the way Lazaro’s throng of beseechers crawl on their backs to him. Renata said she’d rather stay in the Buick.
“Nonsense,” Quinn said. “He’ll be good to talk to. He’s already sorry about Cooney. There’s a whole lot more to him than you saw at the bar.”
“I dislike him.”
“You said that. Try again.”
“I have no reason to try.”
“How about his link to Santeria? He gave his Nobel medal to the Virgin del Cobre---in Santiago.”
“He gave the medal to la Virgin? Why?”
“He didn’t trust Batista and his thieves, so he gave to the Cuban people through their patron saint.”
A great and ancient ceiba tree spreading itself magnificently at the front entrance welcomed Quinn and Renata to the Finca, and a middle-aged Cuban women opened the door and said el senor was on the porch She walked them toward Hemingway, who was sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair, wearing a long sport shirt, shorts, sandals, and making notes on a pad. He stood up.
“Mr Quinn. Senorita Suarez. I’m sorry I frightened you the other night.”
“You didn’t frighten me,” Renata said.
“I upset you.”
“You were cruel to Mr Cooney.”
“I wasn’t in my best form. I apologize.”
“Did you go to your dog’s funeral?” Quinn asked.
“I was the funeral,” Hemingway said.
“An old dog?”
“Not so old, still full of hell. Black Dog. One of Batista’s goons bashed in his head with a rifle butt. They were chasing a rebel they thought had guns hidden near my pool. Black Dog didn’t like the soldiers and bit one on the thigh, going for the money. Smartest damn dog in the Western Hemisphere and he’s dead, a casualty of the revolution. Let’s go inside.”
He led them to the living room and gestured them to the sofa, then sat in an overstuffed armchair. The room had full bookcases on every wall and two hunting trophies, the mounted heads of a black-horned gazelle and a seven-point red deer. Rum, gin, bourbon and scotch bottles clustered on a table by his chair. “Too early to drink,” he said, “and my doctor won’t let me have a damn thing.”
“I thought I detected you drinking daiquiris the other night.”
“I was on shore leave.”
“Did the soldiers find those guns by your pool?” Renata asked.
“I hope not.”
“Do you know the rebels?”
“I fish with them.”
Photo courtesy of the BBC from a story by Michael Voss, Rare project saves Hemingway papers. And this is from CBS: