There were only two Americans who were staying at the Italian hotel. They didn't know any of the people whom they passed on the stairs and on their way to and from their room. Their room was situated on the second floor and it was facing the sea. It also faced the public garden where a large monument was proudly aiming at the sky. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was usually an artist with his easel. In this place, artists used to fall in love with the way the palms grew and the bright colours of the hotel façade. Italians used to come from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain.

Now it was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea slipped down the beach just to come up again and take over the new rain from the hot sand. The motor cars were leaving the square with the tall monument. Across the square in the doorway of a café a waiter was looking out at the empty square.

The American lady was safely sheltered in her cosy hotel room. She was standing by the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she wouldn't get wet.

"I'm going down to get that kitty", the American wife said. "The poor kitty out is trying to keep dry under a table".

The husband went on reading while he was lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.

"I want the kitty so much. I don't know why I want it so much. It isn't any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain", the wife said.

"Don't get wet", her husband replied.

The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up as she was passing the office. She opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in the rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the café. Perhaps the cat could go under the eaves. As she was standing in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who was looking after their room. With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She felt a sharp sting of disappointment tearing her body.

Taken from The short stories of Ernest Hemingway, New York, 1987, pp. 165-168

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