The Shotgun

July had just begun and it was only nineteen days short of his sixty-second birthday . Although the sun had just risen, , that Sunday was going to be sultry. But he didn’t care: he would no longer have to endure the summer heat … which was the least of all possible evils. He felt watched, controlled, maybe even followed by Hoover’s special agents, but no one seemed to believe him when he said he was surrounded by enemies.
Even the night before, when they had dined at the restaurant, at his favourite corner booth, table five, there were two FBI agents observing him from a table a little farther on.
Back home, he had heard Mary sing from her room: it was an Italian song that brought back so many memories. Then, before she closed her door, he whispered “Good night my kitten”-
He had got up early and had put on his robe over his blue pyjamas, and on his feet the moccasins he used as slippers. He had to search for the keys. He found them easily because Mary had left them on the window sill above the kitchen sink. He took them and went down to the basement storeroom where his guns were kept. He unlocked the door, entered, chose his favorite shotgun, the weapon he had used so often it might have been a friend. It was a double-barrelled shotgun with which he liked to shoot pigeons, purchased from Abercrombie & Fitch.
He pocketed a couple of shells and climbed back up the stairs. He walked across the living room , and stopped in the front oak-panelled entrance foyer.

He had always known how it would end: since his father committed suicide in 1928 he had thought that he too would probably go the same way.
He slid a shell into each barrel, snapped the gun shut, secured it against the floor, leaned over it and put the double barrel in his mouth. The taste of the metal wasn’t all that disgusting… he pulled the trigger and fired.
It was 7.30 am.

︻╦╤─

American novelist, short story writer, and journalist Ernest Hemingway died on 2 July 1961

For the past few months he had constantly been worried about money and his safety, had spent his time fighting depression and paranoia, seeing enemies at every turn and thinking that the FBI was actively monitoring his movements. He had also threatened suicide and , anxiety-ridden and depressed, had been hospitalized twice where he had received electroshock treatments.
Two days after his return home, at the end of June 1961, he decided it was time to end it all.

Final note

It was later found out that Hemingway had really been hounded by J Edgar Hoover’s FBI agents since the 1940s. suspicious of his links with Cuba or even a decade earlier, because of his support for the Republican (socialist) government in Spain during the Spanish Civil War. J. Edgar Hoover had denounced him as a “premature anti-fascist”
Though his friends dismissed all his fears. Hem was keenly aware of that as later discovered that Hemingway had indeed been persecuted by J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI agents since the 1940s, suspicious of his ties to Cuba or even from a decade earlier, for the support given to the republican (socialist) government in Spain during the Spanish Civil War. Hoover had flagged him as a “premature anti-fascist”.
Though his friends rejected all fears of him, Hem was keenly aware of that constant, suffocating surveillance and, in response he drank heavily, became more and more morose and paranoid. The Bureau’s zeal and efforts to obtain any sort of damaging information on him contributed greatly to his suicide.

Era appena iniziato luglio e mancavano solo diciannove giorni al suo sessantaduesimo compleanno. Sebbene il sole fosse appena sorto, quella domenica si preannunciava afosa. A lui però non importava: non avrebbe più dovuto sopportare a lungo la calura estiva… che poi era il minore dei mali. Si sentiva osservato, controllato, pedinato, probabilmente erano agenti dell’FBI, ma nessuno sembrava prestargli fede quando diceva di essere accerchiato da nemici.
Anche la sera prima, quando avevano cenato al ristorante, seduti al suo tavolino d’angolo preferito, il tavolo cinque, gli sembrava che due agenti lo stessero sorvegliando da un tavolo poco più in là.
Tornati a casa, aveva sentito Mary canticchiare dalla sua camera: era una canzone italiana che gli riportava alla memoria tanti ricordi. Poi, prima che lei chiudesse la porta, le aveva sussurrato “ Buona notte, gattina mia”

Si era alzato presto e aveva indossato la vestaglia sopra al pigiama blu, e ai piedi i mocassini che usava come pantofole. Doveva mettersi alla ricerca delle chiavi. Le trovò facilmente perché Mary le aveva lasciate sul davanzale della finestra sopra il lavello della cucina. Le prese e scese nel ripostiglio sotterraneo dove erano conservate le sue armi. Aprì la porta, entrò , scelse il suo fucile da caccia preferito, quell’arma che aveva usato così spesso da essere quasi considerata un amico. Era un fucile a canna doppia con cui gli piaceva sparare ai piccioni, acquistato da Abercrombie & Fitch.
Si mise in tasca un paio di proiettili e risalì al piano di sopra. Attraversò il soggiorno fino nell’atrio d’ingresso rivestito di quercia.
Sapeva già da tempo come sarebbe andata a finire, da quando suo padre si era suicidato nel 1928 e lui aveva pensato che probabilmente anche lui se ne sarebbe andato allo stesso modo.
Fece scivolare un proiettile in ogni canna, assicurò il calcio contro il pavimento, si chinò sul fucile e mise la canna in bocca. Il sapore del metallo non era poi così disgustoso… premette il grilletto e fece fuoco.
Erano le 7,30.

︻╦╤─

Lo scrittore e giornalista statunitense Ernest Hemingway morì il 2 luglio 1961.
Dalla alcuni mesi era caduto in una spirale di depressione e paranoia, era costantemente preoccupato per il denaro e la sua sicurezza, vedeva nemici ad ogni angolo ed era convinto che l’FBI stesse monitorando costantemente i suoi movimenti. Aveva anche minacciato il suicidio ed era stato ricoverato due volte in ospedale dove era stato sottoposto anche a elettroshock.
Due giorni dopo il suo ritorno a casa a fine giugno del 1961, decise che era giunto il momento di farla finita

Nota finale

Successivamente fu scoperto che Hemingway era stato davvero perseguitato da agenti dell’FBI di J. Edgar Hoover dagli anni ’40, sospettosi dei suoi legami con Cuba o addirittura da un decennio prima, per il sostegno dato al governo repubblicano (socialista) in Spagna durante la guerra civile spagnola. Hoover lo aveva segnalato come un “antifascista prematuro”.
Anche se i suoi amici respinsero tutti i suoi timori, Hem era profondamente consapevole di quella sorveglianza continua, asfissiante e, come reazione, cominciò a bere molto, diventando sempre più cupo, e paranoico. Lo zelo e gli sforzi del Bureau per ottenere qualsiasi tipo di informazione che potesse danneggiarlo contribuirono notevolmente al suo suicidio.

Image: Reddit: RogerThatRubberDucky