“Nay, ‘Inglés’,” he said. “Do not provoke me.” He looked at Pilar and said to her, “It is not thus that you get rid of me.”
“‘Sinverguenza’,” Robert Jordan said to him, committed now in his own mind to the action. “‘Cobarde’.”
“It is very possible,” Pablo said. “But I am not to be provoked. Take something to drink, ‘Inglés’, and signal to the woman it was not successful.”
“Shut thy mouth,” Robert Jordan said. “I provoke thee for myself.”
“It is not worth the trouble,” Pablo told him. “I do not provoke.”
“Thou art a ‘bicho raro’,” Robert Jordan said, not wanting to let it go; not wanting to have it fail for the second time; knowing as he spoke that this had all been gone through before; having that feeling that he was playing a part from memory of something that he had read or had dreamed, feeling it all moving in a circle.
“Very rare, yes,” Pablo said. “Very rare and very drunk. To your health, ‘Inglés’.” He dipped a cup in the wine bowl and held it up. “‘Salud y cojones’.”
He’s rare, all right, Robert Jordan thought, and smart, and very complicated. He could no longer hear the fire for the sound of his own breathing.
“Here’s to you,” Robert Jordan said, and dipped a cup into the wine. Betrayal wouldn’t amount to anything without all these pledges, he thought. Pledge up. “‘Salud’,” he said. “‘Salud’ and ‘Salud’ again,” you ‘salud’, he thought. ‘Salud’, you ‘salud’.
“Don Roberto,” Pablo said heavily.
“Don Pablo,” Robert Jordan said.
“You’re no professor,” Pablo said, “because you haven’t got a beard. And also to do away with me you have to assassinate me and, for this, you have not ‘cojones’.”
He was looking at Robert Jordan with his mouth closed so that his lips made a tight line, like the mouth of a fish, Robert Jordan thought. With that head it is like one of those porcupine fish that swallow air and swell up after they are caught.
“‘Salud’, Pablo,” Robert Jordan said and raised the cup up and drank from it. “I am learning much from thee.”
“I am teaching the professor,” Pablo nodded his head. “Come on, Don Roberto, we will be friends.”
“We are friends already,” Robert Jordan said.
“But now we will be good friends.”
“We are good friends already.”
“I’m going to get out of here,” Agustín said. “Truly, it is said that we must eat a ton of it in this life but I have twenty-five pounds of it stuck in each of my ears this minute.”
“What is the matter, ‘negro?'” Pablo said to him. “Do you not like to see friendship between Don Roberto and me?”
“Watch your mouth about calling me ‘negro’.” Agustín went over to him and stood in front of Pablo holding his hands low.
“So you are called,” Pablo said.
“Not by thee.”
“Well, then, ‘blanco’—”
“Nor that, either.”
“What are you then, Red?”
“Yes. Red. ‘Rojo’. With the Red star of the army and in favor of the Republic. And my name is Agustín.”
“What a patriotic man,” Pablo said. “Look, ‘Inglés’, what an exemplary patriot.”
Agustín hit him hard across the mouth with his left hand, bringing it forward in a slapping, backhand sweep. Pablo sat there. The corners of his mouth were wine-stained and his expression did not change, but Robert Jordan watched his eyes narrow, as a cat’s pupils close to vertical slits in a strong light.
“Nor this,” Pablo said. “Do not count on this, woman.” He turned his head toward Pilar. “I am not provoked.”
Agustín hit him again. This time he hit him on the mouth with his closed fist. Robert Jordan was holding his pistol in his hand under the table. He had shoved the safety catch off and he pushed Maria away with his left hand. She moved a little way and he pushed her hard in the ribs with his left hand again to make her get really away. She was gone now and he saw her from the corner of his eye, slipping along the side of the cave toward the fire and now Robert Jordan watched Pablo’s face.
The round-headed man sat staring at Agustín from his flat little eyes. The pupils were even smaller now. He licked his lips then, put up an arm and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down and saw the blood on his hand. He ran his tongue over his lips, then spat.
“Nor that,” he said. “I am not a fool. I do not provoke.”
“‘Cabrón’,” Agustín said.
“You should know,” Pablo said. “You know the woman.”
Agustín hit him again hard in the mouth and Pablo laughed at him, showing the yellow, bad, broken teeth in the reddened line of his mouth.
“Leave it alone,” Pablo said and reached with a cup to scoop some wine from the bowl. “Nobody here has ‘cojones’ to kill me and this of the hands is silly.”
“‘Cobarde’,” Agustín said.
“Nor words either,” Pablo said and made a swishing noise rinsing the wine in his mouth. He spat on the floor. “I am far past words.”
Agustín stood there looking down at him and cursed him, speaking slowly, clearly, bitterly and contemptuously and cursing as steadily as though he were dumping manure on a field, lifting it with a dung fork out of a wagon.
“Nor of those,” Pablo said. “Leave it, Agustín. And do not hit me more. Thou wilt injure thy hands.”
Agustín turned from him and went to the door.
“Do not go out,” Pablo said. “It is snowing outside. Make thyself comfortable in here.”
“And thou! Thou!” Agustín turned from the door and spoke to him, putting all his contempt in the single, “‘Tu’.”
“Yes, me,” said Pablo. “I will be alive when you are dead.”
He dipped up another cup of wine and raised it to Robert Jordan. “To the professor,” he said. Then turned to Pilar. “To the Señora Commander.” Then toasted them all, “To all the illusioned ones.”
Agustín walked over to him and, striking quickly with the side of his hand, knocked the cup out of his hand.
“That is a waste,” Pablo said. “That is silly.”
Agustín said something vile to him.
“No,” Pablo said, dipping up another cup. “I am drunk, seest thou? When I am not drunk I do not talk. You have never heard me talk much. But an intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend his time with fools.”
“Go and obscenity in the milk of thy cowardice,” Pilar said to him. “I know too much about thee and thy cowardice.”
“How the woman talks,” Pablo said. “I will be going out to see the horses.”
“Go and befoul them,” Agustín said. “Is not that one of thy customs?”
“No,” Pablo said and shook his head. He was taking down his big blanket cape from the wall and he looked at Agustín. “Thou,” he said, “and thy violence.”
“What do you go to do with the horses?” Agustín said.
“Look to them,” Pablo said.
“Befoul them,” Agustín said. “Horse lover.”
“I care for them very much,” Pablo said. “Even from behind they are handsomer and have more sense than these people. Divert yourselves,” he said and grinned. “Speak to them of the bridge, ‘Inglés’. Explain their duties in the attack. Tell them how to conduct the retreat. Where will you take them, ‘Inglés’, after the bridge? Where will you take your patriots? I have thought of it all day while I have been drinking.”
“What have you thought?” Agustín asked.
“What have I thought?” Pablo said and moved his tongue around exploringly inside his lips. “‘Qué te importa’, what have I thought.”
“Say it,” Agustín said to him.
“Much,” Pablo said. He pulled the blanket coat over his head, the roundness of his head protruding now from the dirty yellow folds of the blanket. “I have thought much.”
“What?” Agustín said. “What?”
“I have thought you are a group of illusioned people,” Pablo said. “Led by a woman with her brains between her thighs and a foreigner who comes to destroy you.”
“Get out,” Pilar shouted at him. “Get out and fist yourself into the snow. Take your bad milk out of here, you horse exhausted ‘maricon’.”
“Thus one talks,” Agustín said admiringly, but absent-mindedly. He was worried.
“I go,” said Pablo. “But I will be back shortly.” He lifted the blanket over the door of the cave and stepped out. Then from the door he called, “It’s still falling, ‘Inglés’.”
17
The only noise in the cave now was the hissing from the hearth where snow was falling through the hole in the roof onto the coals of the fire.
“Pilar,” Fernando said. “Is there more of the stew?”
“Oh, shut up,” the woman said. But Maria took Fernando’s bowl over to the big pot set back from the edge of the fire and ladled into it. She brought it over to the table and set it down and then patted Fernando on the shoulder as he bent to eat. She stood for a moment beside him, her hand on his shoulder. But Fernando did not look up. He was devoting himself to the stew.
Agustín stood beside the fire. The others were seated. Pilar sat at the table opposite Robert Jordan.
“Now, ‘Inglés’,” she said, “you have seen how he is.”
“What will he do?” Robert Jordan asked.
“Anything,” the woman looked down at the table. “Anything. He is capable of doing anything.”
“Where is the automatic rifle?” Robert Jordan asked.
“There in the corner wrapped in the blanket,” Primitivo said. “Do you want it?”
“Later,” Robert Jordan said. “I wished to know where it is.”
“It is there,” Primitivo said. “I brought it in and I have wrapped it in my blanket to keep
