“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.”