“What do you carry?” Pablo said.
“My things,” Robert Jordan said and set the two packs down a little way apart where the cave opened out on the side away from the table.
“Are they not well outside?” Pablo asked.
“Some one might trip over them in the dark,” Robert Jordan said and walked over to the table and laid the box of cigarettes on it.
“I do not like to have dynamite here in the cave,” Pablo said.
“It is far from the fire,” Robert Jordan said. “Take some cigarettes.” He ran his thumbnail along the side of the paper box with the big colored figure of a warship on the cover and pushed the box toward Pablo.
Anselmo brought him a rawhide-covered stool and he sat down at the table. Pablo looked at him as though he were going to speak again, then reached for the cigarettes.
Robert Jordan pushed them toward the others. He was not looking at them yet. But he noted one man took cigarettes and two did not. All of his concentration was on Pablo.
“How goes it, gypsy?” he said to Rafael.
“Good,” the gypsy said. Robert Jordan could tell they had been talking about him when he came in. Even the gypsy was not at ease.
“She is going to let you eat again?” Robert Jordan asked the gypsy.
“Yes. Why not?” the gypsy said. It was a long way from the friendly joking they had together in the afternoon.
The woman of Pablo said nothing and went on blowing up the coals of the fire.
“One called Agustín says he dies of boredom above,” Robert Jordan said.
“That doesn’t kill,” Pablo said. “Let him die a little.”
“Is there wine?” Robert Jordan asked the table at large, leaning forward, his hands on the table.
“There is little left,” Pablo said sullenly. Robert Jordan decided he had better look at the other three and try to see where he stood.
“In that case, let me have a cup of water. Thou,” he called to the girl. “Bring me a cup of water.”
The girl looked at the woman, who said nothing, and gave no sign of having heard, then she went to a kettle containing water and dipped a cup full. She brought it to the table and put it down before him. Robert Jordan smiled at her. At the same time he sucked in on his stomach muscles and swung a little to the left on his stool so that his pistol slipped around on his belt closer to where he wanted it. He reached his hand down toward his hip pocket and Pablo watched him. He knew they all were watching him, too, but he watched only Pablo. His hand came up from the hip pocket with the leather-covered flask and he unscrewed the top and then, lifting the cup, drank half the water and poured very Slowly from the flask into the cup.
“It is too strong for thee or I would give thee some,” he said to the girl and smiled at her again. “There is little left or I would offer some to thee,” he said to Pablo.
“I do not like anis,” Pablo said.
The acrid smell had carried across the table and he had picked out the one familiar component.
“Good,” said Robert Jordan. “Because there is very little left.”
“What drink is that?” the gypsy asked.
“A medicine,” Robert Jordan said. “Do you want to taste it?”
“What is it for?”
“For everything,” Robert Jordan said. “It cures everything. If you have anything wrong this will cure it.”
“Let me taste it,” the gypsy said.
Robert Jordan pushed the cup toward him. It was a milky yellow now with the water and he hoped the gypsy would not take more than a swallow. There was very little of it left and one cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafés, of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of kiosques, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Company and the Ile de la Cite, of Foyot’s old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea-changing liquid alchemy.