“The spending of it’s never done.”
The guitar thudded with chorded applause for the singer. “Good,” Robert Jordan heard some one say. “Give us the Catalan, gypsy.”
“No.”
“Yes. Yes. The Catalan.”
“All right,” the gypsy said and sang mournfully,
“My nose is flat.
“My face is black.
“But still I am a man.”
“Ole!” some one said. “Go on, gypsy!”
The gypsy’s voice rose tragically and mockingly.
“Thank God I am a Negro.
“And not a Catalan!”
“There is much noise,” Pablo’s voice said. “Shut up, gypsy.”
“Yes,” he heard the woman’s voice. “There is too much noise. You could call the guardia civil with that voice and still it has no quality.”
“I know another verse,” the gypsy said and the guitar commenced
“Save it,” the woman told him.
The guitar stopped.
“I am not good in voice tonight. So there is no loss,” the gypsy said and pushing the blanket aside he came out into the dark.
Robert Jordan watched him walk over to a tree and then come toward him.
“Roberto,” the gypsy said softly.
“Yes, Rafael,” he said. He knew the gypsy had been affected by the wine from his voice. He himself had drunk the two absinthes and some wine but his head was clear and cold from the strain of the difficulty with Pablo.
“Why didst thou not kill Pablo?” the gypsy said very softly.
“Why kill him?”
“You have to kill him sooner or later. Why did you not approve of the moment?”
“Do you speak seriously?”
“What do you think they all waited for? What do you think the woman sent the girl away for? Do you believe that it is possible to continue after what has been said?”
“That you all should kill him.”
“Qué va,” the gypsy said quietly. “That is your business. Three or four times we waited for you to kill him. Pablo has no friends.”
“I had the idea,” Robert Jordan said. “But I left it.”
“Surely all could see that. Every one noted your preparations. Why didn’t you do it?”
“I thought it might molest you others or the woman.”
“Qué va. And the woman waiting as a whore waits for the flight of the big bird. Thou art younger than thou appearest.”
“It is possible.”
“Kill him now,” the gypsy urged.
“That is to assassinate.”
“Even better,” the gypsy said very softly. “Less danger. Go on. Kill him now.”
“I cannot in that way. It is repugnant to me and it is not how one should act for the cause.”
“Provoke him then,” the gypsy said. “But you have to kill him. There is no remedy.”
As they spoke, the owl flew between the trees with the softness of all silence, dropping past them, then rising, the wings beating quickly, but with no noise of feathers moving as the bird hunted.
“Look at him,” the gypsy said in the dark. “Thus should men move.”
“And in the day, blind in a tree with crows around him,” Robert Jordan said.
“Rarely,” said the gypsy. “And then by hazard. Kill him,” he went on. “Do not let it become difficult.”
“Now the moment is passed.”
“Provoke it,” the gypsy said. “Or take advantage of the quiet.”
The blanket that closed the cave door opened and light came out. Some one came toward where they stood.
“It is a beautiful night,” the man said in a heavy, dull voice. “We will have good weather.”
It was Pablo.
He was smoking one of the Russian cigarettes and in the glow, as he drew on the cigarette, his round face showed. They could see his heavy, long-armed body in the starlight.
“Do not pay any attention to the woman,” he said to Robert Jordan. In the dark the cigarette glowed bright, then showed in his hand as he lowered it. “She is difficult sometimes. She is a good woman. Very loyal to the Republic.” The light of the cigarette jerked slightly now as he spoke. He must be talking with it in the corner of his mouth, Robert Jordan thought. “We should have no difficulties. We are of accord. I am glad you have come.” The cigarette glowed brightly. “Pay no attention to arguments,” he said. “You are very welcome here.