"Listen," he said to Anselmo. "I'm awfully glad to see you."
"And me to see thee," the old man said.
As they went up the hill in the dark, the wind at their backs, the storm blowing past them as they climbed, Anselmo did not feel lonely. He had not been lonely since the Ingles had clapped him on the shoulder. The Ingles was pleased and happy and they joked together. The Ingles said it all went well and he was not worried. The drink in his stomach warmed him and his feet were warming now climbing.
"Not much on the road," he said to the Ingles.
"Good," the Ingles told him. "You will show me when we get there."
Anselmo was happy now and he was very pleased that he had stayed there at the post of observation.
If he had come in to camp it would have been all right. It would have been the intelligent and correct thing to have done under the circumstances, Robert Jordan was thinking. But he stayed as he was told, Robert Jordan thought. That's the rarest thing that can happen in Spain. To stay in a storm, in a way, corresponds to a lot of things. It's not for nothing that the Germans call an attack a storm. I could certainly use a couple more who would stay. I most certainly could. I wonder if that Fernando would stay. It's just possible. After all, he is the one who suggested coming out just now. Do you suppose he would stay? Wouldn't that be good? He's just about stubborn enough. I'll have to make some inquiries. Wonder what the old cigar store Indian is thinking about now.
"What are you thinking about, Fernando?" Robert Jordan asked.
"Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity," Robert Jordan said. "I am a man of great curiosity."
"I was thinking of supper," Fernando said.
"Do you like to eat?"
"Yes. Very much."
"How's Pilar's cooking?"
"Average," Fernando answered.
He's a second Coolidge, Robert Jordan thought. But, you know, I have just a hunch that he would stay.
The three of them plodded up the hill in the snow.
16
"El Sordo was here," Pilar said to Robert Jordan. They had come in out of the storm to the smoky warmth of the cave and the woman had motioned Robert Jordan over to her with a nod of her head. "He's gone to look for horses."
"Good. Did he leave any word for me?"
"Only that he had gone for horses."
"And we?"
"No se," she said. "Look at him."
Robert Jordan had seen Pablo when he came in and Pablo had grinned at him. Now he looked over at him sitting at the board table and grinned and waved his hand.
"Ingles," Pablo called. "It's still falling, Ingles."
Robert Jordan nodded at him.
"Let me take thy shoes and dry them," Maria said. "I will hang them here in the smoke of the fire."
"Watch out you don't burn them," Robert Jordan told her. "I don't want to go around here barefoot. What's the matter?" he turned to Pilar. "Is this a meeting? Haven't you any sentries out?"
"In this storm? Que va."
There were six men sitting at the table and leaning back against the wall. Anselmo and Fernando were still shaking the snow from their jackets, beating their trousers and rapping their feet against the wall by the entrance.
"Let me take thy jacket," Maria said. "Do not let the snow melt on it."
Robert Jordan slipped out of his jacket, beat the snow from his trousers, and untied his shoes.
"You will get everything wet here," Pilar said.
"It was thee who called me."
"Still there is no impediment to returning to the door for thy brushing."
"Excuse me," Robert Jordan said, standing in his bare feet on the dirt floor. "Hunt me a pair of socks, Maria."
"The Lord and Master," Pilar said and poked a piece of wood into the fire.
"Hay que aprovechar el tiempo," Robert Jordan told her. "You have to take advantage of what time there is."
"It is locked," Maria said.
"Here is the key," and he tossed it over.
"It does not fit this sack."
"It is the other sack. They are on top and at the side."
The girl found the pair of socks, closed the sack, locked it and brought them over with the key.
"Sit down and put them on and rub thy feet well," she said. Robert Jordan grinned at her.
"Thou canst not dry them with thy hair?" he said for Pilar to hear.
"What a swine," she said. "First he is the Lord of the Manor. Now he is our ex-Lord Himself. Hit him with a chunk of wood, Maria."
"Nay," Robert Jordan said to her. "I am joking because I am happy."
"You are happy?"
"Yes," he said. "I think everything goes very well."
"Roberto," Maria said. "Go sit down and dry thy feet and let me bring thee something to drink to warm thee."
"You would think that man had never dampened foot before," Pilar said. "Nor that a flake of snow had ever fallen."
Maria brought him a sheepskin and put it on the dirt floor of the cave.
"There," she said. "Keep that under thee until thy shoes are dry."
The sheepskin was fresh dried and not tanned and as Robert Jordan rested his stocking feet on it he could feel it crackle like parchment.
The fire was smoking and Pilar called to Maria, "Blow up the fire, worthless one. This is no smokehouse."
"Blow it thyself," Maria said. "I am searching for the bottle that El Sordo left."
"It is behind his packs," Pilar told her. "Must you care for him as a sucking child?"
"No," Maria said. "As a man who is cold and wet. And a man who has just come to his house. Here it is." She brought the bottle to where Robert Jordan sat. "It is the bottle of this noon. With this bottle one could make a beautiful lamp. When we have electricity again, what a lamp we can make of this bottle." She looked at the pinch-bottle admiringly. "How do you take this, Roberto?"
"I thought I was Ingles," Robert Jordan said to her.
"I call thee Roberto before the others," she said in a low voice and blushed. "How do you want it, Roberto?"
"Roberto," Pablo said thickly and nodded his head at Robert Jordan. "How do you want it, Don Roberto?"
"Do you want some?" Robert Jordan asked him.
Pablo shook his head. "I am making myself drunk with wine," he said with dignity.
"Go with Bacchus," Robert Jordan said in Spanish.
"Who is Bacchus?" Pablo asked.
"A comrade of thine," Robert Jordan said.
"Never have I heard of him," Pablo said heavily. "Never in these mountains."
"Give a cup to Anselmo," Robert Jordan said to Maria. "It is he who is cold." He was putting on the dry pair of socks and the whiskey and water in the cup tasted clean and thinly warming. But it does not curl around inside of you the way the absinthe does, he thought. There is nothing like absinthe.
Who would imagine they would have whiskey up here, he thought. But La Granja was the most likely place in Spain to find it when you thought it over. Imagine Sordo getting a bottle for the visiting dynamiter and then remembering to bring it down and leave it. It wasn't just manners that they had. Manners would have been producing the bottle and having a formal drink. That was what the French would have done and then they would have saved what was left for another occasion. No, the true thoughtfulness of thinking the visitor would like it and then bringing it down for him to enjoy when you yourself were engaged in something where there was every reason to think of no one else but yourself and of nothing but the matter in hand-that was Spanish. One kind of Spanish, he thought. Remembering to bring the whiskey was one of the reasons you loved these people. Don't go romanticizing them, he thought. There are as many sorts of Spanish as there are Americans. But still, bringing the whiskey was very handsome.