For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway [42]
“But you do not like the things of life?”
“Yes. Very much. But not to interfere with my work.”
“You like to drink, I know. I have seen.”
“Yes. Very much. But not to interfere with my work.”
“And women?”
“I like them very much, but I have not given them much importance.”
“You do not care for them?”
“Yes. But I have not found one that moved me as they say they should move you.”
“I think you lie.”
“Maybe a little.”
“But you care for Maria.”
“Yes. Suddenly and very much.”
“I, too. I care for her very much. Yes. Much.”
“I, too,” said Robert Jordan, and could feel his voice thickening. “I, too. Yes.” It gave him pleasure to say it and he said it quite formally in Spanish. “I care for her very much.”
“I will leave you alone with her after we have seen El Sordo.”
Robert Jordan said nothing. Then he said, “That is not necessary.”
“Yes, man. It is necessary. There is not much time.”
“Did you see that in the hand?” he asked.
“No. Do not remember that nonsense of the hand.”
She had put that away with all the other things that might do ill to the Republic.
Robert Jordan said nothing. He was looking at Maria putting away the dishes inside the cave. She wiped her hands and turned and smiled at him. She could not hear what Pilar was saying, but as she smiled at Robert Jordan she blushed dark under the tawny skin and then smiled at him again.
“There is the day also,” the woman said. “You have the night, but there is the day, too. Clearly, there is no such luxury as in Valencia in my time. But you could pick a few wild strawberries or something.” She laughed.
Robert Jordan put his arm on her big shoulder. “I care for thee, too,” he said. “I care for thee very much.”
“Thou art a regular Don Juan Tenorio,” the woman said, embarrassed now with affection. “There is a commencement of caring for every one. Here comes Agustín.”
Robert Jordan went into the cave and up to where Maria was standing. She watched him come toward her, her eyes bright, the blush again on her cheeks and throat.
“Hello, little rabbit,” he said and kissed her on the mouth. She held him tight to her and looked in his face and said, “Hello. Oh, hello. Hello.”
Fernando, still sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, stood up, shook his head and walked out, picking up his carbine from where it leaned against the wall.
“It is very unformal,” he said to Pilar. “And I do not like it. You should take care of the girl.”
“I am,” said Pilar. “That comrade is her novio.”
“Oh,” said Fernando. “In that case, since they are engaged, I encounter it to be perfectly normal.”
“I am pleased,” the woman said.
“Equally,” Fernando agreed gravely. “Salud, Pilar.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the upper post to relieve Primitivo.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Agustín asked the grave little man as he came up.
“To my duty,” Fernando said with dignity.
“Thy duty,” said Agustín mockingly. “I besmirch the milk of thy duty.” Then turning to the woman, “Where the un-nameable is this vileness that I am to guard?”
“In the cave,” Pilar said. “In two sacks. And I am tired of thy obscenity.”
“I obscenity in the milk of thy tiredness,” Agustín said.
“Then go and befoul thyself,” Pilar said to him without heat.
“Thy mother,” Agustín replied.
“Thou never had one,” Pilar told him, the insults having reached the ultimate formalism in Spanish in which the acts are never stated but only implied.
“What are they doing in there?” Agustín now asked confidentially.
“Nothing,” Pilar told him. “Nada. We are, after all, in the spring, animal.”
“Animal,” said Agustín, relishing the word. “Animal. And thou. Daughter of the great whore of whores. I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime.”
Pilar slapped him on the shoulder.
“You,” she said, and laughed that booming laugh. “You lack variety in your cursing. But you have force. Did you see the planes?”
“I un-name in the milk of their motors,” Agustín said, nodding his head and biting his lower lip.
“That’s something,” Pilar said. “That is really something. But really difficult of execution.”
“At that altitude, yes,