For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway [67]
“Why do you talk thus?” Maria asked again, angrily.
“I don’t know,” said Pilar as she strode along. “Why do you think?”
“I do not know.”
“At times many things tire me,” Pilar said angrily. “You understand? And one of them is to have forty-eight years. You hear me? Forty-eight years and an ugly face. And another is to see panic in the face of a failed bullfighter of Communist tendencies when I say, as a joke, I might kiss him.”
“It’s not true, Pilar,” the boy said. “You did not see that.”
“Qué va, it’s not true. And I obscenity in the milk of all of you. Ah, there he is. Hola, Santiago! Qué tal?”
The man to whom Pilar spoke was short and heavy, brownfaced, with broad cheekbones; gray haired, with wide-set yellowbrown eyes, a thin-bridged, hooked nose like an Indian’s, a long Upper lip and a wide, thin mouth. He was clean shaven and he walked toward them from the mouth of the cave, moving with the bow-legged walk that went with his cattle herdsman’s breeches and boots. The day was warm but he had on a sheep’s-wool-lined short leather jacket buttoned up to the neck. He put out a big brown hand toPilar. “Hola, woman,” he said. “ Hola,” he said to Robert Jordan and shook his hand and looked him keenly in the face. Robert Jordan saw his eyes were yellow as a cat’s and flat as reptile’s eyes are. “ Guapa,” he said to Maria and patted her shoulder.
“Eaten?” he asked Pilar. She shook her head.
“Eat,” he said and looked at Robert Jordan. “Drink?” he asked, making a motion with his hand decanting his thumb downward.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Good,” El Sordo said. “Whiskey?”
“You have whiskey?”
El Sordo nodded. “Inglés?” he asked. “Not Ruso?”
“Americano.”
“Few Americans here,” he said.
“Now more.”
“Less bad. North or South?”
“North.”
“Same as Inglés. When blow bridge?”
“You know about the bridge?”
El Sordo nodded.
“Day after tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” said El Sordo.
“Pablo?” he asked Pilar.
She shook her head. El Sordo grinned.
“Go away,” he said to Maria and grinned again. “Come back,” he looked at a large watch he pulled out on a leather thong from inside his coat. “Half an hour.”
He motioned to them to sit down on a flattened log that served as a bench and looking at Joaquín, jerked his thumb down the trail in the direction they had come from.
“I’ll walk down with Joaquín and come back,” Maria said.
El Sordo went into the cave and came out with a pinch bottle of Scotch whiskey and three glasses. The bottle was under one arm, and three glasses were in the hand of that arm, a finger in each glass, and his other hand was around the neck of an earthenware jar of water. He put the glasses and the bottle down on the log and set the jug on the ground.
“No ice,” he said to Robert Jordan and handed him the bottle.
“I don’t want any,” Pilar said and covered her glass with her hand.
“Ice last night on ground,” El Sordo said and grinned. “All melt. Ice up there,” El Sordo said and pointed to the snow that showed on the bare crest of the mountains. “Too far.”
Robert Jordan started to pour into El Sordo’s glass but the deaf man shook his head and made a motion for the other to pour for himself.
Robert Jordan poured a big drink of Scotch into the glass and El Sordo watched him eagerly and when he had finished, handed him the water jug and Robert Jordan filled the glass with the cold water that ran in a stream from the earthenware spout as he tipped up the jug.
El Sordo poured himself half a glassful of whiskey and filled the glass with water.
“Wine?” he asked Pilar.
“No. Water.”
“Take it,” he said. “No good,” he said to Robert Jordan and grinned. “Knew many English. Always much whiskey.”
“Where?”
“Ranch,” El Sordo said. “Friends of boss.”
“Where do you get the whiskey?”
“What?” he could not hear.
“You have to shout,” Pilar said. “Into the other ear.”
El Sordo pointed to his better ear and grinned.
“Where do you get the whiskey?” Robert Jordan shouted.
“Make it,” El Sordo said and watched Robert Jordan’s hand check on its way to his mouth with the glass.
“No,” El Sordo said and patted