ERNEST HEMINGWAY. For Whom the Bell Tolls CHAPTER 1

ERNEST HEMINGWAY. For Whom the Bell Tolls CHAPTER 1

He was lying face down on a layer of chestnut pine needles, his chin resting on his arms crossed, while the wind, overhead, whizzed between the tops. The flank of the mountain sloped gently on that side; But further down it became a steep slope, so that from where she lay she could see the dark, well-inflamed ribbon of the road, zigzagging around the harbour. There was a stream running along the road, and further down on the banks of the stream was a sawmill and the white hair of the waterfall spreading out of the dam, shimmering in the sunlight.

"Is this the sawmill?" he asked.

"This is it."

"I don't remember.

"It was done after you left. The old sawmill is downstairs, much lower than the harbor.

On the pine needles he unfolded the photographic copy of a military map and studied it carefully. The old man was looking over his shoulder. He was a small, strong guy who wore a black villager-style blouse, gray corduroy pants, and hemp-soled espadrilles. He was resolving strongly because of the climb and had his hand resting on one of the heavy bundles that had been climbed.

"You can't see the bridge from here.

"No," said the old man. This is the most open part of the harbour, where the river runs slower. Further down, where the road gets lost among the trees, it becomes steeper and forms a narrow gorge...

"I remember.

"The bridge crosses that gorge."

"And where are the guard posts?"

"There's a place in the sawmill you see here.

The young man took cufflinks from his shirt pocket, an indecisively colored wool shirt, wiped the windows with the handkerchief, and tightened the nuts until the walls of the sawmill were clearly drawn, so that he could make out the wooden bench by the door, the sink sliding down the slope of the mountain.  on the other side of the river. The river appeared clear and limpid in the twins and, under the mane of water of the dam, the wind blew the foam.

"There is no sentinel.

"You can see smoke coming out of the sawmill," said the old man. There are clothes hanging on a rope.

"I see it, but I don't see any sentinels.

"Perhaps it will remain in the shadow," observed the old man. It's hot right now. It must be in the shade, on the other side, where we cannot see.

"Where is the other place?"

"Beyond the bridge." It is in the peón camino box, five kilometers from the summit of the port.

"How many men will there be?" The young man asked, pointing toward the sawmill.

"Perhaps there are four and one head.

"And further down?"

"More." I'll find out.

"And on the bridge?"

"There are always two, one at each end.

"We shall need a certain number of men," said the young man. How many could I get?

"I can provide you with anyone I want," said the old man. There are many in these mountains now.

"How many exactly?"

"More than a hundred, though they're scattered in small bands. How many men will he need?

"I'll say when I've studied the bridge."

"Do you want to study it now?"

"No. Now I would like to go where we could hide these explosives until the time comes. I would like to hide them in a very safe place and at a distance of no more than half an hour from the bridge, if possible.

"That is possible," replied the old man. From where we are going, it will be all flat road to the bridge. But we must go up a little to get there. Hungry?

"Yes," said the young man; but we will have lunch afterwards. What is your name? I've forgotten it. "It was a bad sign, in your opinion, to have forgotten him.

"Anselmo," replied the old man. My name is Anselmo and I am from the ship of Ávila. Let me help you bring this bundle.

The young man, who was tall and slender, with flakes of blond hair, bleached by the sun, and a face fertilized by the weather, wore, in addition to the faded wool shirt, corduroy trousers and espadrilles. He leaned to the ground, put his arm under one of the straps that held the bundle and lifted it onto his back. Then he put his arm under the other strap and placed the bundle at shoulder height. His shirt was wet on the part where the bundle had been a short time before.

"That's it," he said. Let's go?

"We have to climb," Anselmo said.

Leaning under the weight of the bundles, sweating and sunbathing, they climbed the pine forest that covered the flank of the mountain. There was no path that the young man could distinguish, but they zigzagged. They crossed a small stream and the old man continued up the mountain, bordering the rocky bed of the stream. The path was increasingly steep and difficult, until finally we reached a place where the torrent could be seen gushing from a sharp edge of clean granite. The old man stopped at the foot of the ridge, to give the young man time to arrive.

"How's it going?"

"Very well," replied the young man. He was sweating from every pore and his muscles ached from the steep climb.

"Wait here a moment until I come back." I'm going to go ahead to let you know. You don't want to be shot while you're wearing that merchandise.

"Not in jest," replied the young man. Is it too far away?

"It's very close. Tell me what it's called.

"Roberto," replied the young man.

He had let the bundle drain away, depositing it gently between two large boulders by the bed of the stream.

"Wait here, Roberto; I immediately go back to look for it.

"All right," said the young man. But do you intend to go down to the bridge by this path?

"No, when we go to the bridge it will be by another way. Much shorter and easier.

"I don't want to keep all that material away from the bridge.

"You won't keep it. If you don't like the chosen place, we will look for another one.

"We'll see," replied the young man.

He sat down next to the bundles and looked at the old man climbing the rocks. He did it easily, and by the way he found the points of support, without hesitation, he deduced to the young man that he would have done it many times. However, whatever was above, he had been very careful not to leave any traces.

The young man, whose name was Robert Jordan, was feeling extremely hungry and restless. He was often hungry, but often not worried, for he did not care what might happen to himself, and knew from experience how easy it was to move behind the enemy's lines throughout the region. It was as easy to move behind the enemy's lines as it was to cross them if you had a good guide. Only giving importance to what could happen to one, if caught, was what made the risk; this and knowing who to trust. You had to trust the people you were working with entirely or not trust for anything, and you had to know for yourself who you could trust. He was not worried about anything. But there were other things that did worry him.

That Anselmo had been a good guide and was a considerable mountaineer. Robert Jordan was a good walker, but he'd noticed since they left that morning, before dawn, that the old man was ahead of him. Robert Jordan trusted the old man a lot, except for his judgment. He had not had a chance to know what he thought, and, in any case, it was his business to find out whether or not he could be confident. No, he did not feel uneasy about Anselmo, and the subject of the bridge was no more difficult than any other. He knew how to blow up any kind of bridge on the face of the earth, and he had blown up bridges of all kinds and sizes. He had enough explosives and equipment scattered between the two backpacks to blow up the bridge properly, even if it was twice as large as Anselmo had told him; as big as he remembered it was when he crossed him on his way to La Granja on a walking excursion in 1933, as big as Golz had described it that night, two days earlier, in the upstairs room of the house around El Escorial.

"Blowing up the bridge doesn't matter," said Golz, pointing with a pencil at the large map, his head bowed;

"Yes, I understand.

"Absolutely none. To simply skip it would be a failure.

"Yes, comrade general.

The important thing is to blow up the bridge at a certain time, when the offensive is unleashed. This is the most important thing.

Golz stared thoughtfully at the tip of the pencil and then tapped it softly on his teeth.

Robert Jordan said nothing.

"You are the one who should know when the time has come to do so," Golz insisted, looking up at him and tapping him on the map with his pencil.

"Why, comrade general?"

"Why?" asked Golz angrily? How many attacks have you seen why? planned?

"He'll start at the right time if the offense is his offense," Jordan said.

"They're never mine," Golz said. I never prepare. There is always someone who comes to wrap.

"When will the bridge have to be blown up?" Jordan asked.

"When the offensive begins. "When the offensive has begun, don't get reinforcements down the road," he pointed to a point with his pencil.

"And when is the offensive?"

"I'll say it. But use the date and time only from an indication of probability. to the port that I attack. I must know that the bridge has blown up. But not before, because they could repair it if the offensive gets underway. No. He must fly when the offensive has begun, and I have to know what has flown. There are only two sentries. The man who will accompany him has just arrived. He is a man of confidence, they say. You will see if it is. They have people in the mountains. Get all the men you need. Use as few as you can, but use them.

"And how can I know when the offensive has begun?"

"The offensive will be carried out with a complete division. There will be a bombardment as a preparatory measure.

"Then I shall have to deduce, when the planes begin to drop bombs, that the attack has begun.

"You can't always say this," Golz remarked, shaking his head; but in this case he will have to.

"I understand," Jordan said. but I can't say that I like it very much.

"I don't like it either. If you don't want to take on this task, say so now.

"I will," Jordan replied.

"That's all I want to know," Golz concluded. I want to know that nothing can pass through this bridge.

"Understood.

"I don't like to ask people to do these things under similar conditions," Golz continued. I can't order you. I understand that you may be forced to do certain things under these conditions. That is why I am interested in explaining everything in detail, so that you can take care of all the difficulties and the importance of the work.

"How will you advance towards La Granja when the bridge has been blown up?"

"We are prepared to repair it as soon as we have occupied the port. It is a complicated and beautiful operation. As complicated and as beautiful as ever. The plan was prepared in Madrid. It is another of the plans of Vicente Rojo, the beautiful teacher who has no luck with his masterpieces. It is I who must go on the offensive and who must do it, as always, with insufficient forces. However, it is an operation with a high probability. I feel more optimistic than I usually do. You can succeed if you delete the bridge. We can occupy Segovia. Look, I'll tell you how things have been prepared. Do you see this point? It is not through the highest part of the pass that we will attack. It is already mastered. Much lower. Look. Over there...

"I'd rather not know," Jordan said.

"Anyway," Golz agreed. This way you have less luggage to carry on the other side.

"I'd rather not find out. In this way, whatever happens, it was not me who spoke.

"It's better not to know anything," Golz nodded, stroking his forehead with his pencil. Sometimes I wish I didn't know it myself. But have you heard what you need to know about the bridge?

"Yes, I know.

"I think so," said Golz. And I don't want to give him a speech. Let's have a drink. Talking so much leaves my mouth dry, Comrade Jordan. Do you know that your name is very comical in Spanish, Comrade Jordan?

"What is Golz's name in Spanish, comrade general?"

"Hoze," Golz said, laughing and uttering the sound in a guttural voice, as if he were chilled. "Hotze," he howled, "Comrade General Hotze. If I had known how to pronounce Golz in Spanish, I would have looked for another name before coming to make war here. When I think I came to send a division and I could have chosen the name I would have liked and that I chose Hotze... General Hotze. Now it's too late to change it. Do you like the word parten?

It was the Russian word for guerrillas operating on the other side of the lines.

"I like it a lot," Jordan said. And he laughed. It sounds nice. It sounds like the open air.

"I liked it when I was her age, too," Golz said. They taught me how to fly bridges perfectly. In a very scientific way. By ear. But I've never seen you do it. Perhaps, deep down, nothing will happen. Does it actually manage to fly them? You could see he was joking. "Drink this," he added, handing him a glass of brandy. Does it actually manage to fly them?

"Sometimes.

"It's better that you don't say 'sometimes' to me now. Okay, let's not talk about this cursed bridge anymore. You already know everything you need to know. We are serious people, and that's why we want to joke. What, you have a lot of girls on the other end of the lines?

"No, I don't have time for girls.

"I don't think so; the more irregular the service, the more irregular life is. It has a very irregular service. You also need a haircut.

"I go to the barber's when I need to," Jordan replied. "It would be nice if he let me peel like Golz," he thought. I don't have time to deal with girls," he said in a hard accent, as if he wanted to cut off the conversation. What kind of uniform should I wear? he asked.

"None," said Golz. Her haircut is perfect. I just wanted to play a joke on him. "You are very different from us," said Golz, and refilled his glass. He doesn't think about the girls. Neither did I. I never think about anything. Do you think you could? I'm a Soviet general. I never think. Don't try to make me think.

Someone on his team, who was sitting in a nearby chair, working on a map on a board, whispered something that Jordan couldn't understand.

"Shut your mouth," Golz said in English. He jokes when I want. I'm so serious, I can joke. Come on, drink this and get long. You understood, didn't you?

"Yes," Jordan said; I have understood it.

They shook hands, greeted each other, and Jordan went out to the car, where the sleeping old man was waiting for him. In that same car they arrived in Guadarrama, with the old man always asleep, and went up the Navacerrada road to the Alpine Club, where Jordan rested for three hours before continuing the march.

This was the last time he had seen Golz, with his strange whitish face, which never tanned, with his owl's eyes, with his huge nose and thin lips, with his bald head, furrowed with scars and wrinkles. The next day at night, they would all be ready, in the vicinity of El Escorial, along the dark road: the long lines of trucks loading the soldiers 

two in the dark; the men, heavily loaded, getting into the trucks; the machine gun sections hoisting machines up to the trucks; the fences towing the widened trucks down the ramps; An entire division would throw itself into the lead that night to attack the harbor. But I didn't want to think about it. It was not his business. It was Golz's business. He had only one thing to do, and that was what he had to think about. And he had to think clearly, accept things as they came, and not be uneasy. To be restless was as bad as to be afraid. He did the hardest thing.

He sat by the stream, looking at the clear water that slid between the rocks, and he discovered on the other side of the stream a thick bush of watercress. He jumped over the water, took everything he could get his hands on, washed up the muddy races, and sat down again by the knapsack, devouring the fresh, clean leaves and the small, spicy, spicy cuts. Then he knelt by the water, and drawing the belt to which the pistol was fastened, so that it would not get wet, he bent down, holding himself with one command and another on the stones on the shore and drank from his mouth. The water was so cold it hurt.

He straightened up, turned his head, when he heard footsteps, and saw the old man coming down the rocks. With him was another man, dressed also like the black blouse of a villager, and with the gray corduroy trousers, which was almost a uniform in that province; he was wearing espadrilles and a carbine loaded on his shoulder. I couldn't get anything out of my head. Both men were leaping down the rocks like goats.

When they reached him, Robert Jordan stood up.

"Cheers, comrade! He said to the man with the carbine, smiling.

"Cheers! said the other, reluctantly. Robert Jordan studied the rude face, covered by a beard principle, of the newcomer. It was an almost round face; The head was also round, and seemed to come straight out of the shoulders. He had small, widely spaced eyes and his ears were also small and very attached to his head. He was a strong man, about six feet tall, with very large hands and feet. His nose was broken and his lips were divided at one of the corners; A scar crossed his upper lip, making its way through the badly shaved beards.

The old man nodded to his companion and smiled.

"It's the head here," he said, satisfied, and with a pose imitated an athlete, while looking at the man with the carbine with a somewhat disrespectful admiration. He is a very strong man.

"I see," Robert Jordan said, smiling again.

She didn't like the way the man looked, and inside he wasn't smiling.

What has to justify your identity? asked the man with the carbine.

Robert Jordan opened the safety pin that closed the pocket of his shirt and took out a folded piece of paper that he handed to the man; he opened it, looked at it doubtfully, and turned it around in his hands several times.

"So he can't read," Jordan warned.

"Look at the seal," he said aloud.

The old man pointed to the stamp and the man with the carbine studied it, turning the paper back in his hands.

"What seal is this?"

"Have you never seen it?"

"No.

"There are two stamps," said Robert Jordan: "One is from the S.I.M., the Military Information Service. The other is from the General Staff.

—I have seen this stamp on other occasions. But no one is in charge here but me," said the man with the carbine, very surly. What is it that she carries in these packages?

"Dynamite," said the old man proudly. Tonight we crossed the lines in the darkness and climbed these bundles up the mountain.

"Dynamite," said the man with the carbine. Okay. It works for me. He handed the paper to Robert Jordan and looked him in the face. It serves me; How long has it taken me?

"I didn't bring you dynamite," Robert Jordan said, speaking quietly. The dynamite is for another purpose. What is your name?

"And what does it matter to you?"

"His name is Pablo," said the old man. The man with the carbine looked at both of them closely.

"Well, I've heard a lot about you," Robert Jordan said.

"What have you heard of me?" Pablo asked.

"I have heard that you are an excellent guerrilla, that you are loyal to the Republic and that you prove your loyalty by your actions. I have heard that you are a serious and courageous man. I bring you greetings from the General Staff.

"Where have you heard all this?" Pablo asked.

Jordan realized that he hadn't swallowed a single word of the flattery.

"I've heard it said from Buitrago to El Escorial," he replied, calling all the places in a region on the other end of the lines.

"I don't know anyone in Buitrago or El Escorial," Pablo said.

"There are a lot of people on the other side of the mountains who weren't there before. Where is it from?

—From Ávila. What is he going to do with the dynamite?

"Blowing up a bridge."

"What bridge?"

"That's mine.

"If it's in this region, it's up to me. Flying bridges near where you live is not allowed. You have to live in one place and operate in another. I know the job. One who is still alive, like me, after a year of work, is because he knows the job.

"That's my business," Jordan insisted. But we can discuss that later. Do you want to help us carry the packages?

"No," Pablo said, shaking his head.

The old man turned to him, suddenly, and began to speak to him very quickly and in an angry tone, so that Jordan could hardly follow him. It seemed to him that it was as if he were reading Quevedo. Anselmo spoke old Spanish, and said something like this: "You're dirty, aren't you? You're a beast, aren't you? You don't have a brain. Not a bit. We come for a matter of great importance, and you, with the story that they leave you alone, put your fox above the interests of humanity. Above the interests of the people. I c... in this and in that and in your father and in your whole family. Take this bundle." Pablo looked at the ground.

"Everyone must do what they can," he said. I live here and I operate beyond Segovia. If you're looking for a stir here, you'll be kicked out of these mountains. Only by staying still here can we live in these mountains. That's what foxes do.

"Yes," said Anselmo bitterly, "that's what foxes do; but we need wolves.

"I'm more of a wolf than you," Pablo said. But Jordan realized he'd eventually get the lump.

"Ha, ha! Anselmo said, looking at him; You're more of a wolf than I am. You're more of a wolf than I am, but I'm sixty-eight.

He spat on the ground, shaking his head.

"Are you that old?" Jordan asked, realizing that things would be going well again for the time being, and trying to make them easier.

"Sixty-eight, in July.

"If we look at the month of July," said Pablo. "Let me help you with the bundle," he said, turning to Jordan. Leave the other in the old one. He spoke without hostility, but with sadness. "He's an old man with a lot of strength.

"I'll bring the bundle," Jordan said.

"No," replied the old man. Leave this to the little man.

"I'll take you," Paul said, and his hostility had turned to a sadness that troubled Jordan. He knew what that sadness was and discovering it worried him.

"Then give me the carbine," he said.

And when Paul held it out to him, he hung it over his shoulder, and joined the two men who were going up in front of him, and holding on and climbing with difficulty over the granite wall, they came to the upper edge, where there was a clearing of grass in the middle of the forest.

They skirted a small meadow, and Jordan, who moved nimbly without any ballast, gladly carrying his rifle erect over his shoulder, after the heavy bundle that had made him sweat, saw that the grass was mowed in several places, and that in others there were footprints that had been driven into the ground. He saw a path along which the horses had been taken to drink in the stream, as there was fresh feces. No doubt they took them there at night to graze, and during the day they hid them among the trees. How many horses would Pau have?

He remembered noticing, without much notice, that Pablo's pants were worn and shiny between his knees and thighs. He wondered if he had riding boots or would ride in espadrilles. "He will have a whole team," he said to himself; but I don't like that resignation. It is a bad feeling that appropriates men when they are about to move away or betray; it is the feeling that precedes liquidation."

A horse neighed behind the trees, and some sun filtering through the tall canopies that almost joined the summit allowed Jordan to make out among the dark trunks of the pines the fence made of ropes tied to the trees. The horses raised their heads as they approached the men. Outside the fence, at the foot of a tree, were several saddles stacked under a waxed tarp.

The two men carrying the bales stopped, and Robert Jordan realized that they had done it on purpose, so that he would admire the horses. "Yes," he said, "they are very pretty. And he turned to Pablo. You even have cavalry of your own.

There were five horses in the enclosure: three bais, a chestnut mare and a chestnut horse. After observing them as a whole, Robert Jordan examined them one by one. Paul and Anselm knew his qualities, and while Paul got up, satisfied and less sad, looking at the horses with love, the old man behaved as if it were a surprise that he had just invented himself.

"What do you think?" He asked Jordan.

"I caught all of those," said Paul, and Robert Jordan took some pleasure in hearing him speak in that way.

"This one," said Jordan, pointing to one of the basses, a large stallion with a white spot on its forehead and another on one hand, is very horse.

It was a magnificent horse, which seemed to have emerged from a painting by Velázquez.

"They're all good," Paul said. Do you understand horses?

"I understand.

"Better," said Paul. Do you see any flaws in any of them?

Robert Jordan realized that at that moment the man who could not read was examining the credentials.

The horses were calm, and had raised their heads to look at them. Robert Jordan slipped between the double ropes of the fence and struck the brown horse on the haunches. Then he leaned on the ropes and saw the horses circling on the fence; He continued to study them when they stood still and then bent down, coming out of confinement again.

"The red mare limps on the hind leg," she said to Pablo, without looking at him. The horseshoe is broken. This is of no importance, if it is properly ironed; but it can fall if it is made to walk a long way on hard ground.

"The horseshoe was like this when we took it," Pablo said.

"The best of these horses, the stallion with the white spot, has an inflammation at the top of the shank that I don't like at all.

"It's nothing," said Paul; It was done once three days ago. If it were serious, it would have already been seen.

He pulled the canvas and showed him the saddles. There were three Texan-style chairs, two simple and one very luxurious, of hand-worked leather, and thick stirrups; There were also two black leather military chairs.

"We killed a couple of civil guards," Pablo said, pointing to them.

"Come on, this is big game.

"They had gotten off the horses on the road, between Segovia and Santa Maria del Real. They had gotten off the horseback rides to ask for papers from a carter. We were lucky enough to be able to kill them without harming the horses.

—Have many civil guards died? Jordan asked.

"A few," Paul answered; but only these two without hurting the horses.

"It was Pablo who blew up Arévalo's train," Anselmo explained. It was Paul who did it.

"There was a stranger with us, who was the one who prepared the explosion," Pablo said. Do you know him?

"What was his name?"

"I don't remember. It was a very strange name.

"What was it like?"

"He was blond, like you; but not so tall, with big hands and a broken nose.

"Kashkin," Jordan said. It must have been Kashkin.

"Yes," Paul answered; It was a very strange name. Something similar. What was it?

"He died in April.

"That's what happens to everyone," Pablo said grimly. That's how we'll all end.—That's how we'll all end They finish All The Men He insisted Anselmo. So They have always finished All The Men of This world.

What's wrong with you, man

What's wrong with your guts?

"They are very strong," said Pablo. He spoke as if he were talking to himself. He looked at the horses sadly. He doesn't know how strong they are. They are getting stronger and better armed. They have more and more material. And I, here, with horses like these. And what awaits me? That they hunt me down and kill me. Nothing more.

"You hunt too," Anselmo told him.

"No," Pablo answered. I don't hunt anymore. And if we leave these mountains, where can we go? Answer me: where shall we go?

—In Spain there are many mountains. There is the Sierra de Gredos, if we have to leave here.

"It is not made for me," Paul answered. I'm tired of being hunted. Here we are fine. But if he blows up the bridge, they will hunt us down. If they know we're here, they'll hunt us down in airplanes, and they'll find us. They will send us to the Moors to hunt us, and they will find us and we must leave. I'm tired of all this, have you heard me? And he turned to Jordan: What right has he, who is a stranger, to come to me and tell me what I should do?

"I haven't told you what to do," Jordan replied.

"You'll tell me," Pablo concluded. This, this is the worst.

He pointed to the two heavy bales they had left on the ground as they looked at the horses. The sight of the horses seemed to have brought all this to his imagination, and when he realized that Robert Jordan understood horses, his tongue had loosened. The three men stood glued to the ropes watching the glare of the sun put spots on the bai stallion's skin. Paul looked at Jordan, and, stamping his foot against the heavy bundle, insisted:

"That's the worst.

"I've just come to do my duty," Jordan insisted. I have come with orders from those who are leading this war. If I ask you to help me and you refuse, I can find others who will help me. But I haven't even asked him for help. I will do what I have been told, and I can assure you that it is a matter of importance. The fact that I am a foreigner is not my fault. I would have preferred to be born here.

"For me, the important thing is that we are not disturbed," Pablo clarified. For me, the obligation is to preserve those who are with me and myself.

"Yourself, yes," said Anselmo. You have been worrying a lot about yourself for a long time. Of you and your horses. As long as you didn't have horses, you were with us. But now you are a capitalist, like others.

"Not true," Paul answered. I take care of the horses for the cause.

"Very rarely," Anselmo replied dryly. Very rarely, in my opinion. You like stealing. You like eating well. You like murder. Fighting, no.

"You're an old man who will look for an upset for talking too much.

"I am an old man who fears no one," replied Anselmo. I'm an old man who doesn't have horses.

"You're an old man who won't live long.

"I am an old man who will live to death," Anselmo concluded. And I'm not afraid of foxes.

Paul added nothing, but took the bundle again.

"Neither do wolves," Anselmo went on, taking his bundle, "in case you were a wolf."

"Shut your beak," Pablo ordered. You're an old man who talks too much.

"And that he is going to do what he says he is going to do," Anselmo replied, bending under the weight. And that he is starving. And thirst. Come on, sad head, take us somewhere where they will feed us.

"It's off to a pretty bad start," thought Robert Jordan. But Anselmo is a man. Those people are wonderful when they're good. There are no people like this when they are good, and when they are bad there are no worse people in the world. Anselm would know what he was doing when he brought him here." But he didn't like the way this topic was put up. He didn't like it at all. The only good thing about it was that Pablo was still carrying the bundle and that he had given him the carbine. "Maybe he always behaves," Robert Jordan went on. Maybe he's just one of those dark guys like there are many."

"No," he said to himself at once. Don't fool yourself. You don't know what it's like or what it was like before; But you know that this man is hurting fast and that he doesn't bother to hide it. When he starts to hide it, it will be because he has made a decision. Remember this. The first friendly gesture he has with you will mean that he has already made up his mind. The horses are fantastic; they are beautiful horses. I wonder if these horses could make me feel what they make Paul feel. The old man is right. Horses make you feel rich, and as soon as you feel rich you want to enjoy life. He will soon be unhappy that he will not be able to register with the Jockey Club. Pauvre Pau. And in the absence of the fact that they are Jockeys."

That thought made him feel better. He smiled as he saw the two leaning figures and the large lumps moving in front of them among the trees. He hadn't played a joke on himself all day, and now that he was joking he was relieved. "You're starting to be like everyone else," he said to himself. You're starting to get gloomy, kid." He had been somber and protocol with Golz. The mission had overwhelmed him a little. A little, he thought; it had overwhelmed him a little. Or, rather, it had overwhelmed him greatly. Golz was cheerful and wanted him to be cheerful too before saying goodbye, but he had not succeeded.

Good people, if you think about it, have always been happy people. It is better to be cheerful, and this was a good sign. Something like becoming immortal while one is still alive. It was a somewhat complicated idea. The bad thing was that many of them in a good mood were no longer alive. There were damn few left. "And if you keep thinking like that, boy, you'll end up leaving too. Change albums, boy; Change the disc, comrade. Now it's you who will blow up the bridge. A dynamiter, not a thinker.

Boy, I'm hungry. I hope Pablo will give us good food."