He looked at Maria standing holding the bottle and winked at her, tears coming from both eyes.
"That," he said.
"That."
Then he licked his lips.
"That is what kills the worm that haunts us."
"Roberto," Maria said and came over to him, still holding the bottle.
"Are you ready to eat?"
"Is it ready?"
"It is ready when you wish it."
"Have the others eaten?"
"All except you, Anselmo and Fernando."
"Let us eat then," he told her.
"And thou?"
"Afterwards with Pilar."
"Eat now with us."
"No.
It would not be well."
"Come on and eat.
In my country a man does not eat before his woman."
"That is thy country.
Here it is better to eat after."
"Eat with him," Pablo said, looking up from the table.
"Eat with him.
Drink with him.
Sleep with him.
Die with him.
Follow the customs of his country."
"Are you drunk?" Robert Jordan said, standing in front of Pablo.
The dirty, stubble-faced man looked at him happily.
"Yes," Pablo said.
"Where is thy country, _Ingles_, where the women eat with the men?"
"In _Estados Unidos_ in the state of Montana."
"Is it there that the men wear skirts as do the women?"
"No.
That is in Scotland."
"But listen," Pablo said.
"When you wear skirts like that, _Ingles_--"
"I don't wear them," Robert Jordan said.
"When you are wearing those skirts," Pablo went on, "what do you wear under them?"
"I don't know what the Scotch wear," Robert Jordan said.
"I've wondered myself."
"Not the _Escoceses_," Pablo said.
"Who cares about the _Escoceses?_ Who cares about anything with a name as rare as that?
Not me. I don't care.
You, I say, _Ingles_.
You.
What do you wear under your skirts in your country?"
"Twice I have told you that we do not wear skirts," Robert Jordan said.
"Neither drunk nor in joke."
"But under your skirts," Pablo insisted.