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"
I
do
not
like
anis
,
"
Pablo
said
.
The
acrid
smell
had
carried
across
the
table
and
he
had
picked
out
the
one
familiar
component
.
"
Good
,
"
said
Robert
Jordan
.
"
Because
there
is
very
little
left
.
"
"
What
drink
is
that
?
"
the
gypsy
asked
.
"
A
medicine
,
"
Robert
Jordan
said
.
"
Do
you
want
to
taste
it
?
"
"
What
is
it
for
?
"
"
For
everything
,
"
Robert
Jordan
said
.
"
It
cures
everything
.
If
you
have
anything
wrong
this
will
cure
it
.
"
"
Let
me
taste
it
,
"
the
gypsy
said
.
Robert
Jordan
pushed
the
cup
toward
him
.
It
was
a
milky
yellow
now
with
the
water
and
he
hoped
the
gypsy
would
not
take
more
than
a
swallow
.
There
was
very
little
of
it
left
and
one
cup
of
it
took
the
place
of
the
evening
papers
,
of
all
the
old
evenings
in
cafés
,
of
all
chestnut
trees
that
would
be
in
bloom
now
in
this
month
,
of
the
great
slow
horses
of
the
outer
boulevards
,
of
book
shops
,
of
kiosques
,
and
of
galleries
,
of
the
Parc
Montsouris
,
of
the
Stade
Buffalo
,
and
of
the
Butte
Chaumont
,
of
the
Guaranty
Trust
Company
and
the
Ile
de
la
Cité
,
of
Foyot
’
s
old
hotel
,
and
of
being
able
to
read
and
relax
in
the
evening
;
of
all
the
things
he
had
enjoyed
and
forgotten
and
that
came
back
to
him
when
he
tasted
that
opaque
,
bitter
,
tongue
-
numbing
,
brain
-
warming
,
stomach
-
warming
,
idea
-
changing
liquid
alchemy
.
The
gypsy
made
a
face
and
handed
the
cup
back
.
"
It
smells
of
anis
but
it
is
bitter
as
gall
,
"
he
said
.
"
It
is
better
to
be
sick
than
have
that
medicine
.
"
