"Isn't that the procession?" Mike asked.
"Nada," some one said. "It's nothing. Drink up. Lift the bottle."
"Where did they find you?" I asked Mike.
"Some one brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were here."
"Where's Cohn?"
"He's passed out," Brett called. "They've put him away somewhere."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"How should we know," Bill said. "I think he's dead."
"He's not dead," Mike said. "I know he's not dead. He's just passed out on Anis del Mono."
As he said Anis del Mono one of the men at the table looked up, brought out a bottle from inside his smock, and handed it to me.
"No," I said. "No, thanks!"
"Yes. Yes. Arriba! Up with the bottle!"
I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the way. I could feel it warming in my stomach.
"Where the hell is Cohn?"
"I don't know," Mike said. "I'll ask. Where is the drunken comrade?" he asked in Spanish.
"You want to see him?"
"Yes," I said.
"Not me," said Mike. "This gent."
The Anis del Mono man wiped his mouth and stood up.
"Come on."
In a back room Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on some wine-casks. It was almost too dark to see his face. They had covered him with a coat and another coat was folded under his head. Around his neck and on his chest was a big wreath of twisted garlics.
