The Recognitions (116 page)

Part way up the rough road a little girl in a green dress followed on a cycle, which she turned in uncertain circles before the two figures descending, and looked them over curiously before she went back down slowly before them. —How old do you think she is? Mr. Yak demanded suddenly, studying her with a strange appraising look. —Ten, maybe. —Yes. Just about. Just about. His companion shuddered beside him. —What's the matter? . . . it's not your funeral. They passed the sixth station silently. —What's that you've got in your pockets, they stick out like that. —Oranges. Mr. Yak nodded, as the oranges bumped against him. At the second station he brought out, —So that's your mother up there, you came all the way to visit her grave? —There's no mark on the vault. It ought to be but there's no name on the vault. —It's probably her in there, you wouldn't have any way to know if it wasn't anyway. —Well I ... I might ... I could ... —You wouldn't want to go prying around in there. —What? —I mean you wouldn't want to go looking inside. She's been in there thirty years, you wouldn't want to ... —How do you know she's been in there thirty years? The man stopped beside him, bumping him round with the oranges. —You . . . what do you . . . —I just said that, Mr. Yak answered with quick constraint, putting a hand on the arm beside him to draw the man on. —You know . . . here, what's the matter? —I just don't like people's hands on me, that's all. Mr. Yak drew his hand back quickly, and pressed his mustache with a finger. —That's a nice ring you got there. Diamonds? He had no answer. Then his companion stopped as abruptly as before, but he was looking far beyond, to the east where the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra de Guadarrama emboldened the sky. —What's the matter? —Matter? I ... nothing the matter. Those mountains, I just noticed them. —Oh them. Mr. Yak sounded relieved. —They been there a long time. A barrel organ sounded defiant gaiety in a side street as they entered the town and approached the church. —It's nice you came to see your mother's grave like this. Mr. Yak paused outside the heavy door, its opening covered inside with a hanging which a girl pushed aside, coming out, and took the handkerchief from her head. —You're not coming in? —In there? The man looked up for the first time since he'd stopped to gaze at the distant mountains, but the same look in his eyes, as though he were looking at something far away. —To burn a candle. You know. You can have a Mass said for her. If you come all the way here . . . —But I ... look, what is all this? Who are you, anyhow? You . . . what does it matter to you if I ... if I burn a candle or burn the whole church down for her? —All right! Mr. Yak took a step forward. —Then as far as that goes, how do I know that's your mother? . . . that name on that card you showed me. —Damn it, now, what . . . —Look, can't you read that sign? The shock-haired man pointed to a sign beside the door. Further down the wall, near the street corner, was pasted a once-colorful poster for a seven-year-old American movie. —Hace años que los Prelados de la Iglesia vienen repreni-endo la bochornosa . . . see? You shouldn't swear . . . —Damn it ... —Que ya no se respetan ni la santidad del templo, ni los misterios mas augustos y sagrados en cuya presencia , . . —Goodbye. —While you're here you could at least have a Mass . . . —Good God, I ... what makes you think she's still in Purgatory? You . . . look this . . . this is idiotic, she wasn't even . . . Wait, I thought you were going in there, in the church. —I just remembered, the priest, he's up at the cemetery now. —Yes, I ... he'll be back. Goodbye. —Are you going for some coffee? We can have some coffee. —I'm going for a drink. —You don't want to drink so early. —Good . . . God! If I want a drink, damn it ... —Look out! . . . The empty funeral carriage came careening around a corner. Both men aboard it had their hats pushed back, and were smoking. —That was almost your funeral. —Yes, well . . . listen, every time a funeral passes, it's your own passing. Now let me go. Thank you. Now let me go, will you? Mr. Yak took his hand from the man's arm, but hurried along beside him. They followed the barrel organ to a bar called La Ilicitana. Inside, Mr. Yak ordered two coffees. The man beside him clutched 780

one hand in the other on the bar silently, as the bartender escaped with the order. Then looking straight ahead at trie bottles behind the bar, he took out a torn green and black paper packet, and from it a yellow-paper cigarette. —You don't want to smoke that. The tobacco here's one-third potato peelings. Here ... The man's hand trembled slightly as he lit the yellow-paper cigarette, raising his elbow to ward off the cellophane-covered packet being thrust at him. —You can get real cigarettes here. Rubio, you call them. Tobacco rubio . . . here. The man exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke, and as the bartender appeared with two cups of coffee he began to gesticulate and mutter, —Vino . . . albus. Bianco . . . —Here, I already ordered coffee . . . —Damn it, I don't want coffee, I ... —I can't drink two cups of this stuff. One of them will get cold . . . —Now listen . . . —All right, what do you want. Wine? White wine? Un bianco, he said to the bartender, watched until a glass was half filled and then interrupted, waving a hand. —Manzanilla. The bartender stopped, and poured back what he'd poured out. —See? Manzanilla, Mr. Yak said to the man beside him. —I'm ordering you the best. —Yes, I ... how did I forget that name? he whispered to himself. The excellent stuff appeared in a stemmed narrow glass, which was quickly emptied and pushed forth again. —You shouldn't drink it down so fast like that, wine like that you want to sip . . . The man looked up, as though about to speak, or shout; but his host was sipping his coffee, careful not to dip his mustache. A small dish of fried blood and potatoes appeared, and neither of them touched it. Outside at the door, the barrel organ was straining its way through La Sebastiana. The bartender obliged the silent grimace of the man to his left with another glass of Manzanilla; and collected a blue note from the man to his right. —Now here, don't you pay for this, I ... —I invited you for some coffee. —Well there, I'm not having coffee. You don't owe me anything, you . . . —How do you know, maybe I do. —What do you mean? —Sometimes you just like owe somebody something. Mr. Yál dusted at his boutonnière. One of the spotted petals came off. The bartender returned his change, in coins scarcely more than the weight of paper and bits of paper that looked like a handful of dead leaves. —That's what depresses me about a poor country, he said, trying to fold the brown one-peseta notes together. —All the small denominations, it gets so dirty you can't hardly recognize it. Then he spread one of the notes out on the bar with his thumb, and shook his head with professional disapproval. —Just look at that. Startling him, the hand mounting the diamonds snatched the note from under his fingers. —What's the matter? —Nothing. This. I just noticed it. He bent close over the note. —This beautiful thing, he whispered. —What? . . . this thing? Mr. Yak demanded. —Why, I ... a child could do better than that. —No, just this. The picture on it, the Dama de Elche. It's a ... a beautiful thing, that . . . that head, the Dama de Elche. Then the note was pushed back as abruptly as it had been taken, and the man put an elbow on the bar and gripped his face across the eyes, his thumb- and a fingernail going white where they pressed his temples. Mr. Yak picked the note up again and studied it with distasteful curiosity; then he shrugged and folded it, face forward and right side up, with the others. —A cheap engraving job, he muttered, putting the wad into his pocket. Then he craned his head round and said, —That's a nice ring you got there. They're real diamonds. No answer, and the hand did not move away from the eyes. —Why do you wear it on your middle finger for? The hand came down and almost caught him across the face. —Because it's too damned small to get around my neck. Now will you . . . will you . . . The hand with the ring hung taut and half closed in the air between them, then came back slowly and the man drew it across his feverish eyes, and turned away again, to stare down at a plate of sardines. Mr. Yak picked up the small fork from the cold fried blood and potatoes, and commenced to clean his nails with a sharp tine. —You don't look very good, he said. —I ... I don't dress to please you. —I don't mean your clothes, you don't look well in your face. You haven't even told me your name, your first name. —My Christian name. —Yeah, you haven't even told me that. My name is Yak. My first name . . . He paused to press at his mustache, thoughtfully. —Never mind that, it's not a real Christian name, you might say. Just call me Mr. Yak. 782

—All right, you . . . Mister Yak, you . . . The face suddenly turned up with a look of terror in the eyes, which spread quickly from the lines around the eyes over the whole drawn face. —What do you . . . what are you so damned interested in me for? —That's all right now, that's all right, said Mr. Yak, putting a hand out to the arm which was instantly withdrawn. —I can tell you're not a bum. —What if I am? What does that ... to you? —Never mind, you're not a bum. I can tell that. See? Mr. Yak's voice was almost gentle, and this time, when he put his hand on the wrist before him it was not withdrawn, but stayed quivering there. —Maybe there's something I can do for you. —You . . . you, what do you think you are, my guardian angel? Listen . . . The voice shook, sounded exhausted, though he continued to stare at the plate of sardines. —Listen ... he repeated hoarsely. —Are you wanted? Mr. Yak asked him in a low tone. —Wanted? ... he repeated dully. —Wanted? Wanted? —What do they want you for? —What do they . . . what does who want me for? What do you want me for? —The police. You got the police after you, haven't you? I know how it is, see? Have you? What do they want you for? The man stared at the sardines a moment longer, then threw his head up and started to laugh. He jerked his arm away, looking Mr. Yak straight in the eyes for the first time. —Murder. Eh? Damn it. I stabbed a man and left him there for dead. Now, is that what you wanted? The laughter broke off, and he hung there staring at the man before him who said quickly, —Yeah but don't tell everybody, be quiet. That's not the kind of a thing you broadcast. You can't tell who's watching you, even in a dump like this. —Yes . . . well they're watching us. They're watching us, the voice took up its dull tone again. —Who? Where? Who? Mr. Yak grabbed the man's arm again, and it lay there still on the bar. —Don't you see them? he whispered. —See their eyes, watching us? —You mean these . . . these fish here? Mr. Yak's grip relaxed, as he looked where the other eyes were fixed. —Yes, see them watching us? —Look, Jesus . . . don't give me a scare like that again, will you? —See them watching us? —All right now, forget it. Pressing at his mustache, Mr. Yak stepped back and spat on the floor. Then he looked up, studying the profile before him narrowly, as though he were looking over glasses. —You didn't tell me your whole name yet, he said finally. —Sam Hall. Now . . . leave me. Leave me. He signed for another glass. There was a tapping at his elbow. —Get out! Vayal Fuera! Mr. Yak broke out. The man beside him spun around, to see the ragged staring wretch who accompanied the barrel organ, holding out a hat which was the only whole piece of clothing he had. —Wait . . . wait a minute. Here. —Wait! Mr. Yak tried to stay his hand. —Five pesetas, you can't give him that much, five pesetas? The cringing figure took the bill and scuttled away. —You don't want to give them that much every time they . . . —I like the music, that's all. Now leave me alone. —Listen, get hold of yourself now, relax, said Mr. Yak up close to his elbow again. —Maybe I'm your gardeen angel like you say. Maybe I can help you out. —Out of what. —You need papers. You need a passport, don't you? Mr. Yak went on in a low tone. —No. —Yes you do. You can't move here without them. How would you like to be a Swiss? —Less than anything I can think of. —You'd make a good Swiss, I just thought about it. —A good Swiss? The man snorted behind his hand. He took the Manzanilla as soon as it was put before him, and drank half the glass. —Women cross themselves when they meet me in the street. Dogs in the street bark at me. A good Swiss! —You wash up and shave and you'll be fine. I just thought about it. I have this passport, see? This Swiss passport, I didn't have time to alter anything on it before I left, I didn't even change the picture on it yet, see? And I just thought about it, that's why I say this, see? This picture looks like you, this Swiss, it's got short hair and a square face like you, all knotted up like around the eyes. See? I'm not kidding you, it's a natural, this Swiss. And you can be him, see? Mr. Yak was talking more rapidly, but in the same low tone of confidence. He had a hand on the man's arm, and followed the half-step the man drew away from him, staring straight ahead. —What do you say? Listen, I know how it is, see? And this way you'll be safe as a nut. Still he had no answer, pressing close so that the man slipped another half-step's space between them, which Mr. Yak filled, speaking in a slightly different tone now, —Maybe I'm like 784

in the same spot you are, see? he said. —Only I'm being a Rumanian. You can make as good a Swiss as I am a Rumanian. The man took another half-step away to turn and look at him, speaking with something near interest in his voice for the first time. —You've killed someone? —No, nothing like that. You wouldn't find me doing something that crazy. Mr. Yak filled the space between them, and pulled his throat up from the plexiglas collar. —Anybody can stab somebody. I'm not a bum to do something like that, that crazy. I'm a craftsman, an artist like, see? That's what happened to me, see? he finished, his eyes glittering. —No. —No what? —What happened to you? —I just told you. There, see? I knew you'd get interested. I'm not a bum either. —I didn't say you were. What happened? —I told you. I'm an artist like, a craftsman, see? . . . and they got jealous of my work. —Who did? —Well never mind, never mind that right now. And Mr. Yak snorted, and began drumming his fingers on the bar, looking down himself. After a few moments' silence, during which his companion finished his wine, Mr. Yak took a deep breath and spoke again, briskly as though opening a new subject. —Just never mind who right now, he said. Another half-step, and they'd passed the staring sardines. —What do you say? Mr. Yak demanded of this companion in whom he'd at last roused interest; but it was gone again, he'd pushed his glass forth and stared vacantly resting an elbow on the bar, and his rough chin in his hand. Mr. Yak looked about to climb up his shoulder. —What do you say, now? This is no joke, I can fix you up with this passport. This is what you want to do, see? Like putting off the old man, you know what I mean, see? . . . like it says in the Bible, that's it, see? . . . that's what you want to do, put on the new man, like it says in the Bible. What do you say? . . . All right, listen. Shall I just leave you here then? . . . —Yes. —Listen, I can tell when a man's not a bum, see? Like you, see? Listen, you can have this Swiss passport. You can have it. I'll give it to you, see? Then you're as safe as a nut. This guy's name, this Swiss, I forgot his name. That's all right. It's something Stephan. Stêphan something. See? All right, I'll call you Stephan, all right? That will help you get use to it, see? See, Stephan? See? . . . you're getting used to it already, see? See Stephan? Then after a while you think of yourself as Stephan like I think of myself as Yak, as Mr. Yak, see? In case they pull any fast ones on you, see? See Stephan? They had gone about three full steps, and almost reached the wall by this time. —See, Stephan? And Stephan finally turned to him. —Haven't you got anything else to do? —I'm here on business, Mr. Yak answered immediately, and took quick advantage of what he interpreted as a renewal of his companion's interest. —Listen, do you . . . listen Stephan, I'll call you that so you'll get used to it, just out of curiosity have you ever heard of mummies? —I feel like one, said Stephan with his back against the wall. —Good! Listen . . . you know what they are then? You know about them? Listen, how much do you know about them. I knew you weren't a bum. Stephan. —What do you want to know about them? —Good! Listen, have another glass of wine. Stephan. Listen, do you . . . Listen . . . Mr. Yak brought his voice down with difficulty. —Suppose, now listen, just suppose somebody wanted to make one, see? A real craftsmanshiplike job, to make one up. Now I know something about it, see, you wouldn't want to use a new . . . you wouldn't use somebody who just died a little while ago . . . Mr. Yak thrust his face into the one before him to confide, —A doctor pulled that one in Vienna and it began to smell, see? —How old do you want it to be? —Real old, so it looks real old. —What Dynasty? Stephan asked grudgingly. —What what? Oh . . . now wait. Wait a minute, it was, wait . . . Mr. Yak pressed at his mustache with the length of a forefinger, looking down. When he saw his foot on the floor, he started to tap it. —Wait. The Fourth. The Fourth? he repeated, looking up. —That's quite early. —Yes, it's real old. Stephan had lit another harsh yellow cigarette, and the smoke he exhaled separated them a little. He let the smoke settle, and then said, —If I tell you, will you go away? —Yes, I have to ... I have some business here I want to take care of pretty soon, Mr. Yak said impatiently. —Go on. —Well, I should think . . . —Stephan. —What? —No, no, go on. I just called you that so you'll get used to it. 786