The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (134 page)

San Zwingli appeared suddenly, at a curve in the railway, a town built of rocks against rock, streets pouring down between houses like the beds of unused rivers, and the houses littered one against another like boulders along mountain streams. Swallows dove and swept with appalling certainty at the tower of the church, as the morning visitor climbed the hill toward the town, touching now and then at his mustache, as though to make certain it was on straight. He walked with a briskness, and a light in his eye seldom seen today but in asylums and occasional pulpits, the look of a man with a purpose.

With this spring in his step he was soon up behind the town, where the sound of running water nearby, the braying of burros and the desultory tinkling of bells, and the distant voices of people below reached him where he paused to sniff, and then stood still inhaling the pines above him and the delicious freshness of cow manure, like a man rediscovering senses long forgotten under the abuses of cities. Then he was off again, and when he reached the road bounded by cypress trees, he hardly paused to cross himself at the first station he encountered as he hurried up the hill toward the white walls of the cemetery.

The forecourt, as he entered, was flooded with a riot of flamenco music from the radio in the house of the resident watchman, to one side there and almost hidden behind the unfurled hilarity of the week’s wash. Nonetheless he could hear voices beyond the next gate, where a small stone crucifixion drew his eye as he approached and went through, with a quick glance up at it and a stab, more a parabola than a cross over his chest, for the figure carved in what appeared at that moment full abandon to a dance which the music accompanied. Within, the bóvedas mounted on both sides, three, four, five vaults high, decorated with bead flowers and metal wreaths, icons and wilted nosegays, broken glass protecting photographs, and all of them numbered, with names, and ages caught up in infancy and childhood, many between fourteen and twenty, and few to sixty. Straight ahead stood a separate mausoleum, a cross atop it, surrounded by a chain and four corner columns mounting stone faces, the girl, the woman, the hag, and the skull.

—Ausculta . . .

—Mira señor . . . aïee . . .

The argument going on in two languages would hardly have made sense in one, and the newcomer arrived to enter with what sounded like a third, for one of the men was the watchman whom
he’d come to see. The other was a feverish-eyed man whom he studied sharply for fear, as he confessed later, that he might be a Rumanian, since the language he spoke sounded as if it might have been anything. (It proved to be Late Latin, being garlanded with whatever tendrils and sprays came to hand.) Both were waving their arms at the bóveda beside them, where an unmarked vault and one containing nothing but the wet end of a broom stood side by side.

—My father doesn’t make mistakes! the feverish-eyed man suddenly burst out.

—Ah . . . speaks English?

—Yes, I . . . you, who are you? Listen, do you speak . . . can you talk to him? My mother’s in there, and I . . . he tells me . . . Here, you talk to him. Here she is, I’ve written her name down, here, he went on rapidly, and handed a rumpled card to the shock-haired man, who stared at it. —Yes, yes, there that’s her name, she . . . What’s the matter, can’t you read it?

—This . . . this is your mother’s name?

—Yes, can’t you see? And she . . .

—But . . . what’s she doing here? How’d she get in here? The card quivered, and became damp in his hand. He reached up as though he were going to smooth back the shock of black hair, but his raised hand dropped and he crossed himself as he handed the card back, and crossed himself again.

—Well that’s what I want to know. I mean, there’s no name on this vault, there’s no mark, there’s no way to tell . . .

Then the sacristán started, and spoke as though he could not stop:
la guerra
was the word to occur most often; next to that,
los rojos
. All this time Mr. Yák studied the figure beside him closely, as though it might be a ghost, or the leavings of one, the thin lips and nervous blinking eyes, hands at his sides opening and closing on nothing. Mr. Yák was agitated enough himself, tugging at his mustache as he listened to the sacristán, and then pressing it anxiously back in place, searching the face beside him for some resemblance he hoped not to find, while the other simply stood, blinking at the unidentified vault and then up at the brilliant sky where low-flying gray clouds exaggerated the vastness of the sheer blue and white beyond.

—España . . . no hay más que una! burst the music in the court, as the sacristán gasped for breath, and Mr. Yák turned to interpret, —In this war they had, these reds came in and turned everything upside-down, some places they even opened up some coffins and stood the bodies up all over the place . . . even down in the church
he says they turned everything upside-down, even the párroco, the town priest here, they turned him upside-down too . . .

—Coño, mira . . . The sacristán recovered his breath, and with it his stream of Andalusian enthusiasm; but he was interrupted by a proposition which left him wide-eyed and open-mouthed: Mr. Yák had, after all, come here on business himself, and now, to show his calm as he spoke of it, he reached to a niche nearby to pluck a boutonnière. He had some difficulty in breaking the wire stem, but by the time he’d done speaking he had the spotted paper rose in his buttonhole, and the sacristán, though he was staring transfixed at this gay embellishment, seemed not to see it for the horror of what he heard. Even the wad of five-peseta notes which reached his hand did not break the sacristán’s cataleptic stance, though it loosed his tongue enough for, —Ya no! Ya no! . . . and he commenced to chatter on about the párroco, and a funeral cortège which was imminent, to listen, while he caught his breath, and then bound round the corner of the bóveda, pointing, —Ya viene! Ya viene!

Sure enough, below, and as yet beyond the first station of the cross, the coronation approached. Still Mr. Yák seemed in no hurry. He said a few more words to the sacristán, and then sauntered off among the bóvedas, reading ages and dates on the tiers of vaults like a man on a shopping tour. The paper rose, slightly disintegrated and faded in spots by drops of rain, added a jaunty note to the general trimness of his person, which the plexiglas collar so nicely defined. He might have worn a hat, but for fear his hair come off with it when it was removed, and now, as the sacristán watched them out the first gate, the wind stood his black hair up on end, and he grabbed for it. As for the figure beside him, the sacristán had earlier noted how the man’s coat stood out on both sides like a pack-saddle, but said nothing, only stared, as he did now after them: seen from behind, as they passed through the second gate, they looked like two old men.

The funeral pomp was black, led slowly up the rock-studded road by the párroco, an old man with a boy on either side carrying their standards. The horses wore black plumes on their harness and black net halfway to the ground, and the open carriage they drew mounted to a black cross pinnacle over the exposed casket. The man seated before, driving the horses, and him up behind between the wide rear wheels, both wore black hats square over old unshaven faces, derelict decorations like those awaiting them above. The men who followed carrying their hats, and their heads bowed, stepped round the horses’ droppings which were left behind steaming in the sun. Mr. Yák crossed himself, three times, as the procession passed.

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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák
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. Yák 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 repreniendo la bochornosa . . . see? You shouldn’t swear . . .

—Damn it . . .

—Que ya no se respetan ni la santidad del templo, ni los misterios más 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. Yák 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. Yák ordered two coffees. The man beside him clutched
one hand in the other on the bar silently, as the bartender escaped with the order. Then looking straight ahead at the 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 blanco, 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. Yák 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 . . .