The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (137 page)

They reached the railway station without speaking. On the empty platform, Mr. Yák shivered looking at the sky. —Look at that, that moon, he said, hunched up with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

—Yes . . .

—What? After a pause, Mr. Yák muttered, —It looks so close there, don’t it . . . Then he shivered again, and looked back over his shoulder to where a dull glow hung over the sign
Urinarios
. —Hey, Stephan? I got to go over here a minute, he said. —Stephan?

—Oh yes, do you know? . . . charms can even bring it down . . .

—What?

—Down from heaven?

Mr. Yák waited, half turned, and then his shoulders relaxed a little and he said, —I forgot to tell you, hey? . . . I had a Mass said for your mother, up there at the church today. He waited another moment, swaying with his knees together. —See? he added. But from where he stood, it looked to him like the lonely figure there, drawn
back from the empty platform, was trying to brush a streak of moonlight from his sleeve, and Mr. Yák turned and went on in the direction he’d started. When he arrived and stood, occupied, staring above him at the sky, the silence of the country, that silence which keeps city ears awake, alert, provoked him to speak aloud, as though to hear what he said confirmed. —This poor guy, he’s as crazy as an eagle . . . Then he sniffed, cocked his head, and seemed to hear the rush of the barrel organ pounding inside it. But everywhere was silence, and as a matter of fact,
La Tani
has not been heard through those streets since that sunny day.

The Andalusian maiden looked down from her balcony, next morning, past her wooer, upon a scene of considerable activity. The air was enhanced with smells, mutterings, and occasional puffs of smoke, as Mr. Yák bustled among the confusion of newspapers so engrossed in his work that he almost dropped the glass test tubes he held in either hand when the dueño knocked at his door.

—Su amigo, señor . . . The dueño stepped back to introduce the bedraggled figure in the hall beside him, and Mr. Yák, who had put down the test tubes and pulled on the shock of black hair slightly askew, stepped back and said, —Come in, Stephan. Come in. Sit down . . . here, let me move this . . . there. Sit down. Now watch. Watch this. And he grabbed up the test tubes again. He began to pour the clear liquid from one into the other which was apparently empty, but the hair had slid over one glittering eye. He reached up impatiently, caught the black shock, tore it off and flung it across the room to the bureau top. Then his hand returned to his face in a reflex and gave the mustache a sharp tug. He yelped and almost dropped the test tubes, but recovered his purpose quickly. —Watch . . . The colorless liquid poured into the empty test tube, where it became bright red. —Now, what do you think of that?

—It’s very nice, but tell me . . .

—Wait. Watch . . . He poured the red liquid into another test tube, and it became colorless again.

—Just tell me . . .

—Water into wine, wine into water. I can change it into milk too. Add a little sodium bisulphate . . .

—Will you please tell me . . .

—Here’s another one. This one’s even better. Water into blood, blood into a solid. Remember the miracle at Bolsena? Watch. A little aluminum sulphate dissolved, a few drops of phenolphthalein, and now . . . watch. Sodium silicate. Watch. See? Look at that, blood. Watch. See it? See it congeal?

—Yes, yes, but . . .

—What do you think of that?

—All I want to know is . . .

—I can eat fire too, if I have to. Mr. Yák hopped off among the flurry of newspapers, to see where some wads of blotting paper were drying on the sink. —See? he said, holding one up. —You just light it and wrap it up in cotton. And then, whoof!

—If you’ll just . . .

—Whoooft! Sparks all over the place. Hey? Mr. Yák’s eyes shone eagerly across the room, as he awaited some confirmation of his enthusiasm. But his guest simply stared at him. —Hey Stephan? What’s the matter?

—Will you just tell me where I am? and how I got here?

—Where are we? We’re in Madrid, where else would we be. This is the pensión I’m living at, I got a room for you here last night. You were drunk last night, you don’t want to drink so much. I gave your passport to the dueño, he has to show it up at the police station, see? I told him you’re a friend of mine from Switzerland worn out by the journey here, that’s why you couldn’t walk I told him, see? Now everything’s O.K., you’re safe as a nut. Stephan.

There was a tap at the door. Mr. Yák snatched up his hair and put it on. His excitement had brought color to his face, and while it might not be the blush of youth, he did look younger this morning, and capable of almost anything.

—It’s backwards.

—What?

—Your hair. You’ve got your hair on backwards, said his guest, folded up there in the corner among the newspapers, speaking in a tone which reflected the look in his eyes, one of patient, but wary, curiosity. He pulled a yellow cigarette from the green and black paper of Ideales.

—Oh! Oh! Oh! Mr. Yák spun the shock of hair round on his head, and opened the door the margin of an eye.

—Señor Asche? said the dueño from the dark passage. Mr. Yák started to make wild gestures of beckoning behind the door. His guest stared at him. —Su pasaporte . . . Finally Mr. Yák reached through the opening to snatch the Swiss passport, with a muttered —Gracias to the dueño, and he closed the door and bolted it. —Señor Asche, that’s you, he said crossing the room. —I wanted you to come get it from him, your passport. Stephan Asche. See? He handed the Swiss passport over the newspaper barricade. —There, Stephan. Like I said, see? Safe as a nut. Look at the picture in it, go ahead. It’s just like you, just like I said, that square face all screwed up around the eyes, see? Now you just want to wash up a little and get a shave. And he bounded off again, across the room
toward the mirror over the washbowl, where the drying wads of blotting paper caught his eye. —Do you want to see me eat fire? he brought out, leering into the glass at the image of the man behind him. The image of Stephan Asche did not move. Nothing moved there, but the smoke rising gently behind the disorder of newspapers, the untended trail of a fire smoldering in a pile of debris where nothing retains its original shape, or purpose, among broken parts and rusted remains of useful objects, unidentifiable now, indistinguishable from other fragments of the past, shapes and sharp angles of curious design and unique intention, wasting without flame under the litter of news no longer news, pages of words torn by the wind, sodden with rain, words retaining separation, strung to the tear, without purpose, but words, and nothing moves but the smoke, rising from two bright embers.

—Stephan! Mr. Yák bursts out, turning from the washbowl. —Wake up! . . . you . . . you went to sleep with your eyes open it looked like, you . . . listen . . .

—Look . . .

—Listen, you don’t want to smoke that stuff, see? It smells lousy, it makes the whole room here smell like the town dump. It’s a third potato peel, the tobacco here . . . See? Listen, you want to wash up and shave.

—But I don’t.

—Yes you do. Come on . . . what do you want to do?

—Nothing.

—You can’t do nothing. See? There’s work to do. See? All this . . . All this . . . The spotted cigarette-burned robe comes off in a swirl: Mr. Yák’s neck is quite a long one, springing out of the neck-band shirt, caught, constricted with a preposter’s dignity, in plexiglas, roped and drawn with Saint Anthony’s earnest, Saint Anthony’s hostage draws it tight to the throat. —The water into wine, and the wine into water, the blood that congeals and turns into stone, that’s all for the old párroco, see? To bring him around to where he’ll agree to sell us that . . . sell us the thing for the mummy. Nothing? You don’t want to do nothing? That’s the way you get into mischief. You get into mischief, doing nothing.

—Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla . . . Tell me, did they sing that out here?

—Where?

—The Mass, you said you had a Mass sung for the dead. They sing that sometimes, in Masses for the dead, swinging the censer to kill the smell of the living. Look, what was that blonde I met in the hall?

Silence submits to the thud of an Ideal ash hitting the floor. From
the wall, the Andalusian maiden stares down over her sturdy balcony, over the shoulder of him in the guitar’s embrace, to coquette with her host, who disdains her directly their eyes meet, turning as though yanked to by the lead at his neck. —Just what you say, a blonde. Forget her.

—But I don’t even know her yet.

—So that saves you the trouble. You don’t want to get mixed up with that flashy piece of goods. See?

Somewhere, a clock struck. —See? Mr. Yák repeated, taking a step toward the darker corner, his head lowered, chin jutting forth, he looked searchingly where the smoke rose like a man looking on a refuse heap, finding a nondescript necktie worn and discarded among the cinders, some rags, two shoes which will never fit anyone else, still he looked searchingly, and his eyes caught a glitter. —You’re here to get mixed up with some blonde that’ll take them diamonds right off your finger? Then why are you here then?

—Why am I here? I’m here because I’m not any place else. Now look . . .

—Now listen, you and me . . . Wait! What are you doing? You don’t want to open the windows . . .

Nevertheless, the floor-length windows were swung open, and the sounds of Alphonso del Gato rose to them, mounting on a chorus of
Francisco alegre
 . . . ole!

—You don’t want to get mixed up with that flashy piece of goods down the hall, Mr. Yák repeated, addressing Stephan’s back, at the windows. —See?

Nevertheless, awhile after everyone else had lunched on garlic soup, a simple cocido, dead fish, and an orange, and the blue angora sweater nowhere in sight in the small dining room, Mr. Yák, slipping down the passage between doors closed upon afternoon slumber, glanced in the dining room, and there saw his friend at a table, the blue fluff catercorner. She was biting his thumb.

Reproach filled Mr. Yák before he knew it, and he almost mistook his step; but there would be time enough for all his words of rebuke, warning, and censure: now there was work ahead, and he hurried toward it, feeling chilly and grown old.

As for Marga, she was a discreet person: there was a building in the Calle Ventura de la Vega where, up a flight, a dim shuttered room afforded but one furnishing above necessity, a mirror, mounted along the length of the bed, which that afternoon reflected with a fertile vigor undiminished by repetition liberties taken upon every natural part of her but her coiffure, though that, to be sure, was a crown of artifice whose consequent fragility she had good reason to
protect: only in descent from the exposed and cultivated brow did the remontant powers of nature prove how, as the poet wrote, the natural in woman closely is allied to art.

—I saw you . . . Mr. Yák said that evening, standing in the spotted robe, holding his hair in his hand before him, and he looked weary. His day had been a busy one, inveigling the old párroco on the one hand, fending off the importunate Señor Hermoso Hermoso on the other. But more than the day’s fatigue showed on him. The instant he pulled off that shock of black hair, a heavy decade of years weighed his shoulders down, and now his eyes, as though another day’s application had exhausted their glitter, showed with a dullness which, but for the impatient promptings of his voice, might have been construed as disappointment. —Listen, we . . . we have work to do, and you, behaving like this, it’s like cutting your nose off in spite of your face, he said. —You’re not a bum.

—Stephan.

—What?

—No, I . . . I just said that, I just called you that, so you’ll get used to it. Mr. Yák lowered his eyes wearily, to the floorboards whose different lengths effected an unsteady parquet.

If the orange-colored cloth of that coat could be so quickly supplanted in memory by its leopard collar at full length, both disappeared from attention and memory alike when the coat was drawn open and nothing but Marga beneath it, for she wore it as a robe de chambre, or rather de couloir, on that last-minute trip between her room and the toilet, managed, like all of her public appearances, with a decorum which greatly enhanced her license in private. There, except for the armoire across the room mounting something the proportions of a pier glass which would have demanded taxing, if not unnatural, exertions, for its full employment, there was no mirror in her room to confirm one sense in what four others were making possible, no confirmation for that most immediate sense, that most used, most depended upon, most easily deceived, none but her lips too close, separated, teeth biting silence, and eyes demanding correspondence in closing.

—I heard you . . . Mr. Yák said next day. —I heard you in there last night. And now look at you, look at your eyes, you’re getting this French influenza like everybody’s getting, that ought to put you
in bed a while and take care of yourself, see? Because in a day or two we’re going to bring it in, for the mummy, see?

If she heard the heart pounding in the dark, or felt it shaking the whole frame she embraced, every beat splitting the head she held between her hands, the jaw rigid then shivering on gasps for breath, while every beat of the heart surged the flow more weakly and ebbed to withhold the life she drew forth, she gave no sign of knowing in the dark, the first time, the second, the third and her knee raised to manage gently insistent manipulation with her toes, to continue the rehearsal and then in a rush repeat the performance, no more sign than the animal trainer putting the sick dog through its paces.

Two days later, when Marga had left for the country (a family wedding), Mr. Yák had his arrangements almost made. The párroco in San Zwingli was properly awed, the sacristán thoroughly intimidated, and Señor Hermoso Hermoso, convinced with such happy importance that he knew what was going on, had given up trying to find out. He had even at one point, and quite unwittingly, put Mr. Yák onto something most pertinent to the project, in a casual café conversation which turned to a local method for aging fine lace, a process Mr. Yák now considered employing to add some dozens of centuries to the linen bandaging, before it was finally baked on.