The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (135 page)

—How do you know, maybe I do.

—What do you mean?

—Sometimes you just like owe somebody something. Mr. Yák
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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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 Yák. 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. Yák.

—All right, you . . . Mister Yák, 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. Yák, 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. Yák’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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák’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. Yák
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! Vaya! Fuera! Mr. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák filled, speaking in a slightly different tone now, —Maybe I’m like
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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Stephan 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 Yák, as Mr. Yák, 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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.
Go on, Mr. Yák said bridling both hands before his companion. —Stephan.

—If it’s that early . . . you’ll go away if I tell you?

—Yes, yes, go on. Go on, Stephan. Mr. Yák stepped back and spat on the floor, then brought his glittering eyes up in enthusiasm, though the voice he heard was level, even forced, the words spoken rapidly, as vacantly strung together as a recitation.

—The body is extended, make an incision in the left flank and take the internal organs out, except the heart. Fill the vacant cavity with linen and resin, saturate the outer wrappings with resin and mold them to the shape of the body, then emphasize the details with paint on the outside.

—That’s all?

—That’s all.

—But what about wrapping it up, all those linen bandages around it?

—That’s quite complicated, the series of bandages. And leave the brain in, they didn’t take the brain out until very late. And the heart, don’t forget the heart, leave the heart in.

—What about the bandages, do you know them?

Stephan said nothing, but nodded vaguely.

—And the paint, what kind of paint do you paint it up with.

—I don’t know. Red ochre I suppose, he answered wearily, as though the recitation had exhausted him. He turned to his empty glass.

—All right, all right for now, Mr. Yák said in a sudden hurry. —But later you and me, we can work it out. You and me . . . He stopped speaking. The burning green eyes were fixed on him.

—You and me . . . what?

—Never mind, never mind now, Stephan. We’ll work it out, you and . . .

—Good God . . . will you . . . aren’t you going?

—Yes, but later . . .

—Wait.

—What’s the matter?

—Here, do me a favor will you? Get one of those . . . get me a fresh clean one-peseta note if he has one, will you?

—You haven’t got any money? You want some money?

—Yes, damn it, I have some money. I just want a look at a fresh one-peseta note, I want to look at the picture on it.

—Listen, I’ll lend you . . .

—Damn it, never mind. Never mind. Go away.

Mr. Yák examined the dirty wad from his own pocket, then called
the bartender and explained what his friend wanted, —por el dibujo sabe? . . . quiere ver el dibujo.