The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (136 page)

The bartender’s expression did not change. He found the freshest one-peseta note he had, and put it before the man at the bar, watched the one with the blown rose pat his arm, heard him say, —Goodbye Stephan, I’ll be back, I won’t be long, be careful . . . and when that one had clattered out the door, pressing his mustache with one finger, smoothing the shock of black hair with the other hand, the bartender managed to look a little relieved, not having understood the parting threat. He crossed his arms and sighed, as though a party of twenty had just gone out the door, leaving one numb member behind, standing now, gazing, not at the bad engraving of the Dama de Elche, but returning the vacant stare of the sardines.

In that quiet village, stacked three thousand feet above the sea against the southwestern slopes of the Sierra de Guadarrama, the province of Madrid, and the kingdom of New Castile laid out barren at its feet, there are thirty-seven bars, where, as in most of that country, the visitor is free to enjoy that privilege which distinguishes him from the natives to such advantage, and get morbidly, or helplessly, riotously, or roaring, drunk. No one minds. He is looked upon as a curiosity, one who has, perhaps, worked out an ingeniously obvious solution to unnecessary problems, and is mortgaging a present which is untenable to secure a future which does not exist. All but three (and they are known but to the learned hand), before that sunny day was out, became familiar with the draggled man whose greeting, and entire store of conversation, lay in the word
Manzanilla;
with the tune
La Tani
on the local barrel organ, which at first he trailed from one to another, and then, finding a tattered duro waiting at each stop, it trailed him; and finally, with the vociferous shock-haired figure whose boutonnière, by the time he found his comrade in Mis Niños, was no more than a twist of wire flying a shred of spotted pink paper, and his mustache awry as though stuck on in a hurry, for he adjusted it before each threshold he crossed. He also sported, by now, a cord of yellow and purple intertwined, knotted under the plexiglas collar where his tie had been, a manifest, as he hastened to explain to his glazed friend after his first recriminatory greetings, of a pledge made to Saint Anthony in return for the Saint’s assistance in this impending project.

—No. No. Good God.

—Where have you been? I’ve looked all over the town for you, all afternoon. You said you were going to wait for me back . . .

—I thought you’d wrapped yourself up . . . in a mummy.

—What?

—No.

—Listen . . . what’s the matter, you hiding from somebody?

—Yes.

—Who? Where? Where are they? Mr. Yák looked wildly round. —Hmmn? Come on. Stephan? Stephan, come on. Hmmn? At the door,
La Tani
played in thunderous broken chords. Mr. Yák finally brought his eyes round to find the two faintly green ones fixed on him. —All right. You all right? There was a withering crash as
La Tani
finished, something dodged between them, plucked a green duro from the hand hanging off the bar, got out, —Dios se lo pague señor . . . in one word, and was gone.

—Listen now, it’s almost dark, and we . . .

There was a shimmering crash at the door: it was the opening chord of
La Tani
.

—Listen . . . Jesus! Mr. Yák brought his fist down, got to the door in two steps, and started to shout above the music, which continued, skipping notes it had lost during the day, but parading what remained with frenzied exultation. Mr. Yák finally managed to halt the spinning handle, and returned a minute later looking even more done in, after an argument which had become as deranged as the music it had sent packing.

—Una y una . . . tres. What do you want now?

—Listen, it’s almost dark by now, did you know that? What are you doing here, anyway?

—I tried to leave. No trains.

—No, I mean in this dump. Mr. Yák looked around. It was a modest place, to be sure. There were barrels, bottles, and dirty glasses recklessly arranged behind the bartender, who put a dish of olives before them, and awaited Mr. Yák’s order. When he realized that someone was eavesdropping, Mr. Yák spun round with, —Nothing! Nothing! . . . niente! Nada! . . . He was quite agitated, and returned to his comrade, propped before him. —I ought to just leave you here like you are.

—That’s the spirit.

—Now listen, said Mr. Yák, taking a step closer, and he put a hand on the reposing arm on the bar. A crafty look came to his face as the sharp eyes narrowed over the expression which was almost a smile before him. —How would you like to make sure? he asked in his low confidential tone.

—Sure? . . .

—Sure listen . . . how would you like to go up with me, up the hill, see? . . . And look in and make sure that . . . that that’s your mother’s . . . resting place.

Some recrudescence mounted to the face before him: the smile fell away, at any rate, leaving evidence of sharp consciousness scattered in fragments of complete confusion, which the muscles of the face seemed to try to draw together into some single question.

—Listen, see? . . . I have to go up there anyway, on business. You can come up with me. Then you and me can . . .

—Damn it just . . . stop saying that. That you and me. Will you? Damn it. What do they want me for? What do you want me for? Damn it, what do they all want me for?! he burst out.

—Listen . . .

—Damn it. Damn them. And you . . . you . . .

—Come on out, we’ll get some fresh air outside.

—They all . . . they all . . . want me, they want . . . damn it! What do they want? he cried.

—Come on. Come on. Mr. Yák put an arm round his shoulders, and led him toward the door. The bartender called, but not loudly, —Señor . . . se olvida . . . He held up a fresh one-peseta note, and Mr. Yák waved it back in a munificent gesture with his free hand.

Clusters of lights stood out on the mountain slopes like the lights of ports driven uphill by the sea, for it was yet light enough that the barren plateau stretched away levelly blue under the haze. They made their way up behind the town, and as they climbed the stone streets shocks of consciousness, and consequent revulsion, ran through the figure Mr. Yák supported, and pulled away from him, to come back the more heavily. Meanwhile, Mr. Yák talked. He explained the purple and yellow cord hanging from his shiny collar, and the debt incumbent upon Saint Anthony. He said he had made full confession, but in Rumanian, so the old párroco, who had not understood a word of it, had given him a light penance, —not like Rome, at Saint Peter’s they can confess you in half a dozen languages, they got you going and coming. He said he had turned in three per cent of his money to the church, —to be devoted to pious uses, like it says, see? And he said the párroco was real old, —it won’t take much to bring him around where we want him, I’ve got some ideas right now, see? . . . because I already gave him an idea I’ve got an in on the sacred mysteries, see? But there’s this one guy I got to watch, we got to watch, I met him the last minute there . . . and as they trudged toward the rock-studded road up behind the town, Mr. Yák went on to describe Señor Hermoso Hermoso, who —had this real holy attitude about everything, see? Because they’re getting this patron saint and he acts like he arranged everything, and he’s not even a priest or anything, he runs a drugstore sort of, and that’s one reason we got to watch out for him, see? And he speaks English, so he told me all about this
patron saint they’re getting. When they took her out of the graveyard here to put her somewhere else when she was beatified they thought she looks kind of big for an eleven-year-old girl, but the way the body was preserved after forty years almost, so that made them sure it’s a saint. But that long, even no matter how well it’s preserved they probably make a new head out of wax. Anyway that’s not so long, you don’t eat anything but beans all your life like these people around here they haven’t got enough money to eat anything but beans all their life, then you don’t decay so fast. Mr. Yák paused, but took up again almost immediately as though harried by the silence of his companion.

—Anyway so he told me all about the cures she effected, by her intervention, you know, like there was this one old guy who’s deaf for six years, and so he prays to her for intervention and he gets over it just like that, what it was, it was an earwig that was in his ear all that time, you know? . . . and when it comes out all of a sudden then he could hear again. And then about this old guy who raped this girl, or he tried to rape her, see? . . . when he was young, he’s real old now, he gets out of prison and he goes to this monastery where he’s some kind of a penitent, you know? He’s sort of like a janitor there . . .

Mr. Yák finally silenced, mainly for the exertion this walk was costing him. It was dark now, as they reached the hill and started up it. Then Mr. Yák heard something behind them, and stopped. He looked back. —What the . . . well I’ll . . . that barrel organ, they been following us. A square shape, with two shapeless conductors, had stopped at the last corner behind them, and reluctantly turned back into the streets of the town. —See? See? Mr. Yák shook his companion as they climbed. —I told you not to go giving them money like that, they’ll follow you around the world now.

About halfway up, as he stepped out of a soft mound in the middle of the rough road, Mr. Yák stopped. —Listen, why don’t you just wait for me here? You don’t have to come up, you just sit down here a minute and wait, I’ll be back in a minute, see?

At that, the man he was supporting suddenly came to life, and stepped back, almost falling over. —No, no, no, he said clearly. —I’m coming. I’m coming now.

—Listen there’s no reason you should bother to come, see? And what I said before, I was just kidding, you don’t want to go prying around up here, you just sit and wait here for me a minute, you . . . wait . . .

But the figure was already steps ahead up the hill in the dark, and Mr. Yák hurried to overtake him.

A light shone at the gate, piloting an unseen figure. It was the
sacristán, and he groaned. —Quién es? he asked the specters, though he knew well enough, and turning without an answer, led them in. They passed through the inside gate, and the light from his lantern glanced away from the white bóvedas and here and there caught a beaded wreath, the Virgin stark in an icon looking like a playing-card queen, the Infant with a hand out as though hailing a passing cab.

The sacristán was pausing, helplessly, waiting for word from Mr. Yák, who was bending down along the way to look at ages and dates on the vaults, when they both realized that the man with them had gone on ahead. They found him, there where they had all met in the sunlight.

—Look, you don’t want to go prying in there . . . Mr. Yák commenced, but too late, he’d already started to pull the unmarked vault down himself, when the light showed him where it was. Mr. Yák was trembling too, turning his face as though he did not want to look when they lifted it down; and they were all surprised at the lightness of it as they lowered it to the ground. Of the three, the sacristán appeared most distracted now, trying to loose the top with one hand, holding the light up with the other, and he kept looking up as though in fear someone, or something, might appear. When it came open, not with a wrench, but breakage of the wooden top, it was he who was first to shatter the pattern of shock which gripped them together, staring in at the dark, withered, and childish-figured contents.

—Coño! . . . Dios! válgame Dios! He banged the broken cover down and stayed, quaking on his knees beside the little girl who had been left behind. He raised his eyes slowly, beyond them to where their shadows were sundered over the sills of the empty compartments next to one another high in the bóveda. And Mr. Yák, still motionless, felt a shudder beside him, one which persisted in the shadow thrown flickering past the broken broom, back into the hollow depth bereft of the alien presence who had waited so long unchallenged by earth, through war, and profane seizure, and the destruction of names more ornate than her own, among decayed floral tributes and wreaths made of beads, to be removed at last from this domain of broken glass façades and rickety icons, and enshrined, to work miracles.

The sacristán crossed himself: and the leaping shadow was caught and reflected, twice, in the arms of the men standing above him. Mr. Yák turned, startled at that motion beside him. The hand he put on his companion’s shoulder was not rejected, and he whispered —There Stephan. I told you, you weren’t a bum.

The sacristán was struggling to his feet. Suddenly Mr. Yák’s eyes
were glittering again. —Now, see? back to the work. She . . . this, he motioned at the box without noticing the paper torn in trembling hands seeking a cigarette beside him. —This is just what we want. See? Stephan? You all right? Mr. Yák looked at him.

There in the broken moving light from the match and the lantern, his face appeared darker, and everything seemed to move in it though nothing moved there at all, lines drawn down from the nose holding the jaw up rigid, lines which broke the flat cheeks sinking away from the high-boned lines of the face. Then the sacristán was assailing them for help, to get the thing back up where it belonged before they were discovered, and Mr. Yák got hold of one side, but the third of them simply stood staring into the empty space where there was nothing but the wet end of a broken broom. When they got it back in place, he was gone. They found him a few minutes later, sitting outside the front gate on a stone, eating an orange in the dark, and looking at the moon which had just come into view beyond the mountains.

—Come on, Stephan. It’s cold, Mr. Yák said taking his arm down the hill. —We want to make that train. His voice sounded loud on the night air, and he lowered it as though talking to himself to add, —We’ll see about this thing tomorrow, when we get the old párroco in line, eh? He felt the figure beside him shrug, and said no more, busily planning in his head the immediate future. Neither of them spoke all the way through the town, where single lights cast clear separate shadows, stood doorways up vertically, none of the lights close enough to one another to confuse the night with multiple and exaggerated shades, or the shadows of these two moving figures behind with those before them.