William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— 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 sacristan 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. Yak 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. Yak was agitated enough himself, tugging at his mustache as he listened to the sacristan, 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 mas que una! burst the music in the court, as the sacristan gasped for breath, and Mr. Yak 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 sacristan recovered his breath, and with it his stream of Andahisian enthusiasm; but he was interrupted by a proposition which left him wide-eyed and open-mouthed: Mr. Yak 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 sacristan, 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 sacristan'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 cortege 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. Yak seemed in no hurry. He said a few more words to the sacristan, 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 sacristan 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 sacristan 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. Yak 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. 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.