William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— 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. Yak 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. Yak 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 trie 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 bianco, 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. Yak 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. .

— How do you know, maybe I do.

— What do you mean?

— Sometimes you just like owe somebody something. Mr. Yál 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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 Yak. 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. Yak.

— All right, you. . Mister Yak, 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. Yak, 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. Yak'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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak'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. Yak 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.