William Gaddis - The Recognitions

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. Yak 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. Yak, 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. Yak 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. Yak'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 pension 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak started to make wild gestures of beckoning behind the door. His guest stared at him. — Su pasaporte. . Finally Mr. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak'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 1 don't even know her yet.

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

Somewhere, a clock struck. — See? Mr. Yak 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?