William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— Good God!. .

— What's the matter with you? Mr. Yak asked before he looked for reason, finding, for the first time, this hand on his arm.

A white carriage, all white, drawn by horses strung with broken white netting, mounting a small white casket beneath the white coronating cross, climbed before them, — Christ! are they always held at the fall of the day? Another one, up that broken road to the cypress trees, and the men follow, carrying their hats, and that girl on her bicycle, in her green dress, making the stupid windings of life in the road behind it, and she'll be back down the hill before they unload the box… As though that child had. . chosen this time to die.

His hand had fallen away, and Mr. Yak caught his arm. — Listen, Mr. Yak said quickly, — you go back there and wait for me, go back to that bar and wait for me, see?

— Well I… then you'll have to lend me some money.

— You're broke. . you've spent. . you don't have any money?

— Point d'argent, point de Suisse…

— Listen, I don't want to let you. . have you got your passport? Mr. Yak had pulled out a wad of paper money. — If they. .

— It says I'm from Zurich. Quick! I'll speak to them in German. . aber die jüngste war so schön, dass die Sonne selber. . Quick!. .

The procession gone up the hill had been drawn by two horses, and now, down through the town, came a cart drawn by one, loaded with refuse from the factory nearby. Watching it with the same apparent interest as she had watched the other, an old woman withdrew from her railed balcony, leaving her husband in his chair, put out there in the afternoon for the sun, to look and cough, with his piece of bread, waiting. And the sun, which had kept so close all the day, sought before leaving it to fill the sky with color, a soft luster of pink, and then purple, against the pure blue, color which refined the clouds to their own shapes and then failed, discovering in them for minutes the whole material of beauty, then leaving them without light to mock the sky, losing form, losing edges and shape and definition, until soon enough with darkness, they disappear entirely.

— Allí se mueren, said the man behind the bar of La Ilicitana. He placed a glass there, and brought down the bottle of Genesis, answering a question with his voice, and an order with the bottle of coñac. — En invierno no, pero quando vienen las hojas por los árboles, allí se mueren.

It was dark out of doors when the bartender at La Ilicitana leaned forth to direct his only client's attention to the couple waiting outside. Mr. Yak stood just within the dim shaft of light, beckoning. Beside him, in the shadows, a small figure draped in a shawl waited patiently; and a moment later, the man behind the bar there watched the three of them leave with no misgiving curiosity in his face at all.

— Take her arm, said Mr. Yak in the street. — But be careful. You're not drunk, are you? Are you? You got enough chairs for the monkeys? Come on. Be careful. We pretend it's an old woman, see? Only when we get on the train she's real stiff in the joints, see? But these Spaniards here are very reverent for an old woman, like it's somebody's mother, see? So be careful. .

He was right.

The conductor even threatened to help the stiff figure aboard the First Class coach, but Mr. Yak was impressively filial, and they were soon seated abreast in a compartment. Mr. Yak pulled the shades down upon the aisle passing outside, for the figure between them sat stretched out at an uncomfortable length for her size, and there was no relaxing her into the cushions, — because we don't want to break nothing.

The moon, in its last quarter, had not yet entered the sky, waiting to corne in late, each night waiting nearer the last possible minute before day, to appear over the distant gate more battered, lopsided, and seem to mount unsteadily as though restrained by embarrassment at being seen in such condition. And so the train rattled out into the rock-strewn plain in darkness. Mr. Yak stood up, slipped the door open enough to peep into the corridor, and then displaced the glass and removed the light from above the seat across from them.

— You're afraid the light will hurt her eyes?

— No. In case somebody should come in here with us so it don't shine in her face, Mr. Yak answered earnestly. — See? he added as he resumed his seat and leaned forward, solicitously arranging the black shawl, tucking its long ends round the extended feet. Then he straightened up and said, — There!. . patted down the shock of black hair, pressed the mustache, and cleared his throat with satisfaction. The acrid smoke of an Ideal commenced to rise from the window side of the compartment, and they rode on, seated backwards, facing the place they'd come from, and looking in what light there was through the sinoke like a weary and not quite respectable family.

The conductor, at any rate, showed no rude curiosity when he tapped at the glass panel, slid the door open, and took three tickets from Mr. Yak, who had bounded to his feet to meet him, with such zeal, in fact, that part of the shawl came along with him, exposing hands clasped one over the other on the sunken basin of the pelvis, above the wide separation of the lower limbs, and the head, tilted forward slightly, the surface of the face unbroken by a nose, the eyes sunken, the jaw dropped. But the conductor was gone.

— Come on!. . cover it up! Mr. Yak burst out, getting the door closed, but the face he saw was a reflection in the glass. He pulled the shawl up quickly round the stiff figure, and drew it in a deep hood over the nodding head. — You got to keep alert, doing something like this, he went on when he got his breath, — you can't just sit looking out the window, you. . Are you drunk? Hey? Stephan? How many monkeys got upstairs while I left you there? Did you? Are you?

With no answer, and nothing of his companion but the back of his head and the steady image of his face in the glass, Mr. Yak recovered from his impatience, sat down again, and turned to the figure between them. — You wouldn't think she's only a little girl, would you have. He stared abstractedly at the flat lap for a minute, blinked, rubbed his hands, said, — Now we can really get to work, and sat back.

But he could not sit still. His foot commenced tapping on the vibrating floor. — What we want to do first, we want to find a place to bury that linen stuff awhile, so you can go there and sort of wet it down, see? Then I got to get into touch with this guy, this Egyptianologist, so he don't give up hope and leave town. Then all I got to do is keep out of his way till it's all set. See? Then we. . Are you listening to me? Mr. Yak leaned over and tapped a far knee.

— What's the matter?

— Are you listening to me? What's the matter?

— Nothing, I… Nothing.

— Nothing? You…

— Nothing. I was just thinking about something.

— What?

— Nothing.

Mr. Yak snorted, and tapped his fingers on his knee. Then he turned abruptly and his neck shot out of the plexiglas collar. — Listen, he said, — I feel like I'm alone in here with this. . with this. He nudged the figure beside him. The face beyond did not turn from the window. — See? So…

— What do you want me to do? Get up and dance?

— No. The vagueness of the tone irritated Mr. Yak. — But we…

— Shall I sing something? Una y una dos, dos y dos son tres. .

— Listen, we…

— No sale la cuenta. . Porque falta un churumbel. What's churumbel?

— That's a gypsy word here, Mr. Yak answered, the irritation still in his voice, speaking to the back of his friend's head. — The bill doesn't come out right because there's a kid missing. It means a kid. His tone was belligerent, but he answered rather than have no conversation at all. — See? he added, paused, and prompted, — See?