The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  With this spring in his step he was soon up behind the town, where the sound of running water nearby, the braying of burros and the desultory tinkling of bells, and the distant voices of people below reached him where he paused to sniff, and then stood still inhaling the pines above him and the delicious freshness of cow manure, like a man rediscovering senses long forgotten under the abuses of cities. Then he was off again, and when he reached the road bounded by cypress trees, he hardly paused to cross himself at the first station he encountered as he hurried up the hill toward the white walls of the cemetery.

  The forecourt, as he entered, was flooded with a riot of flamenco music from the radio in the house of the resident watchman, to one side there and almost hidden behind the unfurled hilarity of the week’s wash. Nonetheless he could hear voices beyond the next gate, where a small stone crucifixion drew his eye as he approached and went through, with a quick glance up at it and a stab, more a parabola than a cross over his chest, for the figure carved in what appeared at that moment full abandon to a dance which the music accompanied. Within, the bóvedas mounted on both sides, three, four, five vaults high, decorated with bead flowers and metal wreaths, icons and wilted nosegays, broken glass protecting photographs, and all of them numbered, with names, and ages caught up in infancy and childhood, many between fourteen and twenty, and few to sixty. Straight ahead stood a separate mausoleum, a cross atop it, surrounded by a chain and four corner columns mounting stone faces, the girl, the woman, the hag, and the skull.

  —Ausculta . . .

  —Mira señor . . . aïee . . .

  The argument going on in two languages would hardly have made sense in one, and the newcomer arrived to enter with what sounded like a third, for one of the men was the watchman whom he’d come to see. The other was a feverish-eyed man whom he studied sharply for fear, as he confessed later, that he might be a Rumanian, since the language he spoke sounded as if it might have been anything. (It proved to be Late Latin, being garlanded with whatever tendrils and sprays came to hand.) Both were waving their arms at the bóveda beside them, where an unmarked vault and one containing nothing but the wet end of a broom stood side by side.

  —My father doesn’t make mistakes! the feverish-eyed man suddenly burst out.

  —Ah . . . speaks English?

  —Yes, I . . . you, who are you? Listen, do you speak . . . can you talk to him? My mother’s in there, and I . . . he tells me . . . Here, you talk to him. Here she is, I’ve written her name down, here, he went on rapidly, and handed a rumpled card to the shock-haired man, who stared at it. —Yes, yes, there that’s her name, she . . . What’s the matter, can’t you read it?

  —This . . . this is your mother’s name?

  —Yes, can’t you see? And she . . .

  —But . . . what’s she doing here? How’d she get in here? The card quivered, and became damp in his hand. He reached up as though he were going to smooth back the shock of black hair, but his raised hand dropped and he crossed himself as he handed the card back, and crossed himself again.

  —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 sacristán 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. Yák 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. Yák was agitated enough himself, tugging at his mustache as he listened to the sacristán, 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 más que una! burst the music in the court, as the sacristán gasped for breath, and Mr. Yák 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 sacristán recovered his breath, and with it his stream of Andalusian enthusiasm; but he was interrupted by a proposition which left him wide-eyed and open-mouthed: Mr. Yák 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 sacristán, 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 sacristán’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 cortège 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. Yák seemed in no hurry. He said a few more words to the sacristán, 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 sacristán 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 sacristán 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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 t
here thirty years? The man stopped beside him, bumping him round with the oranges. —You . . . what do you . . .

  —I just said that, Mr. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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 repreniendo la bochornosa . . . see? You shouldn’t swear . . .

  —Damn it . . .

  —Que ya no se respetan ni la santidad del templo, ni los misterios más 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.

  —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. Yák 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. Yák 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 the 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 blanco, 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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. Yák 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 Chri
stian name.

  —Yeah, you haven’t even told me that. My name is Yák. 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. Yák.

  —All right, you . . . Mister Yák, 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. Yák, 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. Yák’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. Yák 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. Yák 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.