The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  —Yes . . . well they’re watching us. They’re watching us, the voice took up its dull tone again.

  —Who? Where? Who? Mr. Yák 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. Yák’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. Yák 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.

  —Sam Hall. Now . . . leave me. Leave me. He signed for another glass. There was a tapping at his elbow.

  —Get out! Vaya! Fuera! Mr. Yák broke out. The man beside him spun around, to see the ragged staring wretch who accompanied the barrel organ, holding out a hat which was the only whole piece of clothing he had.

  —Wait . . . wait a minute. Here.

  —Wait! Mr. Yák tried to stay his hand. —Five pesetas, you can’t give him that much, five pesetas?

  The cringing figure took the bill and scuttled away.

  —You don’t want to give them that much every time they . . .

  —I like the music, that’s all. Now leave me alone.

  —Listen, get hold of yourself now, relax, said Mr. Yák up close to his elbow again. —Maybe I’m your gardeen angel like you say. Maybe I can help you out.

  —Out of what.

  —You need papers. You need a passport, don’t you? Mr. Yák went on in a low tone.

  —No.

  —Yes you do. You can’t move here without them. How would you like to be a Swiss?

  —Less than anything I can think of.

  —You’d make a good Swiss, I just thought about it.

  —A good Swiss? The man snorted behind his hand. He took the Manzanilla as soon as it was put before him, and drank half the glass. —Women cross themselves when they meet me in the street. Dogs in the street bark at me. A good Swiss!

  —You wash up and shave and you’ll be fine. I just thought about it. I have this passport, see? This Swiss passport, I didn’t have time to alter anything on it before I left, I didn’t even change the picture on it yet, see? And I just thought about it, that’s why I say this, see? This picture looks like you, this Swiss, it’s got short hair and a square face like you, all knotted up like around the eyes. See? I’m not kidding you, it’s a natural, this Swiss. And you can be him, see? Mr. Yák was talking more rapidly, but in the same low tone of confidence. He had a hand on the man’s arm, and followed the half-step the man drew away from him, staring straight ahead. —What do you say? Listen, I know how it is, see? And this way you’ll be safe as a nut. Still he had no answer, pressing close so that the man slipped another half-step’s space between them, which Mr. Yák filled, speaking in a slightly different tone now, —Maybe I’m like in the same spot you are, see? he said. —Only I’m being a Rumanian. You can make as good a Swiss as I am a Rumanian.

  The man took another half-step away to turn and look at him, speaking with something near interest in his voice for the first time. —You’ve killed someone?

  —No, nothing like that. You wouldn’t find me doing something that crazy. Mr. Yák filled the space between them, and pulled his throat up from the plexiglas collar. —Anybody can stab somebody. I’m not a bum to do something like that, that crazy. I’m a craftsman, an artist like, see? That’s what happened to me, see? he finished, his eyes glittering.

  —No.

  —No what?

  —What happened to you?

  —I just told you. There, see? I knew you’d get interested. I’m not a bum either.

  —I didn’t say you were. What happened?

  —I told you. I’m an artist like, a craftsman, see? . . . and they got jealous of my work.

  —Who did?

  —Well never mind, never mind that right now. And Mr. Yák snorted, and began drumming his fingers on the bar, looking down himself. After a few moments’ silence, during which his companion finished his wine, Mr. Yák took a deep breath and spoke again, briskly as though opening a new subject. —Just never mind who right now, he said.

  Another half-step, and they’d passed the staring sardines.

  —What do you say? Mr. Yák demanded of this companion in whom he’d at last roused interest; but it was gone again, he’d pushed his glass forth and stared vacantly resting an elbow on the bar, and his rough chin in his hand. Mr. Yák looked about to climb up his shoulder. —What do you say, now? This is no joke, I can fix you up with this passport. This is what you want to do, see? Like putting off the old man, you know what I mean, see? . . . like it says in the Bible, that’s it, see? . . . that’s what you want to do, put on the new man, like it says in the Bible. What do you say? . . . All right, listen. Shall I just leave you here then? . . .

  —Yes.

  —Listen, I can tell when a man’s not a bum, see? Like you, see? Listen, you can have this Swiss passport. You can have it. I’ll give it to you, see? Then you’re as safe as a nut. This guy’s name, this Swiss, I forgot his name. That’s all right. It’s something Stephan. Stephan something. See? All right, I’ll call you Stephan, all right? That will help you get use to it, see? See, Stephan? See? . . . you’re getting used to it already, see? See Stephan? Then after a while you think of yourself as Stephan like I think of myself as Yák, as Mr. Yák, see? In case they pull any fast ones on you, see? See Stephan?

  They had gone about three full steps, and almost reached the wall by this time.

  —See, Stephan?

  And Stephan finally turned to him. —Haven’t you got anything else to do?

  —I’m here on business, Mr. Yák answered immediately, and took quick advantage of what he interpreted as a renewal of his companion’s interest. —Listen, do you . . . listen Stephan, I’ll call you that so you’ll get used to it, just out of curiosity have you ever heard of mummies?

  —I feel like one, said Stephan with his back against the wall.

  —Good! Listen . . . you know what they are then? You know about them? Listen, how much do you know about them. I knew you weren’t a bum. Stephan.

  —What do you want to know about them?

  —Good! Listen, have another glass of wine. Stephan. Listen, do you . . . Listen . . . Mr. Yák brought his voice down with difficulty. —Suppose, now listen, just suppose somebody wanted to make one, see? A real craftsmanshiplike job, to make one up. Now I know something about it, see, you wouldn’t want to use a new . . . you wouldn’t use somebody who just died a little while ago . . . Mr. Yák thrust his face into the one before him to confide, —A doctor pulled that one in Vienna and it began to smell, see?

  —How old do you want it to be?

  —Real old, so it looks real old.

  —What Dynasty? Stephan asked grudgingly.

  —What what? Oh . . . now wait. Wait a minute, it was, wait . . . Mr. Yák pressed at his mustache with the length of a forefinger, looking down. When he saw his foot on the floor, he started to tap it. —Wait. The Fourth. The Fourth? he repeated, looking up.

  —That’s quite early.

  —Yes, it’s real old.

  Stephan had lit another harsh yellow cigarette, and the smoke he exhaled separated them a little. He let the smoke settle, and then said, —If I tell you, will you go away?

  —Yes, I have to . . . I have some business here I want to take care of pretty soon, Mr. Yák said impatiently. —Go on.

  —Well, I should think . . .

  —Stephan.

  —What?

  —No, no go on. I just called you that so you’ll get used to it. Go on, Mr. Yák said bridling both hands before his companion. —Stephan.

  —If it’s that early . .
. you’ll go away if I tell you?

  —Yes, yes, go on. Go on, Stephan. Mr. Yák stepped back and spat on the floor, then brought his glittering eyes up in enthusiasm, though the voice he heard was level, even forced, the words spoken rapidly, as vacantly strung together as a recitation.

  —The body is extended, make an incision in the left flank and take the internal organs out, except the heart. Fill the vacant cavity with linen and resin, saturate the outer wrappings with resin and mold them to the shape of the body, then emphasize the details with paint on the outside.

  —That’s all?

  —That’s all.

  —But what about wrapping it up, all those linen bandages around it?

  —That’s quite complicated, the series of bandages. And leave the brain in, they didn’t take the brain out until very late. And the heart, don’t forget the heart, leave the heart in.

  —What about the bandages, do you know them?

  Stephan said nothing, but nodded vaguely.

  —And the paint, what kind of paint do you paint it up with.

  —I don’t know. Red ochre I suppose, he answered wearily, as though the recitation had exhausted him. He turned to his empty glass.

  —All right, all right for now, Mr. Yák said in a sudden hurry. —But later you and me, we can work it out. You and me . . . He stopped speaking. The burning green eyes were fixed on him.

  —You and me . . . what?

  —Never mind, never mind now, Stephan. We’ll work it out, you and . . .

  —Good God . . . will you . . . aren’t you going?

  —Yes, but later . . .

  —Wait.

  —What’s the matter?

  —Here, do me a favor will you? Get one of those . . . get me a fresh clean one-peseta note if he has one, will you?

  —You haven’t got any money? You want some money?

  —Yes, damn it, I have some money. I just want a look at a fresh one-peseta note, I want to look at the picture on it.

  —Listen, I’ll lend you . . .

  —Damn it, never mind. Never mind. Go away.

  Mr. Yák examined the dirty wad from his own pocket, then called the bartender and explained what his friend wanted, —por el dibujo sabe? . . . quiere ver el dibujo.

  The bartender’s expression did not change. He found the freshest one-peseta note he had, and put it before the man at the bar, watched the one with the blown rose pat his arm, heard him say, —Goodbye Stephan, I’ll be back, I won’t be long, be careful . . . and when that one had clattered out the door, pressing his mustache with one finger, smoothing the shock of black hair with the other hand, the bartender managed to look a little relieved, not having understood the parting threat. He crossed his arms and sighed, as though a party of twenty had just gone out the door, leaving one numb member behind, standing now, gazing, not at the bad engraving of the Dama de Elche, but returning the vacant stare of the sardines.

  In that quiet village, stacked three thousand feet above the sea against the southwestern slopes of the Sierra de Guadarrama, the province of Madrid, and the kingdom of New Castile laid out barren at its feet, there are thirty-seven bars, where, as in most of that country, the visitor is free to enjoy that privilege which distinguishes him from the natives to such advantage, and get morbidly, or helplessly, riotously, or roaring, drunk. No one minds. He is looked upon as a curiosity, one who has, perhaps, worked out an ingeniously obvious solution to unnecessary problems, and is mortgaging a present which is untenable to secure a future which does not exist. All but three (and they are known but to the learned hand), before that sunny day was out, became familiar with the draggled man whose greeting, and entire store of conversation, lay in the word Manzanilla; with the tune La Tani on the local barrel organ, which at first he trailed from one to another, and then, finding a tattered duro waiting at each stop, it trailed him; and finally, with the vociferous shock-haired figure whose boutonnière, by the time he found his comrade in Mis Niños, was no more than a twist of wire flying a shred of spotted pink paper, and his mustache awry as though stuck on in a hurry, for he adjusted it before each threshold he crossed. He also sported, by now, a cord of yellow and purple intertwined, knotted under the plexiglas collar where his tie had been, a manifest, as he hastened to explain to his glazed friend after his first recriminatory greetings, of a pledge made to Saint Anthony in return for the Saint’s assistance in this impending project.

  —No. No. Good God.

  —Where have you been? I’ve looked all over the town for you, all afternoon. You said you were going to wait for me back . . .

  —I thought you’d wrapped yourself up . . . in a mummy.

  —What?

  —No.

  —Listen . . . what’s the matter, you hiding from somebody?

  —Yes.

  —Who? Where? Where are they? Mr. Yák looked wildly round. —Hmmn? Come on. Stephan? Stephan, come on. Hmmn? At the door, La Tani played in thunderous broken chords. Mr. Yák finally brought his eyes round to find the two faintly green ones fixed on him. —All right. You all right? There was a withering crash as La Tani finished, something dodged between them, plucked a green duro from the hand hanging off the bar, got out, —Dios se lo pague señor . . . in one word, and was gone.

  —Listen now, it’s almost dark, and we . . .

  There was a shimmering crash at the door: it was the opening chord of La Tani.

  —Listen . . . Jesus! Mr. Yák brought his fist down, got to the door in two steps, and started to shout above the music, which continued, skipping notes it had lost during the day, but parading what remained with frenzied exultation. Mr. Yák finally managed to halt the spinning handle, and returned a minute later looking even more done in, after an argument which had become as deranged as the music it had sent packing.

  —Una y una . . . tres. What do you want now?

  —Listen, it’s almost dark by now, did you know that? What are you doing here, anyway?

  —I tried to leave. No trains.

  —No, I mean in this dump. Mr. Yák looked around. It was a modest place, to be sure. There were barrels, bottles, and dirty glasses recklessly arranged behind the bartender, who put a dish of olives before them, and awaited Mr. Yák’s order. When he realized that someone was eavesdropping, Mr. Yák spun round with, —Nothing! Nothing! . . . niente! Nada! . . . He was quite agitated, and returned to his comrade, propped before him. —I ought to just leave you here like you are.

  —That’s the spirit.

  —Now listen, said Mr. Yák, taking a step closer, and he put a hand on the reposing arm on the bar. A crafty look came to his face as the sharp eyes narrowed over the expression which was almost a smile before him. —How would you like to make sure? he asked in his low confidential tone.

  —Sure? . . .

  —Sure listen . . . how would you like to go up with me, up the hill, see? . . . And look in and make sure that . . . that that’s your mother’s . . . resting place.

  Some recrudescence mounted to the face before him: the smile fell away, at any rate, leaving evidence of sharp consciousness scattered in fragments of complete confusion, which the muscles of the face seemed to try to draw together into some single question.

  —Listen, see? . . . I have to go up there anyway, on business. You can come up with me. Then you and me can . . .

  —Damn it just . . . stop saying that. That you and me. Will you? Damn it. What do they want me for? What do you want me for? Damn it, what do they all want me for?! he burst out.

  —Listen . . .

  —Damn it. Damn them. And you . . . you . . .

  —Come on out, we’ll get some fresh air outside.

  —They all . . . they all . . . want me, they want . . . damn it! What do they want? he cried.

  —Come on. Come on. Mr. Yák put an arm round his shoulders, and led him toward the door. The bartender called, but not loudly, —Señor . . . se olvida . . . He held up a fresh one-peseta note, and Mr. Yák waved it back in a munificent gesture wi
th his free hand.

  Clusters of lights stood out on the mountain slopes like the lights of ports driven uphill by the sea, for it was yet light enough that the barren plateau stretched away levelly blue under the haze. They made their way up behind the town, and as they climbed the stone streets shocks of consciousness, and consequent revulsion, ran through the figure Mr. Yák supported, and pulled away from him, to come back the more heavily. Meanwhile, Mr. Yák talked. He explained the purple and yellow cord hanging from his shiny collar, and the debt incumbent upon Saint Anthony. He said he had made full confession, but in Rumanian, so the old párroco, who had not understood a word of it, had given him a light penance, —not like Rome, at Saint Peter’s they can confess you in half a dozen languages, they got you going and coming. He said he had turned in three per cent of his money to the church, —to be devoted to pious uses, like it says, see? And he said the párroco was real old, —it won’t take much to bring him around where we want him, I’ve got some ideas right now, see? . . . because I already gave him an idea I’ve got an in on the sacred mysteries, see? But there’s this one guy I got to watch, we got to watch, I met him the last minute there . . . and as they trudged toward the rock-studded road up behind the town, Mr. Yák went on to describe Señor Hermoso Hermoso, who —had this real holy attitude about everything, see? Because they’re getting this patron saint and he acts like he arranged everything, and he’s not even a priest or anything, he runs a drugstore sort of, and that’s one reason we got to watch out for him, see? And he speaks English, so he told me all about this patron saint they’re getting. When they took her out of the graveyard here to put her somewhere else when she was beatified they thought she looks kind of big for an eleven-year-old girl, but the way the body was preserved after forty years almost, so that made them sure it’s a saint. But that long, even no matter how well it’s preserved they probably make a new head out of wax. Anyway that’s not so long, you don’t eat anything but beans all your life like these people around here they haven’t got enough money to eat anything but beans all their life, then you don’t decay so fast. Mr. Yák paused, but took up again almost immediately as though harried by the silence of his companion.