— 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 there thirty years? The man stopped beside him, bumping him round with the oranges. — You. . what do you. .
— I just said that, Mr. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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 repreni-endo la bochornosa. . see? You shouldn't swear. .
— Damn it…
— Que ya no se respetan ni la santidad del templo, ni los misterios mas 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. 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.