Mr. Yak 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 Christian name.
— Yeah, you haven't even told me that. My name is Yak. 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. Yak.
— All right, you. . Mister Yak, 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. Yak, putting a hand out to the arm which was instantly withdrawn.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. Yak's voice was almost gentle, and this time, when he put his hand on the wrist before him it was not withdrawn, but stayed quivering there.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. Yak 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. Yak 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.
— Yes. . well they're watching us. They're watching us, the voice took up its dull tone again.
— Who? Where? Who? Mr. Yak 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. Yak'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. Yak 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! Vayal Fuera! Mr. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Stêphan 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 Yak, as Mr. Yak, see? In case they pull any fast ones on you, see? See Stephan?