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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak examined the dirty wad from his own pocket, then called the bartender and explained what his friend wanted, — por e) dibujo sabe?. . quiere ver eJ 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. Yak looked wildly round. — Hmmn? Come on. Stephan? Stephan, come on. Hmmn? At the door, La Tani played in thunderous broken chords. Mr. Yak 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. Yak 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. Yak 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.