— Coñol. . Dios! válgame Dios! He banged the broken cover down and stayed, quaking on his knees beside the little girl who had been left behind. He raised his eyes slowly, beyond them to where their shadows were sundered over the sills of the empty compartments next to one another high in the bóveda. And Mr. Yak, still motionless, felt a shudder beside him, one which persisted in the shadow thrown flickering past the broken broom, back into the hollow depth bereft of the alien presence who had waited so long unchallenged by earth, through war, and profane seizure, and the destruction of names more ornate than her own, among decayed floral tributes and wreaths made of beads, to be removed at last from this domain of broken glass facades and rickety icons, and enshrined, to work miracles.
The sacristan crossed himself: and the leaping shadow was caught and reflected, twice, in the arms of the men standing above him. Mr. Yak turned, startled at that motion beside him. The hand he put on his companion's shoulder was not rejected, and he whispered — There Stephan. I told you, you weren't a bum.
The sacristan was struggling to his feet. Suddenly Mr. Yak's eyes were glittering again. — Now, see? back to the work. She. . this, he motioned at the box without noticing the paper torn in trembling hands seeking a cigarette beside him. — This is just what we want. See? Stephan? You all right? Mr. Yak looked at him.
There in the broken moving light from the match and the lantern, his face appeared darker, and everything seemed to move in it though nothing moved there at all, lines drawn down from the nose holding the jaw up rigid, lines which broke the flat cheeks sinking away from the high-boned lines of the face. Then the sacristan was assailing them for help, to get the thing back up where it belonged before they were discovered, and Mr. Yak got hold of one side, but the third of them simply stood staring into the empty space where there was nothing but the wet end of a broken broom. When they got it back in place, he was gone. They found him a few minutes later, sitting outside the front gate on a stone, eating an orange in the dark, and looking af the moon which had just come into view beyond the mountains.
— Come on, Stephan. It's cold, Mr. Yak said taking his arm down the hill. — We want to make that train. His voice sounded loud on the night air, and he lowered it as though talking to himself to add, — We'll see about this thing tomorrow, when we get the old párroco in line, eh? He felt the figure beside him shrug, and said no more, busily planning in his head the immediate future. Neither of them spoke all the way through the town, where single lights cast clear separate shadows, stood doorways up vertically, none of the lights close enough to one another to confuse the night with multiple and exaggerated shades, or the shadows of these two moving figures behind with those before them.
They reached the railway station without speaking. On the empty platform, Mr. Yak shivered looking at the sky. — Look at that, that moon, he said, hunched up with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
— Yes. .
— What? After a pause, Mr. Yak muttered, — It looks so close there, don't it… Then he shivered again, and looked back over his shoulder to where a dull glow hung over the sign Urinarios. —Hey, Stephan? I got to go over here a minute, he said. — Stephan?
— Oh yes, do you know?. . charms can even bring it down'. .
— What?
— Down from heaven?
Mr. Yak waited, half turned, and then his shoulders relaxed a little and he said, — I forgot to tell you, hey?… I had a Mass said for your mother, up there at the church today. He waited another moment, swaying with his knees together. — See? he added. But from where he stood, it looked to him like the lonely figure there, drawn back from the empty platform, was trying to brush a streak of moonlight from his sleeve, and Mr. Yak turned and went on in the direction he'd started. When he arrived and stood, occupied, staring above him at the sky, the silence of the country, that silence which keeps city ears awake, alert, provoked him to speak aloud, as though to hear what he said confirmed. — This poor guy, he's as crazy as an eagle. . Then he sniffed, cocked his head, and seemed to hear the rush of the barrel organ pounding inside it. But everywhere was silence, and as a matter of fact, La Tani has not been heard through those streets since that sunny day.
The Andalusian maiden looked down from her balcony, next morning, past her wooer, upon a scene of considerable activity. The air was enhanced with smells, mutterings, and occasional puffs of smoke, as Mr. Yak bustled among the confusion of newspapers so engrossed in his work that he almost dropped the glass test tubes he held in either hand when the dueño knocked at his door.
— Su amigo, señor. . The dueño stepped back to introduce the bedraggled figure in the hall beside him, and Mr. Yak, who had put down the test tubes and pulled on the shock of black hair slightly askew, stepped back and said, — Come in, Stephan. Come in. Sit down. . here, let me move this. . there. Sit down. Now watch. Watch this. And he grabbed up the test tubes again. He began to pour the clear liquid from one into the other which was apparently empty, but the hair had slid over one glittering eye. He reached up impatiently, caught the black shock, tore it off and flung it across the room to the bureau top. Then his hand returned to his face in a reflex and gave the mustache a sharp tug. He yelped and almost dropped the test tubes, but recovered his purpose quickly. — Watch. . The colorless liquid poured into the empty test tube, where it became bright red. — Now, what do you think of that?
— It's very nice, but tell me. .
— Wait. Watch. . He poured the red liquid into another test tube, and it became colorless again.
— Just tell me. .
— Water into wine, wine into water. I can change it into milk too. Add a little sodium bisulphate…
— Will you please tell me. .
— Here's another one. This one's even better. Water into blood, blood into a solid. Remember the miracle at Bolsena? Watch. A little aluminum sulphate dissolved, a few drops of phenolphthalein, and now. . watch. Sodium silicate. Watch. See? Look at that, blood. Watch. See it? See it congeal?
— Yes, yes, but… — What do you think of that?
— All I want to know is…
— I can eat fire too, if I have to. Mr. Yak hopped off among the flurry of newspapers, to see where some wads of blotting paper were drying on the sink. — See? he said, holding one up. — You just light it and wrap it up in cotton. And then, whoof!
— If you'll just. .
— Whoooft! Sparks all over the place. Hey? Mr. Yak's eyes shone eagerly across the room, as he awaited some confirmation of his enthusiasm. But his guest simply stared at him. — Hey Stephan? What's the matter?
— Will you just tell me where I am? and how I got here?
— Where are we? We're in Madrid, where else would we be. This is the pension I'm living at, I got a room for you here last night. You were drunk last night, you don't want to drink so much. I gave your passport to the dueño, he has to show it up at the police station, see? I told him you're a friend of mine from Switzerland worn out by the journey here, that's why you couldn't walk I told him, see? Now everything's O.K., you're safe as a nut. Stephan.
There was a tap at the door. Mr. Yak snatched up his hair and put it on. His excitement had brought color to his face, and while it might not be the blush of youth, he did look younger this morning, and capable of almost anything.
— It's backwards.
— What?
— Your hair. You've got your hair on backwards, said his guest, folded up there in the corner among the newspapers, speaking in a tone which reflected the look in his eyes, one of patient, but wary. curiosity. He pulled a yellow cigarette from the green and black paper of Ideales.