Mr. Yak made a circle, looking in at every bar and cafe, from the Pðerta del Sol back down the Calle de Atocha. It grew later, and his expression of impatience became more stern, entering the Plaza Tirso de Molina, watching, listening for La Tani, he stopped in at Chispero's for coffee, still searching every face for the one he sought, searching faces as though the great city were a perpetual masquerade, where every face, like his own, hid another, so that at last it was not that specific square face knotted about the eyes in mild surprise that he sought, but familiarity to emerge from this world of shapes and smells, the amber color of Genesis coñac, the green of the bottles, the fixed stare of the silver fish on the bar, the smell of oil, dark squares of fried blood on a plate, shreds of liver, the seat of the emotions roasted, cut up, served beside the tall stemmed glass, waiting, watching for familiarity to emerge from this world of shapes and smells, clad against the cold reality of the outside in the yielding armor of drunkenness. An elderly man stood against the wall opposite, drinking coffee beneath a picture of Adelita Beltrán who would appear later on the stage inside, to dance, pounding her heels, brandishing her skirt to La Sebastiana, to sing La Zarza Mora, and Mr. Yak looked away from the old man quickly, aware that the resemblance he had sought and found in that face was his own. The coffee in his glass floated yellow globes of oil at the rim, and he drank it down and went out, pressing at his mustache with two fingertips. It was not in a bar that he finally did find Stephan, but standing unsteadily outside one, a place called La Flor de mi Vina, where a car had just run over his foot, slowly, nudging him insistently from behind like a clumsy animal sidling up, leaving him with that expression of mild surprise confirmed in his face. And the only reason a policeman appeared was that one happened to be passing, and a handful of unoccupied people had set up a clamor. It happened so slowly. That gentle nudging might have been one of the burros that stand harnessed to trash carts in the streets of the city. The policeman was very polite, as Mr. Yak appeared, rescued his friend and set off with him in the direction of the Estación del Norte, walking briskly not speaking after his first reproof, — What did you want to tell the cop you're a… what did you tell him? A Pelagian?… he just wanted to know what kind of a nationality you are, can't you just say swisso? What if he asks for your Pelagian passport? Have you got your passport on you? What if I didn't come along just then? The day was heavily overcast, and they walked on without looking up at the even unchanging gray of the sky. — How long you expect to keep this up, anyway? Mr. Yak muttered, expecting no answer, and he got none. They'd walked some distance before he commented, — This place is getting on both of our nerves.
They reached San Zwingli without incident, and very little conversation after Mr. Yak had outlined their plan. — We can't take it away in the box, that's too bulky. . but if we leave about at dark. . Then he looked closely at his companion, as though to see if he would be capable of carrying out his end of it when the time came. — How many monkeys you got sitting down up in your head now? he brought out finally, as they climbed the hill from the railway station.
— I? I haven't had a drink all day.
— Where you been all day then? Mr. Yak's tone was truculent, possibly to hide the surprise he felt at this answer. — I looked all over the place for you, he added, muttering, returning his eyes to the stones of the road. Up in the town, the bell of the church sounded, and both of them raised their eyes for a moment, then lowered them immediately as though in embarrassment, as it went on striking, and they continued side by side up the uneven grade, out of step, and so close they bumped each other. — Where were you all day? Mr. Yak asked again, when they bumped the second time.
— The Prado.
— The art museum? Mr. Yak shrugged. — What did you do there? He glanced up at the face beside him, and said, — You don't look like you liked it much. The art there.
— Well they. . the El Greco, his companion began, as though called upon to comment, and he drew his hand across his eyes. — They have so many in one room, they're almost hung on top of each other and it's too much, it's too much plasticity, there's too much movement there in that one room. . He suddenly looked up at Mr. Yak, holding a hand out before them which appeared to try to shape something there. — Do you… do you see what I mean? With a painter like El Greco, somebody called him a visceral painter, do you see what I mean? And when you get so much of his work hung together, it… the forms stifle each other, it's too much. Down where they have the Flemish painters hung together it's different, because they're all separate. . the compositions are separate, and the. . the Bosch and Breughel and Patinir and even Dürer, they don't disturb each other because the. . because every composition is made up of separations, or rather… I mean… do you see what I mean? But the harmony in one canvas of El Greco is all one. . one. . He had both hands out before him now, the fingers turned in and the thumbs up as though holding something he was studying with a life which Mr. Yak had not seen in his face before. But he broke off abruptly, and his hands came down to his sides.
After a pause, Mr. Yak said more quietly, — I didn't know you ever went there.
— I… I go there every day.
— You spend the whole day there? Mr. Yak turned on him in amazement.
— Well, I… not today, I… I had the strangest dream today, I… when I came back. And I woke up and I thought… it was almost dark, but I thought it was dawn and I thought I'd slept there all night, and all I heard was… I heard a child crying somewhere, that was all I heard. But I thought I'd slept all night and it was dawn. Then I tried to use my right arm, I reached out for a cigarette and it wouldn't work, my arm wouldn't work, it just hung there and fell over, and I… and all I could hear was a child crying somewhere.
They had reached the town. Mr. Yak glanced at him again, shrugged when he did not go on, and as they approached the doors of La Ilicitana muttered, — I just hope that barrel organ don't catch us out, as they entered, and his order for two coffees was not countermanded, or even qualified, by his companion, which, after the revelation concerning the Prado, brought Mr. Yak to observe soberly, — I even said you weren't a bum. Eh Stephan?
That brought a smile to Stephan's face for a moment, though it was one of detachment and when it faded away, left a vague abstracted expression.
— That girl you were with last night, Mr. Yak commenced, pressing his mustache and speaking with the ease of someone mentioning an event long forgotten, — I was glad to see you got away from her with your diamond ring.
— But you. . wait, you don't understand, you see she… I don't know, never mind.
— You paid her, didn't you? Forget her. Mr. Yak shrugged, sipped his coffee, and asked, — That blonde, did you pay her anything?
— Well, I… that's just it, you see I…
— Forget it. That's nothing, forget it.
— No, because the blonde didn't ask for anything, at first she didn't ask for any money, I thought, she just came with me as though she wanted… to. But then after a few times, then she borrowed some money from me just before she went away and I thought, I lent it to her. I would have given it to her except I still thought she'd come with me because she'd wanted to, and I lent it to her.
— Never mind, forget it. The kind of tramps you're picking up now you're lucky you still got your diamonds.
— No no but that's the point! when the blonde pretended she didn't come with me for money but all the time she. . don't you see? And this one, this. . Pastora, she. . with her it was money right from the start, and now, she couldn't afford to pretend because she needed the money, she really needs it but now, now with me what she wants. .