— You're afraid the light will hurt her eyes?
— No. In case somebody should come in here with us so it don't shine in her face, Mr. Yak answered earnestly. — See? he added as he resumed his seat and leaned forward, solicitously arranging the black shawl, tucking its long ends round the extended feet. Then he straightened up and said, — There!. . patted down the shock of black hair, pressed the mustache, and cleared his throat with satisfaction. The acrid smoke of an Ideal commenced to rise from the window side of the compartment, and they rode on, seated backwards, facing the place they'd come from, and looking in what light there was through the sinoke like a weary and not quite respectable family.
The conductor, at any rate, showed no rude curiosity when he tapped at the glass panel, slid the door open, and took three tickets from Mr. Yak, who had bounded to his feet to meet him, with such zeal, in fact, that part of the shawl came along with him, exposing hands clasped one over the other on the sunken basin of the pelvis, above the wide separation of the lower limbs, and the head, tilted forward slightly, the surface of the face unbroken by a nose, the eyes sunken, the jaw dropped. But the conductor was gone.
— Come on!. . cover it up! Mr. Yak burst out, getting the door closed, but the face he saw was a reflection in the glass. He pulled the shawl up quickly round the stiff figure, and drew it in a deep hood over the nodding head. — You got to keep alert, doing something like this, he went on when he got his breath, — you can't just sit looking out the window, you. . Are you drunk? Hey? Stephan? How many monkeys got upstairs while I left you there? Did you? Are you?
With no answer, and nothing of his companion but the back of his head and the steady image of his face in the glass, Mr. Yak recovered from his impatience, sat down again, and turned to the figure between them. — You wouldn't think she's only a little girl, would you have. He stared abstractedly at the flat lap for a minute, blinked, rubbed his hands, said, — Now we can really get to work, and sat back.
But he could not sit still. His foot commenced tapping on the vibrating floor. — What we want to do first, we want to find a place to bury that linen stuff awhile, so you can go there and sort of wet it down, see? Then I got to get into touch with this guy, this Egyptianologist, so he don't give up hope and leave town. Then all I got to do is keep out of his way till it's all set. See? Then we. . Are you listening to me? Mr. Yak leaned over and tapped a far knee.
— What's the matter?
— Are you listening to me? What's the matter?
— Nothing, I… Nothing.
— Nothing? You…
— Nothing. I was just thinking about something.
— What?
— Nothing.
Mr. Yak snorted, and tapped his fingers on his knee. Then he turned abruptly and his neck shot out of the plexiglas collar. — Listen, he said, — I feel like I'm alone in here with this. . with this. He nudged the figure beside him. The face beyond did not turn from the window. — See? So…
— What do you want me to do? Get up and dance?
— No. The vagueness of the tone irritated Mr. Yak. — But we…
— Shall I sing something? Una y una dos, dos y dos son tres. .
— Listen, we…
— No sale la cuenta. . Porque falta un churumbel. What's churumbel?
— That's a gypsy word here, Mr. Yak answered, the irritation still in his voice, speaking to the back of his friend's head. — The bill doesn't come out right because there's a kid missing. It means a kid. His tone was belligerent, but he answered rather than have no conversation at all. — See? he added, paused, and prompted, — See?
— They don't die in winter, the voice murmured from the reflection in the glass, which held the blackness of the night right up against it.
— What?
— But when the leaves come to the trees, the bartender told me, then they die, quando vienen las hojas. .
— That's t.b., they got a lot of t.b. here. The kids especially. Now listen, when we get into the station. . Look out! Look what you're doing!. . Mr. Yak bent down so fast he almost fell. — You throw your cigarette on her feet like that, she's liable to go up in a cloud of smoke. See? When he straightened up from blowing the ashes away, he went on, — Now from now on, we've got a lot of work to do, see? And you got to settle down now and be more. . more serious, see? All this drinking, and these girls, you want to forget all that, you're not a bum. All that kind of thing, he continued, with no response, — it's a waste, it's sinful, living like that.
— Yes, I know. I know…
— What? See what I mean? It's sinful.
— I know.
— See? And if you go on like that…
— But. .
— What?. . See? What fun is it.
— But. . it's not the sin itself that's what is… Good God
., the voice went on dully, and distant, — staggering into one after another. . and then. . and lying in the dark knotted up in wet sheets, and. .
— See? What good is it? Mr. Yak demanded, leaning across and resting an elbow on the brittle lap between them for the moment before he realized it, then he drew up, — it's always the same, isn't it, so why do you want to do it again.
— Yes, but. . it's not the thing itself, it's not sin itself. It's never the thing itself, it's always the possibility that. . It's always the prospect of sin that draws. . draws us on.
Mr. Yak straightened up from his strained position, peering round the back of the head as he'd been doing, trying to reach the face if only in its reflection against the black surface of the night. — See? he confirmed. — After awhile you get tired of it, after awhile you get to the place where it doesn't satisfy anything inside you like. You get to the place, he went on, staring at the shivering floor, — where no matter how much you've got mixed up with all kinds of the wrong things, that they don't gratify you any more to do them, see? So then you have to kind of look up, and look for something bigger. See? See what I mean? He looked anxiously up at the window.
— Yes but… if you've done things… if you've done things to people, and they. . and you can't atone to them for. . for what you've done. .
— No, you can't! You can't!. . not to them, but you… if you've like sinned against one person then you make it up to another, that's all you can do, you never know when you. . until the time comes when you can make it up to another. Like I once. . this woman, I…
They paused, rocking together all staring in different vacant directions of the past.
— What?
— Nothing.
— What woman?
— You. . Mr. Yak jerked his head up, to see only Mr. Yak's face on the glass. — I'm going out to the gents' a minute. . He faltered a pause in the door to the corridor. — If anybody comes in to sit down, you want to kind of talk to her, see?. . Then the door slid closed, and he left them together, steadying himself down the corridor like an old man.
Almost immediately, lights appeared in the darkness outside, moving past the windows slowly, lights so dim that they seemed to do no more than illuminate themselves. The train stopped.
— Well I would have thought the name of the town was Urinarios, a tall woman said getting on, — it's the only word you can see on the station out there. She stopped while her husband opened the door of a compartment, and they went in. They sat down side by side, and she stared at the couple sitting side by side across from them. — So much smoke, she whispered to her husband. He offered her a cigarette. The train started. — And if we ever go all the way to a town like that again, if you could call it a town, just to see a church or whatever it was… I don't see how you ate a bite of that lunch. You'll regret it too, she added, trying to arrange her feet round the wrapped legs stretched before her. The spike of her heel caught the edge of the shawl, and she gasped. At that, the man across from her appeared to recover some long-lost consciousness, and he did so with a wild light in his eyes, darting down as though he were going to grab the tall woman's feet and pull her off her cushion. But he very busily brought the ends of the shawl back where they'd been wrapped, and then, lighting a ferocious-looking yellow cigarette, started chattering to the hooded figure beside him. — Dime lo, he said, — aunque no es. . dime que tu me quieres, aunque no es. . The tall woman cleared her throat, drew her feet together carefully, managed a prim smile across the way, and gripped her husband's arm. — Let's get out of here, she whispered, — this. . She stood, straining her smile, sustaining it until her husband was up, fomenting it with embarrassment of being polite, whispering, as the door slid open, — And my God!. . did you see her face? — Syphilis, her husband said, — they've got a lot of syphilis here, even in the children, it's inherited… as he closed the door, and Mr. Yak, coming down the corridor behind him, opened it and entered.