— Yes, what are you doing with that?. . Where are you? he repeated, when he reached the hanging bulb, whose glow barely cast his shadow on the stone floor. He paused, and thought he heard nothing. — Where did you go? Where are you? he demanded of the walls. — Here now! He looked down at the hand he held before him. Jt was quivering. Then he thought he heard a faint scraping sound, and he followed it on tiptoe until he reached a small room whose sole illumination came from the space of gray sky in the window well out of reach up the wall. And there, sitting on the floor with the painting propped up before him, was the man.
— Here now, you. . what do you. .
The man looked at this intruder hanging in the doorway with a hand on either side of the door frame, steadying. He stared attentively, but from a face with no expression at all, neither surprise, nor curiosity, nor interest, nor any betrayal of intelligence at all. Then he returned to the painting, and the blade in his hand made scraping sounds on the canvas, barely more distinct than they had been from farther away.
— What are you doing to that picture? You there!. . But the Irish thorn-proof was already beginning to sag precariously, with doubt, or possibly plain weariness. The delicate scraping continued. The painting showed a man in religious habit kneeling before a crucifix suspended in midair. — Do they know you took that picture? Do they know what you're doing?
— They? the man on the floor repeated dully, without looking up.
— They, the. . the monks, the brothers up here, up there, they… I thought. . The protest began to fail, as the intruder got in against the wall and quieted his breathing. Finally he brought out, — You don't have very good light. He stared at the moving blade. — Do you.
— That's all right. The blade went on, removing the corner of a windowsill, a high small window much like the one in this room. There were no chairs, but a table against one wall was laden with pots and bottles, sticky pools and spots and some bread. — I can't see very well anyhow.
— But. . but you. . isn't it cold?… to be sitting on the floor? The scraping continued. — And you. . who are you? The scraping continued. — I… my name. . my friends call me Ludy. People who know me call me Ludy.
— That's all right, said the man on the floor, still not looking up, his voice dull and even. — People I've never seen before in my life call me Stephen.
The Irish thorn-proof hitched slowly down the wall, and Ludy came to rest on his heels, squatted inside the small room.
When the damaged portion of the windowsill had been scraped away, Stephen turned and stared at him again, but with no more interest than before. Once turned so, his eyes did not move after details, but stared lifelessly for a good half-minute before he turned back to his work. After studying the painting with this same look, he commenced a meticulous attack on a table leg there. — Are they after you?
— Are who?. . after me. Who?
The man shrugged over the picture. His lips were drawn tight, as though in concentration on his work; nonetheless there was something regular and mechanical about his movement, as the blade moved and its sound was the only one in the room.
— Who?. . after me.
He stopped and put the blade down on the floor, rummaging in pockets until he found a bent cigarette wrapped in yellow paper. He lit it, and asked, — You're not wanted? The thick srnoke rose over his face. It clung to the squared hollows of his cheekbones and curled slowly in the hollows of his eyes. He shrugged again, and returned to the painting. Blue smoke from the coal of the cigarette ran up its yellow length, broke round his nostrils and rose over his eyes, still he made no move to take it from his lips as he worked.
Ludy came forward, elbows on the thorn-proof knees. — Wanted? he repeated. — I?… I don't understand. I… I'm afraid you don't understand. When I followed you I… I took you for a thief.
— That's all right, Stephen said quietly, and no expression appeared on his face through the smoke. He went on working at the table leg in the painting, but he muttered — A thief. . under his breath.
— But of course, now I see. . you're an American too, aren't you. I started right out, calling to you in English, it's funny, I never thought. .
— It's all right, Stephen brought his voice up enough to say. — I'm lived as a thief. Don't you know? All my life is lived as a thief.
— But you're., you're working. You're an artist?
— Yes, and lived like a thief. Then he turned his face up again, abruptly, though the cigarette retained its ash. — You're looking at my diamonds, aren't you.
— Well, I had noticed them. Ludy cleared his throat. — They're very nice, aren't they, he managed to say.
— They were a present, this ring. A present from the Boyg, was it? Yes. There. Why did you come here? What do you want of me?
— Well, you know, a little conversation in English for a change. And the tourists here. I didn't expect tourists. Women.
— Girls. .
— And those awful girls from the Embassy. Coming right in. Right into the monastery. Eating here. They ate here. Did you see them?
— One of them gave me some cheap cigarettes.
— But you, being here this way. .
— What way?
— Just. . just working here, I mean. Living here, Ludy said looking round the stone walls again. — Do you live down here?
— No.
— Am I disturbing you? Your work?
— No.
— And, . how long have you been here? Finally Ludy got no answer but the scraping. The leg of the table was almost gone. — You see, since you. . since you're familiar here, I thought you might tell me some things about the place, since you speak English. It's a very wealthy monastery, isn't it. Why, I've seen cloth of gold, and seed pearls…
— The lay brother Eulalio speaks English.
— Him! I know it, but he… I didn't come here to talk about typewriters.
— Why did you come here?
— Well of course, something… an experience of a spiritual nature. . possibly. Stephen looked up at him blankly. — A need for spiritual. . something more spiritual than typewriters, Ludy finished, and shifted his hams on his heels. He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes from the blank gaze. — And when he does get enthusiastic about something spiri. . something about the place here, this Brother Elâlio, it's even worse, he went on petulantly. — You can't explain to him that you don't shout about beautiful things, you don't try to… you know what I mean.
— You suffer them, Stephen said evenly, and the blade went right on, and the smoke rose against his face filling its hollows.