— The stench, everywhere. .
Stanley wiped his face with his hand, as he had done that morning, waking suddenly, looking at the palm, dropped it, and listened.
— It could not have been more simple, more inviting, the man in the trenchcoat was saying in a low tone. — He invited me there, in fact, to see the mummy. He had made one himself for me! Oh, but with such ingenuity, it was really a masterpiece. .
— Really, my dear fellow. .
— I confess I did not have heart to finish our business so immediately, I spent a few minutes congratulating him. He became very angry when I appeared to question the. . authenticity? of this thing, but he was very proud. I saw in his eyes, he was very proud, when we finished our business together.
They sat silent for a moment, and the man in the trenchcoat twitched a little at the corners of his lips, gazing at the ceiling, as though he were fondly recalling some pleasant encounter with the past. Then he shrugged, and added, — The Spaniards, however, they are not. . sane, of course.
The man with him had hardly moved, except to shift an elbow to make way for a glass on the table before him. He sat staring past the door of the cafe from vacant light blue eyes.
— You don't look well, said the other. — You are more haggard than when I saw you, over there.
— I don't sleep well.
— You did not sleep well then.
— Even as well as… then. — Cigarette? — No.
— You no longer smoke.
— No.
After a minute of solicitous silence the man in the trenchcoat said, — And you do plan to go back? He got no answer but a faint nod. A waiter appeared with more wine, and some Gorgonzola cheese. — Yes, you are then? certain you want to go back? For there is still time. .
— What. . business is it of yours! Certainly I'm going back. Still he barely turned his face from the hands clasped before it, for this outburst of impatience, and quickly muffled them there again.
— Your lip is badly scarred? The man in the trenchcoat twisted again round the ends of his mouth. — You know it can be fixed, of course, he murmured, listening, watching with glittering eyes.
— What did you mean by that? Going back, why not. What did you mean?
The shoulderstraps on the trenchcoat shrugged slightly. — Nothing. Of course, rumors?
— Yes, yes, yes, the other whispered with sharp impatience behind his hands. — And after your reports, eh? Watching over me. . yes, little things like, the moment I show some dismay over our paintings being dumped for dollars, did you tell them that too?
— Please, of course. .
— Yes, which proved conclusively that I must be working for the restoration of the crown. . aphhh. . this kind of logic. . Certainly I'm going back, why not? where. . what else? he whispered staring straight ahead. Then he lowered his eyes slowly, and sat studying the cheese on the plate at his elbow.
— Of course, I meant to say, I understand you. .
— Of course, you explained that once. No. .
— I meant only to say, things there are not going well, nothing is going well there. Everything there, the corruption has spread. . His voice tailed off, he sat silent with his small glittering eyes, startled when the cheese was suddenly pushed toward him with an elbow.
— There, try some of that, taste it, corruption put to good use. .
And they were silent again, the man in the trenchcoat did not touch the Gorgonzola, finally he said, — Tomorrow? There is one more? they told me, a priest?
— Dressed like one.
— And you, you will indicate him to me, you will not mistake him?
— Yes I, I'll point him out to you. I won't mistake him, his companion muttered behind his hands, drew them aside and appeared to spit something from the end of his tongue. — If you think you can take care of it then, on the street, in daylight?
— Of course. . the man in the trenchcoat murmured, then, — A Veres költö. . you remember that. .?
— You? The clasped hands fell away for a moment, with a sparkle of gold, and the scar on the lip drew it into what appeared to be a sneer. — The poet stained with blood!. . He drew his hands up again.
— Or. . you?
— Enough. .
— You will be on the train tomorrow night?
— Yes.
— I should like a last good dinner, before we go back. Eh? The Piccolo Budapest? Eh?
— Yes. Early. About seven.
— You are. . going back, then? the man in the trenchcoat said, and studied the profile beside him.
— Yes, yes, and now good night. Good night.
— The personal affairs no longer take precedence, eh? Good night. Until tomorrow? Under Saint Peter's Umbrella. . eh?
Stanley looked down at his book quickly.
— And have you ever seen anything so frankly hideous as this, the tall woman's voice took up. — A piece of dirt enshrined forever in clear lifetime plastic. My God!. . with a certificate of Miraculous Origin and the Seal of the Church. A piece of dirt from the church of Cana in Galilee, where they turned wine into water, my God. My husband's picking up all sorts of things, you can see the state he must be in after what happened to Huki-lau. .
A distant voice said, — I don't care if Joan of Arc was a witch, that hasn't a thing to do with it…
And another, — Of course everyone knows that the Franciscans were canonized for the very things the Waldensians were burned alive for. .
And then Stanley looked up as though he had been struck. A waiter stood before him, and he whispered, — Cafe, hoarsely, trying to look round the dirty apron to where the voice had come from he had so certainly heard. When he saw her, she was already seated, and although so close, in the chair which the man in the trench-coat had left, she had not seen him, and she did not look round, but down at her hands on the table. At that instant Stanley might have leaped up, or cried out, or simply spoken beginning with some overladen conjunction, as though to continue a conversation of minutes or hours before: and it was not her company that stopped him but the absolute, absolved quiet on her face, in spite of the small sore which disparaged the delicate line of her lip.
— Something bit her, perhaps, she said at that moment, answering a question from the man half turned from Stanley, and a reproachful smile touched her face, still looking down. Then they were both silent. He only appeared to have glanced at her, and he went on, staring straight ahead.
— Of course Huki-lau isn't dead, she's. . The tall woman whispered something. — Which is just as bad. / don't see how it happened, she's had her belt on every minute she's been over here. There was a goat, in Spain, though, with designs on her. You could see in his eyes.
— How tired you look, like he looked sometimes, like an old man, with nothing left before you to regret. And are you old? or are the scars still unhealed down your front. Raise your left hand. . you can't, it sits there relishing another scar. She laughed, a sharp sound, and left it between them, looking at her own hands on the table. She was wearing a simple dark gray suit, with a long unbroken skirt and a short cape. She had nothing on her hair.
He muttered something.
— What? You're joking. And she laughed again. His right hand had come down on the table, and she took it in hers, and laid her left hand over both. Still, he appeared to bite the gold seal ring on the other, staring ahead.
— Still…
— Today? In Assisi, she went through and through and through the gate. No one appeared in person, granting indulgences. No one, in a "heavenly brightness shining," no one, do you remember? When no one was at the door? Now granting indulgences, O friars minors, is he in Purgatory if he drowned? Down, on a rope, did he tell you that story? Drowned, in the celestial sea come down the rope to. undo the anchor caught there on a stone with no one's name on, and a date, inclined against the bottom by the darkness, and so no wonder that the anchor caught, and he came down the rope. If there were time…