Nathaniel Rich - The Mayor's Tongue

"Yes, I've heard it said that he is quite tall, well over six feet."

"He was eight and a half feet. That's what Snjezana said."

"I see."

"He had climbed out of this deep pit, using no tools but the power of his muscles. After he pulled himself up, he stepped over the fence as if it were a twig lying in his path. That is, he did not seem to notice it AT ALL."

"So he was quite tall." Eugene was getting anxious for Goran to get to the point. He couldn't hear Lang's whistling anymore, but that didn't mean he wasn't close by.

"He was a sight to be seen all right. He wore a three-piece suit made of fine sheep's wool, and he had a yellow neckerchief tied around his neck in the dandy style once popular in Trieste. He wore a silk pocket square on which his initials were embroidered in gold thread. Snjezana thought they read C.E., but it's true that she is half-illiterate.

"At the sight of the giant, she wrapped her arms around her daughter. They crouched down in the barrel to hide from him, and they kissed the identical white gold crosses that hung around their necks. The sound of the man's footsteps on the pasture was a dark ominous noise like this: squelsh, squelsh, squelsh."

"That would be the sound of his boots pressing into the earth?"

"This is so. Soon the man reached the barrel, and looked down into it from a distant height above, casting the women in an unnatural darkness. His shadow was so total, and so black, that they shivered from the sudden cold. Here was a mighty man. What he did next you will not barely guess."

"Did he try to kill them?"

"He did not. He spoke to them—"

"A curse? A threat?"

"Neither. He recited a stave of poetry. And it was the most beautiful thing Snjezana had ever heard. She did not recall the exact words, but I later found it in one of Eakins's early collections of poems, Songs for Agata. The poem was called 'The Mender of Canoes.' Do you know it?"

"I know his fiction and his essays much better than the poetry."

"Well, it contains a passage of such beauty that to describe it would beggar imagination and put a lie to the transparency of language."

"What does he say?"

"I haven't memorized it," said Goran, somewhat abashed. "I'm afraid to. After all, when the giant recited it to Snjezana and her daughter, stomping the grapes in their vineyard, it charmed them."

"Charmed?"

"Unable to move. The giant reached into the barrel and wrapped the daughter up in his arms. He carried her over the fence and disappeared into the chasm. The girl was never seen again. You can imagine Snjezana's shock when she came to, face down in the grape mash, and her daughter gone.

"There are other stories too. A blind Bulgarian pensioner from Plavia claimed that his wife was spirited away by a wild-haired satyr, with horns and a tail. The monster had leapt down from the mountaintop, the pensioner claimed. No one, of course, believed him. The woman's parents brought up the pensioner on murder charges, but since no body was ever found, he got off.

"A similar story was told by a young boy from San Dorligo della Valle. While he and his teenage sister were picnicking by the top of the waterfall after school, a demon appeared at the side of the river. The demon did not say a word, but the sister, mesmerized, followed him into the current. They sank into a swirling eddy and disappeared. By the time the boy wandered back into town, it was night. His arms were scratched from running through the woods. At first, he couldn't remember anything that happened. He walked to his sister's room, and collapsed on her bed. He slept for two full days, while the villagers searched the woods for his sister. They found the tablecloth floating in the river — but no girl. On the third day, as the members of the search party began to despair, the sleeping boy began to turn and shudder in his sister's bed. He chanted the same word over and over again until his chants turned into a scream: Cinciut! Cinciut! Cinciut!"

Lang's whistle pierced the air outside the cabin.

"Get back into bed!" whispered Goran, and he fell to his mattress, pulling the blankets over his head. He began to fake a snore — a shuddering, mucoid noise that no sleeping person had ever made. Eugene scampered back into his blankets by the fire. But he felt silly for doing this when he saw Lang's tiny silhouette on the opened door, looking less like a man than a doll on a cupboard shelf. Much to Eugene's surprise, Lang did not seem to question Goran's suspicious manner of respiration. He squatted down by the hearth.

Eugene did not speak and must have fallen asleep shortly thereafter, for when he next observed the fire, it was an oven of embers. He glanced out the A-frame window. It was now the blue hour, when the air chilled and stretched thin like starched cotton. Outside, a sparrow's coloratura rang through the creaking woods. Nuzzling his toes back under the covers, Eugene turned slowly toward the room. Lang, still fully dressed, was standing by the head of Goran's bed. He was staring at the mountain man, who was silent and genuinely asleep. Lang noticed Eugene with a start.

"I'm glad you're awake," he whispered. "Let's get going, we have a big day ahead. I've packed us lunch, see?"

Sure enough, a paper sack sat by the door.

"What time is it?" asked Eugene.

"Shhh. Go outside."

Eugene grabbed his book bag, and patted it to make sure he still had Alvaro's manuscript, and his translation — he had a slightly irrational fear that Lang might steal it from him, but it was still there. As Eugene reached the front door, Goran coughed and stirred. Lang turned back, but Goran let out a shudder through his nostrils, and started snoring loudly.

"Oh good," said Lang. "I thought he might have woken up."

"Oh?"

"Yes, but you see, he's snoring again. After you."

Eugene regretted that he would not be able to say a proper good-bye to Goran, but it was clear that the mountain monk was happy to let them leave without further interference. Eugene knew he had to go on, but seeing Goran there, lying secure in his bed, Eugene couldn't help but envy him.

They entered the woods through an inconspicuously marked path behind the vineyard. As they climbed higher, the blueness dissipated and a white glare sank through the leaves, warming their skin.

"This is the path that first took me to Goran's house," said Lang. "The way is steep but it leads straight up the mountain. I made it myself, thrashing through the cashew shrubs. I've never been back since the day I made this track. It doesn't seem to have been traveled much since."

Eugene had to agree, since he couldn't make out any path at all. They hurdled rocks and fallen pine logs and were raked by brambles as high as Eugene's chest (and Lang's spectacles). Lang's speech grew excited; he constantly adjusted his beret and occasionally lapsed into Esperanto or his singsong whistle, sometimes in the middle of a sentence.

Eugene tried to tell himself that Lang, despite his evident pathologies, had a powerful instinct of self-preservation and would not lead them to any harm. If Lang was growing increasingly nervous, then they must be approaching their destination. The only thing that made Eugene uneasy was the whooshing sound that filled the dense woods around them. The leaves of the poplar trees soughed and crackled and wailed, as if some flock of manic creatures were racing through them. Lang noticed Eugene's unease.

"Boars," suggested Lang, smiling as if in pain. "Or perhaps badgers."

But Eugene knew that he was lying.