Nathaniel Rich - The Mayor's Tongue

Enzo reached into his jacket's inner pocket and took out a piece of yellow paper that had been folded into quarters. With great care he flattened it, but he could not part with it immediately, and held it pressed against his chest.

"Sometimes, it makes me sad to admit, the image of her face goes out of my mind. This usually happens first thing in the morning after a long sleep. Or I find myself turning a street corner and I become completely disoriented. I don't always remember who I am, let alone what I'm searching for. In these moments I look at the portrait. It reminds me why I go walking. It reminds me why I'm here."

"Will you let me see her? It'd mean a lot to me."

Enzo extended the fragile paper with a quivering hand.

The drawing was a blizzard of thick hash marks colored in light blues and greens. They extended from the base of the page to a horizon just an inch below the top of the frame, where the cream-colored paper was left to show through. There was nothing else on the page except several strands of yellow, dancing in the bottom corner — entwined blond tendrils drawn on top of the chaos of blue, almost as an afterthought.

"That's her," said Enzo, pointing to the yellow curls. He was frowning and one corner of his mouth twitched benevolently. "She is looking down at the sea from the cliff 's edge. The edge of the Carso." He pointed to the ridge above him. "There."

At the sound of the two men rustling the meadow grass, the old artist stopped and waved his cane out before him with a looping gesture, as if to ward off an evil spirit. But he didn't say a word. There was no pride in his posture.

"Keftir," shouted Enzo. "I can't tell you how much your portrait has comforted me during my exile. It's Enzo, your old friend. I'm back."

Keftir lowered his cane and bowed his head. Eugene could see that the pockets of his velvet robe were stuffed with pastel crayons; they had smeared the fabric with bright chalk.

"You've strayed pretty far from Idaville," said Enzo, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Maybe a mile."

"I was just observing the flowers," replied Keftir, then he mumbled something under his breath.

"What did you say?" asked Enzo, who had been staring off into the rock crevice ahead of him.

"Nothing," said Keftir. Though Eugene had heard him perfectly. The old man had said, "Will I never leave this godforsaken place?"

Keftir balled up his free hand and rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist.

"We'll lead you back," said Enzo. "But first let me introduce you to my friend, Eugene."

"What are you doing here?" asked Keftir, swiveling so that his empty eyes stared straight at Eugene. This caught Eugene by surprise, and he couldn't formulate a response right away.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine. Her name is Sonia. Do you know her?"

"You mean. . you're not from Idaville?"

"He's a huge fan of Eakins," said Enzo. "He has helped me. We are hoping to find our beloveds in town. Do you know if mine has passed through?"

"Oh yes, you'llfind them both there," said Keftir. He spoke in a subdued voice, interrupted by frequent pauses. "But if I were you, I'd turn back. There's a whole world behind you. Love alone won't carry you."

"Nonsense!" shouted Enzo. "She's there! Let's find her!"

Eugene nodded, even though he felt, somewhere deep down, a powerful impulse to turn around and run.

Enzo gave Keftir his arm, and the painter, with a shrug of resignation, took it. As they walked the final distance of the moor, it became clear to Eugene that Idaville exerted some power of magnetism on Enzo. The closer Enzo got, the more he talked about the town, its inhabitants, and finally, its Mayor. Then he grew silent for a while, and refused to look at either man. Tears filled his eyes for the last time.

"Do you think the Mayor might be happy to see me?" Enzo asked, at once terrified and hopeful.

"I think," said Keftir, "that the Mayor. . will welcome you back. . with great enthusiasm and. . delight."

Before Keftir could finish this sentence, Enzo jumped out ahead of them, his burst of speed knocking Keftir back. The old man's shoulders shuddered at the jolt, and Eugene rushed to hold him up. Eugene watched, stunned, as Enzo ran, then skipped, then hopped into the rock crevice. He whooped like a phantom and pulled on his hair, so excited was he to reach Idaville.

It is Sunday in Italy, so all the doctors' offices are closed. In the hospital, the emergency room has nearly as many patients as usual, but there are no doctors to be seen. There is only a single receptionist, who takes frequent cigarette breaks in the building's interior courtyard, where she flirts with a swarthy young Sicilian who carries, as a prop, a mop — but no bucket. The long, chartreuse halls are vacant, the overhead lights flicker defectively, and the crowded waiting room is silent except for a steady mechanical hum and a patient's occasional moan. A grim institutional pallor has settled over the room's vinyl seats, the vomit-green floor, the walls covered with a coral print that reminds Mr. Schmitz of Agnes's seahorses. He is sitting there alongside Daniel. In the seats opposite them are a rotund woman with stringy white hair and persimmon cheeks who is heaving for breath, and a mother whose ten-year-old son has had a nosebleed for the last three hours.

A nurse appears in the waiting room sporadically and capriciously. Her white smock recalls to Mr. Schmitz the shapeless uniform worn by his Quaker teachers in Lancaster County, and she wears the same dismayed expression. Every hour or so, with evident reluctance, she admits a new patient. Mr. Schmitz inquires about the status of his friend each time, but the nurse never answers. She's not a native Italian herself — Filipina perhaps— and she pretends, unconvincingly, that she can't understand his Italian. The boy, Daniel, is no help. He just stares idiotically at the glossy pages of a women's fashion magazine. A bulky smock, identical to the one worn by the nurse, is draped over his bare chest — the receptionist has explained that, by hospital policy, all visitors must wear shirts.

"Can you ask the woman what is happening with Rutherford? The next time she comes?"

Daniel does not respond. He is busy examining, cross-eyed, a photo spread of models posing with thoroughbreds at an equestrian club.

"Why can't you be more helpful? Aren't you a friend of Rutherford's?"

Daniel traces with his forefinger the outline of a female model's body. She is sitting barebacked on a horse in a checkered skullcap and a creamy rider's jacket. A drop of saliva dangles from the boy's lips and falls to the page, without ever severing its silky trail from his mouth.

Mr. Schmitz takes the magazine out of the boy's hands and throws it on the floor. He waits until Daniel returns his eye contact, but when he does, Daniel's stare is cold and dead.

"I'm not — so tight — with the old geezer," says Daniel at last, overenunciating each word so that Mr. Schmitz can understand him. He slowly rises, and retrieves the magazine.

At this moment a gaunt, weathered man stumbles through the waiting room's double doors, clutching one of his arms. His white T-shirt is torn at the neck and speckled by purple droplets. He falls to one knee, then gets up again, and walks to the reception desk. The arm he clutches appears to have been bent backward at the elbow joint.

"What happened to you?" asks the receptionist, in a lazy monotone.

"I fell," says the man. He looks stupidly around the room.

"Sign this sheet and the doctor will be with you shortly."

"I fell. My arm."

The nurse comes out of the emergency room and, seeing the unnatural angle of the man's arm, admits him ahead of the others.