There was more talk, polite talk guided by Remal, but it was clearly tapering-off talk. It showed how flexible Remal was. It showed, perhaps, that the mayor was thinking of another way.
“Perhaps it will all be very simple,” he said and got up.
“Perhaps the man will die?”
“Of course not, Whitfield.” Remal smoothed his tunic and took a deep breath. This showed how large his chest was. “He will wake up, talk, and explain everything.” And Remal walked out.
The man from the box did not talk for several days.
Chapter 3
At first they thought that he was in a coma. He was extremely unresponsive, and of course there had been the blows on the head with the axe handle.
They washed him and shaved his face and put him to bed.
Then they thought of it as a deep sleep, due to extreme exhaustion. But for that diagnosis he slept too long. Catatonic stupor was suggested, but that did not fit either. When they sat him up he collapsed again.
They let him lie in bed and attached various tubes.
“Same?”
“Same.”
They were French nurses and the older one was in his room because she had to switch glucose bottles. The younger one always came in a few times each day to see how the man was doing.
“Look at him,” said the younger one. “How he looks.”
“You look at him, Marie. I know how he looks.”
“A baby-”
“Marie,” said the older one, “he does not look like a baby. With that face.”
“He’s just thin.”
“You talk about babies a great deal, Marie.”
“Don’t you think he looks gentle?”
“Well, he’s asleep.”
“I think he looks gentle. I think that he probably is.”
They watched how he tried to turn in his sleep…