Free The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel Page A

then,” he says.
    The apothecary brings them to the till. The transaction is routine, but something in the man’s manner is odd. He wraps the bottles in a sheet of newspaper, then, when two people enter the shop, he hastily slides the package over to him. Tomás notices that the man is staring at him fixedly. Self-consciousness overcomes him. He scratches the side of his head. “Is something wrong?” he asks.
    “No, nothing,” replies the apothecary.
    Tomás is bewildered but says nothing. He leaves the shop and takes a walk around the town, memorizing the route he will take with the automobile.
    When he returns to Ponte de Sor an hour later, it all goes wrong. He gets horribly lost. And the more he drives around the town, the more he attracts the attention of the population. Crowds assail him at every turn. At one sharp corner, as his hands frenetically wrestle with the steerage wheel, he stalls once again.
    The multitude of the curious and the offended descends upon him.
    He starts the automobile well enough, despite the crowd. He even feels that he can get it into first gear. Then he looks at the steerage wheel and has no idea in which direction he is supposed to turn it. In trying to satisfy the fiendish angle of the street he was attempting to get onto, he turned the wheel several times before stalling. He tries to determine the matter logically—this way? that way?—but he cannot come to any conclusion. He notices a plump man in his fifties standing on the sidewalk level with the automobile’s headlights. He’s better dressed than the others. Tomás leans out and calls to him above the din of the engine. “Excuse me, sir! I need your help, if you would be so kind. I’m having a mechanical problem. Something complicated I won’t bore you with. But tell me, is the wheel there, the one right in front of you, is it turning?”
    The man backs away and looks down at the wheel. Tomás grabs the steerage wheel and turns it. With the automobile completely at rest, it takes real effort.
    “Well,” Tomás puffs loudly, “is it turning?”
    The man looks puzzled. “Turning? No. If it were turning, your carriage would be moving.”
    “I mean, is it turning the other way?”
    The man looks to the rear of the automobile. “The other way? No, no, it’s not moving that way, either. It’s not moving at all.”
    Many in the crowd nod in agreement.
    “I’m sorry, I’m not making myself clear. I’m not asking if the wheel turned on itself in a round way, like a cartwheel. Rather, did it”—he searches for the right words—“did it turn on the spot on its tiptoes, like a ballerina, so to speak?”
    The man stares at the wheel doubtfully. He looks to his neighbours left and right, but they don’t venture any opinion, either.
    Tomás turns the steerage wheel again with brutal force. “Is there any movement at all from the wheel, any at all?” he shouts.
    The man shouts in return, with many in the crowd joining in. “Yes! Yes! I see it. There is movement!”
    A voice cries, “Your problem is solved!”
    The crowd bursts into cheers and applause. Tomás wishes they would go away. His helper, the plump man, says it again, pleased with himself. “There was movement, more than the last time.”
    Tomás signals to him with his hand to come closer. The man sidles over only a little.
    “That’s good, that’s good,” says Tomás. “I’m most grateful for your help.”
    The man ventures no reaction beyond a single callisthenic blink and the vaguest nodding. If a broken egg were resting atop his bald head, the yolk might wobble a little.
    “But tell me,” Tomás pursues, leaning forward and speaking emphatically, “which
way
did the wheel turn?”
    “Which way?” the man repeats.
    “Yes. Did the wheel turn to the
left
or did it turn to the
right
?”
    The man lowers his eyes and swallows visibly. A heavy silence spreads through the crowd as it waits for his response.
    “Left or right?” Tomás asks again,