The Saint Who Could Not Lie

How it begins

Samir Hale lost his first useful lie over a bowl of soup.

'It's delicious,' he intended to say. What came out was, 'It tastes like warm wallpaper, but I know you spent all morning making it and I appreciate being fed.'

The mayor's wife set down her spoon. Around the table, eleven people discovered urgent reasons to examine their bread. Samir closed his mouth too late.

By afternoon, he had admitted that the sacred spring was a broken municipal pipe, that his embroidered robe itched and that he did not personally know why prayers sometimes seemed to work. These revelations arrived during the rehearsal for the annual Festival of Miracles.

Clara Marsh listened from the stage, holding a hammer.

'Are you unwell?' she asked when he reached her.

'I'm frightened.'

He had meant to say a little tired.

Clara put down the hammer. She had designed festivals, political rallies and one disastrous lakeside opera. She recognized the particular silence of a production losing its central illusion. Usually she was paid to cover it with better lighting.

'The saint business?'

'The part where people think I can guarantee things.'

Above them, a painted sun hung from a rope. Clara had made it herself. Nobody believed it was the actual sun, which allowed it to do its job perfectly. She looked from it to Samir's robe.

'Who first called you a saint?'

'A woman whose roof I repaired.'

'Was it a good repair?'

'Yes.' He sounded almost surprised to be certain.

'Then perhaps we should start there.'

The mayor hurried across the square carrying the revised program. Samir's face appeared on the cover beneath the words CERTAINTY IN TROUBLED TIMES. Clara turned the paper over. On the back was an advertisement for a roofing company that had never attended the poorer streets.

She picked up her hammer again. This time, she had a different use for it.