City of Truth by James Morrow Page A

all about that story, and not just because I'd read a copy of the first edition prior to burning it. A Christmas Carol had entered history as one the falsest fables of all time, a glib embodiment of the lie that the wicked can be made to see the errors of their ways. Finally: the climax. A loading gantry would appear on the scene and suddenly
    — look — here comes old Santa Claus himself, descending from the sky in a shiny red sleigh harnessed to eight audio-animatronics reindeer and jammed with gifts wrapped in glittery gold paper. As the children gathered around — their hearts pounding with delight, their faces aglow with glee, their poor defenseless minds dizzy with delusion — the elves would shower them with the stuff of their dreams, with scooters and ten-speeds, doll houses and electric trains, teddy bears and toy soldiers.
    Sebastian held up the red suit and fake beard he intended to wear as Santa Claus, and the roundhouse broke into instant, thunderous applause.
    I studied the crowd, shuddering each time I came upon a familiar face. Good heavens: Jimmy Breeze, the bartender from Booze Before Breakfast. Who would have picked him for a liar? Or my plumber, Paul Irving? Or my barber, Bill Mumford?
    Sebastian divided his legions into the necessary task forces. Martina ended up on the Ornaments Committee. My plumber was cast as Ebenezer Scrooge. My barber volunteered to be an elf.
    The closing litany caught me by surprise. Had I known it was coming, I would have steeled myself.
    "What can dogs do?" Sebastian shouted abruptly.
    "They can talk!" answered the mob.
    My skull began to throb.
    "What color is grass?"
    "Purple!"
    The pounding in my skull intensified.
    "Stones are..."
    "Alive!"
    "Stop!" I cried, squeezing my head between my palms. "Stop! Please stop!" Four hundred faces turned toward me. Eight hundred eyes flashed with anger and indignation.
    "Who's that?" someone asked.
    "Spy!" a voice called.
    Another voice: "Who is he?"
    Another: "Brutality Squad!"
    I raised my open palms. "Listen! I want to join you!" The liars rushed toward me like the hordes in the most impressive Renaissance oil I'd deconstructed during my apprenticeship, Altdorfer's Battle of Issus . "I want to become a dissembler!" A leathery hand curled around my mouth. I bit into it, tasting the liar's salty blood. A boot jabbed my side, snapping a middle rib like a dry twig. Groaning, reeling with fear, I dropped to my knees. I'd never before felt so much of that ultimate truth, that quintessential fact, pain.
    The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was my tax advisor's fist moving swiftly toward my jaw.
    * * *
    I woke up alive. Alive — and no better. My lips felt like two fat snails grafted onto my mouth. My torso, it seemed, had recently been employed as the ball in some nameless and aggressive contact sport. Pain chewed at my side. Gradually the gooey film slid from my eyes. I took stock. Foam mattress, eiderdown pillow, the adamant odor of rubbing alcohol. Adhesive tape encircled my chest, as if it were the gripping end of a baseball bat.
    A middle-aged doctor in a white lab coat fidgeted beside me, stethoscope dangling from her neck. "Good morning," she said, apparently meaning it. A thin, vivid face — hawkish nose, sharp chin, high cheeks: a face that, while not beautiful, would probably always retain a certain appeal for anybody obliged to behold it regularly.
    "Morning? Is it Friday already?"
    "Very good," the doctor answered merrily. Her smile was as crisp and bright as a gibbous moon. "I'm Felicia Krakower, and I truly, sincerely hope you're feeling better."
    Across the room, an old man with skin the color of oolong tea sat upright on his mattress, his head wrapped in a turban of brilliant white bandages.
    "My rib hurts," I said.
    "I'm terribly sorry to hear that," said Dr. Krakower. "Don't fret. You're in Satirev now, the place where all wishes find fulfillment."
    "Satirev?"
    "Off the map." Dr. Krakower waved a thermometer