The Fugitive by Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar

was a child. Fear of the dentist’s drill is an inherited trait in my family, and our dentist knows it perfectly well. Whenever one of us comes into his office, he locks the door and pockets the key to ensure that we can’t escape. The wiliest patient is my brother, who has achieved the inconceivable in his efforts to avoid having a filling. Now, as soon as he enters the dentist’s office, they take away his car keys and impound his shoes.
    The dentist in whose hands I was placing my pain and my mouth was about thirty-five; he had a little blond goatee tacked onto an impertinent French face. He began to explore my oral cavity. Even though I kept trying to indicate the tooth that was causing the pain, mumbling explanations and pointing with my index finger, he was interested in something else in there.
    â€œOh, no,” I thought to myself, “an idiot dentist.”
    But that wasn’t it. In fact, he was the dentist-nephew of Sherlock Holmes.
    â€œAre you Chilean?” he asked, as he continued to root around with his probe.
    â€œOf course,” I managed to say.
    â€œAnd you had these fillings done in Chile?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œHow long have you lived in France?”
    I did my best to remember the issue date of my friend’s health insurance card: “Let’s see . . . um, yes, three years,” I answered, pushing his hand away from my mouth.
    â€œAnd have you ever lived in other countries?”
    â€œNo but, excuse me, why are you asking all these questions?” I ventured to query, in an attempt to understand what he was driving at.
    â€œBecause you aren’t Chilean. Your health card is a fake or else it belongs to someone else; by now we know all the tricks that you immigrants use to exploit our health system.”
    This wasn’t going well, and I played one of the few cards left me—indignation:
    â€œWhy how dare you? This is a perfectly valid health card. Of all things to have happen. I’m suffering from a toothache, I go to see a dentist, and instead of treating my toothache he tries to tell me I’m not Chilean. How on earth could you say such a thing?”
    â€œThese fillings were done in Europe, my dear sir, and many years ago, when you were just a child. Are you Spanish? Italian?”
    â€œI am Chilean, how many times do I have to tell you?”
    â€œDon’t insult my intelligence,” he shouted. “You’re Chilean? Then tell me the word that you normally use to describe tartar in Chile.”
    â€œI can’t remember,” I mumbled.
    â€œThen I’m calling the police.”
    I stared into the abyss. Faced with the apocalyptic prospect of winding up in prison with a toothache, I made a last-ditch attempt: “Please, don’t call the police. You’re right, I’m not Chilean, I’m Italian. But I’m not an immigrant, the police are looking for me. I’m facing a jail term of fifteen years if they send me back; I’ve already spent three years in prison. And I’m innocent. I’ve been charged with a crime I never committed; the whole story is a mess that I won’t even bore you with. If you call the police, you’d be sending an innocent man to prison, believe me.”
    My heart was in my throat. All I could do was wait to see what he would do next, as I lay, tilted back in the dentist’s chair, my neck wrapped in a white towel, like a gag. I stared at him in despair. Suddenly I saw a light all around him. My eyes widened in astonishment. Yes, I had seen it. Just for a second.
    The saint without a name had touched his heart, and suddenly he was kindly and gentle. After administering anesthesia, he picked up the drill and used it with a delicate, almost tender touch. I felt no pain.
    â€œYou’ll need to come back next week to have the medication removed; make an appointment with my nurse,” he said, turning his back to me as he put his instruments away. I