"That's the end of the opening scene," he said. "Beatrice hasn't ever eaten a pear in her life, or even seen one, and Virgil tries to describe one for her."

"Yes, I remember."

He continued:

He stopped. That even, expressionless style he had of reading was really quite effective, Henry decided. He brought his hands up and quietly made the motion of clapping.

"That's excellent," he said. "I like that analogy between the sun and faith."

The taxidermist nodded slightly.

"And when Virgil says that talk is better than silence, and there's a long silence that follows, broken by Beatrice saying, 'It is,' I can see that working well onstage."

Again, no definite reaction. I should get used to it, Henry told himself. It was likely shyness.

"This sudden darkness-with Beatrice bursting into tears-that's also a nice contrast in tone with the lighter first scene. By the way, where is the play set? I didn't get that."

"It was on the first page."

"Yes, I know, they're in some park or forest."

"No, before that."

"There wasn't anything before that."

"I thought I had copied it," said the taxidermist.

He gave Henry three pages. The first page contained the following information:

A 20th-Century Shirt

A Play in Two Acts

The second page:

Virgil, a red howler monkey

Beatrice, a donkey

A boy and his two friends

And the third page:

A country road. A tree.

Late afternoon.

The province of Lower Back,

in a country called the Shirt,

a country like any other,

neighbour to, bigger than,

smaller than, Hat, Gloves,

Jacket, Coat, Trousers,

Socks, Boots and so on.

"The story is set on a shirt?" Henry asked, puzzled.

"Yes, on the back of it."

"Well, either Beatrice and Virgil are smaller than bread crumbs or it's a very big shirt."

"It's a very big shirt."

"On which two animals are moving about? And there's a tree and a country road?"

"And more. It's symbolic."

Henry wished he had said that first. "Yes, clearly it's symbolic. But symbolic of what? The reader must recognize what the symbol stands for."

"The United States of America, the United Clothes of Europe, the Union of African Shoes, the Association of Asian Hats-names are arbitrary. We parcel out the Earth, give names to landscapes, draw maps, and then we make ourselves at home."

"Is this a play for children? Have I read it wrong?"

"No, not at all. Is your story for children?"

The taxidermist was looking at Henry directly, but he always did. Henry couldn't detect any irony in his voice.

"No, it's not for children. I wrote my novels for adults," he replied.

"The same with my play."

"It's for adults despite the characters and the setting."

"It's for adults because of the characters and the setting."

"Point taken. But again, why a shirt? What's the symbolism there?"

"Shirts are found in every country, among every people."

"It's the universal resonance of it?"

"Yes. Every day we put on shirts."

"We all live on the Shirt, is that what you're saying?"

"That's right. Coat, Shirt, Trousers, but it could have been Germany, Poland, Hungary."

"I see." Henry thought for a moment. "Why did you choose those three countries?" he asked.

"What-Coat, Shirt, Trousers?"

"No. Germany, Poland, Hungary."

"They were the first three countries to pop into my head," the taxidermist replied.

Henry nodded. "So the Shirt-it's just the name of the country?"

The taxidermist leaned forward and took his papers back. "That's what it says here," he said. "'A country like any other, neighbour to, bigger than, smaller than.'"

Henry decided to try constructive criticism. "I'm wondering if maybe something isn't being lost here. One of the important concerns when telling a story is making sure that what is in your head finds its way onto the page. If you want your reader to see what you're seeing, you have to-"

"It's a striped shirt," the taxidermist said, cleanly interrupting Henry.

"Striped?"

"Yes. Vertical stripes. The sun is setting." He searched through his papers. "They've been talking about God and Virgil's faith and the day of the week. They're not sure what day it is. I'll read that scene. Found it."

He started off once again:

He looked up. "In the opening scene, in describing the pear, they also talk about bananas. Beatrice knows a lot about bananas. But the important thing here is that Virgil is sniffing the air."

Henry nodded. The taxidermist continued:

"They're starving," he explained.

( The animals stand, Virgil leaning against Beatrice, their nostrils flared, their ears twitching, their eyes wide open.

Daylight has reached its last hour. The earth and the trunks of the trees are burnished red by the setting sun. Sweeping through the land comes a wind, a most gentle of cavalry charges. It's a fragrant wind, smelling of soil and root, of flower and haystack, of field and forest, of smoke and animals, but also carrying, by virtue of the distances it has covered, the very smell of vastness, a smell moist and cavernous. It's a beautiful wind, an exciting wind, a giving wind. Riding upon it is the collective news of all nature.

In a province dismissed as flat and featureless, upon a clear and cloudless sundown, the Shirt, by means of a simple road, has tricked the two animals into climbing atop a low hill and then has dropped the blindfold before their eyes so that they might see what is to be seen, a landscape that opens up like a philanthropist's wallet.

It starts with a clearing of untended grass, on whose edge, next to the road, the animals are standing. The shrubs and trees nearby are shapely, with full heads of shimmering leaves, and their long shadows are printed onto the land by the orange sun. Next to the clearing is a bright green pasture. Beyond it lies a tilled field of rich brown earth whose furrows make it look like fat corduroy fabric. And there are more fields beyond, a sweep of swells and undulations that stretches out as far as the eye can see. A few hills sprout sprigs of forest, some fields lie green for sheep and cattle, others lie fallow, but most are cultivated, revealing soil of such glossy, mineral wealth that the land sparkles in the sun like an ocean. These endless furrows are waves, and teeming in them is the plankton of the land-bacteria, fungi, mites, all manner of worms and insects-and speeding and jumping about them are the fish of the earth, the mice, moles, voles, shrews, rabbits and others, ever on the lookout for sharkish foxes. Birds chirp and screech as excitedly as gulls above the seas, beside themselves with the living riches over which they hover and to which they have access with an easy buckling of the wings. And access these riches they do. Virgil and Beatrice see countless birds soaring and plummeting and rising up again, their wings beating, the life in the soil scrambling, and all of it-all of it-doused with sprays of wind.

Before long, the light grows dimmer, the hues deeper, and darkness begins to fall upon the land. While the wind continues to conduct its usual barter, one spore for one smell, the Shirt now appears marked with immense blue and grey stripes that traverse it from north to south.)

The taxidermist lifted his eyes and spoke. "I imagine these stripes being projected not only on the back wall but right across the stage and onto the spectators. The whole theatre will be printed in blue and grey stripes."