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<v Speaker 1>Hussel stilly os the map maker.

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<v Speaker 2>In a room at the top of a spiral staircase,

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<v Speaker 2>in a building that leans slightly to the left, there

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<v Speaker 2>is a man who draws maps. His name is Edmond,

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<v Speaker 2>and he has been drawing maps for longer than most

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<v Speaker 2>people have been alive. The room is small and round,

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<v Speaker 2>with a single window that looks out over the town.

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<v Speaker 2>From up here, the town looks like one of Edmund's maps.

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<v Speaker 2>The rooftops are geometric shapes, the streets are lines, the

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<v Speaker 2>parks are green patches, and the people are tiny moving

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<v Speaker 2>dots that wander between them. Edmond often looks out the

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<v Speaker 2>window and thinks about how strange it is that the world,

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<v Speaker 2>when you see it from abive, looks so much like

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<v Speaker 2>a drawing of itself. His desk is made of oak

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<v Speaker 2>and is older than he is. It was his father's desk,

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<v Speaker 2>and his father's father before him. Three generations of map

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<v Speaker 2>makers have sat at this desk, drawing the world in

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<v Speaker 2>ink and careful lines. But Edmund is the last. He

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<v Speaker 2>has no children, and there is no apprentice, and when

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<v Speaker 2>he is gone, the desk will be just a desk

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<v Speaker 2>and the maps will be just paper. This thought does

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<v Speaker 2>not make him sad, It makes him careful. He draws

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<v Speaker 2>each map as if it might be his last, with

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<v Speaker 2>the precision and a love that goes beyond what the

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<v Speaker 2>work requires. He does not just draw roads and rivers

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<v Speaker 2>and boundaries. He draws the feeling of a place. The

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<v Speaker 2>way a particular street curves gently to the left, as

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<v Speaker 2>if it is in no hurry to arrive. The way

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<v Speaker 2>a park sits in the middle of a block, like

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<v Speaker 2>a green oasis surrounded by stone. The way a river

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<v Speaker 2>narrows at a bridge and widens again, as if the

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<v Speaker 2>bridge is something to be cautious about. To day, he

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<v Speaker 2>is drawing a map of the town, not because any

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<v Speaker 2>one asked him to. He has already drawn dozens of

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<v Speaker 2>maps of the town, one for each decade, and each

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<v Speaker 2>one is slightly different from the last. Streets are added,

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<v Speaker 2>buildings are removed, Parks grow or shrink. The town changes slowly,

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<v Speaker 2>like a living thing, and Edmond's maps record those changes,

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<v Speaker 2>the way a diary records the passage of years. He

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<v Speaker 2>dips his pen in ink and draws a line. The

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<v Speaker 2>line represents a road, Mill Street, which runs from the

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<v Speaker 2>old stone Bridge to the town square. He has drawn

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<v Speaker 2>this road hundreds of times, and he knows it by heart.

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<v Speaker 2>He knows where it dips slightly in the middle, where

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<v Speaker 2>the old elm tree once stood before the storm took it,

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<v Speaker 2>where the cobblestones give way to asphalt. He draws each

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<v Speaker 2>of these details, because details are what make a map true.

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<v Speaker 2>The ink is due, dark and fine, made from a

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<v Speaker 2>recipe that his grandfather invented. It is a mixture of

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<v Speaker 2>lamp black and gum arabic, and a tiny drop of

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<v Speaker 2>something else that Edmund has never been able to identify.

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<v Speaker 2>His grandfather took the secret to the grave, and his

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<v Speaker 2>father never learned it, and Edmund suspects that the ink

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<v Speaker 2>is simply ink, and the secret is simply patience. But

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<v Speaker 2>he keeps the heat.

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<v Speaker 1>Recipient a lot drawer just in case.

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<v Speaker 2>As he draws, Edmond listens to the sounds of the

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<v Speaker 2>town below, the clatter of horse hoofs on cobblestones, though

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<v Speaker 2>there are no horses in town any more, and he

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<v Speaker 2>realizes the sound is coming from his own memory, projected

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<v Speaker 2>onto the present like a film. He hears children laughing,

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<v Speaker 2>the ring of a bicycle bell, the distant call of

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<v Speaker 2>a vendor selling something he cannot quite make out. These

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<v Speaker 2>sounds are the picture of the map, the life that

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<v Speaker 2>fills the lines. There is a knock at the door,

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<v Speaker 2>Come in, Edmond says. The door opens and a girl

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<v Speaker 2>steps inside. She is perhaps twelve years old, with dark

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<v Speaker 2>hair tied back in a ponytail and a notebook clutched

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<v Speaker 2>to her chest. Her name is Rose, and she comes

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<v Speaker 2>to see Edmond every week. She wants to be a

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<v Speaker 2>map maker, she says, though Edmund is not sure that

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<v Speaker 2>map making, as he practices, it is something that can

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<v Speaker 2>be learned from a notebook. Good afternoon, Edmund, Rose says,

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<v Speaker 2>settling into the chair across from his desk. She always

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<v Speaker 2>sits in the same chair, and she always places her

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<v Speaker 2>note book on the same spot on the desk, as

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<v Speaker 2>if by repeating these actions she is making the visit

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<v Speaker 2>more real. Good afternoon, Rose, Edmond says, what shall we

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<v Speaker 2>talk about to day?

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<v Speaker 1>Scale?

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<v Speaker 2>Rose says, immediately, how do you decide how big to

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<v Speaker 2>make things? Edmond puts down his pen and thinks this

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<v Speaker 2>is one of the questions he likes because it does

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<v Speaker 2>not have a single answer. Scale is a choice, he says.

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<v Speaker 2>When I draw a map, I have to decide what

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<v Speaker 2>matters If I draw everything at the same scale. The

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<v Speaker 2>map would be as big as the world, and it

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<v Speaker 2>would not be a map at all. It would be

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<v Speaker 2>a copy. So you leave things out. I leave things out.

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<v Speaker 2>But the art is in knowing which things to leave out.

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<v Speaker 2>A good map shows you what you need to see.

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<v Speaker 2>A bad map shows you everything, and you are lust

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<v Speaker 2>in the detail. Rose opens her note book and writes

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<v Speaker 2>something down. She always writes down the things, Edmond says,

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<v Speaker 2>as if she is afraid she will forget them. Edmond

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<v Speaker 2>finds this touching and slightly alarming, because he is not

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<v Speaker 2>sure his words are worth preserving.

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<v Speaker 1>What about the things that change? Rose asks, how do

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<v Speaker 1>you draw something that is not the same from one

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<v Speaker 1>year to the next. Edmond looks out the window. He

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<v Speaker 1>can see the square below, where a fountain sends a

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<v Speaker 1>thin stream of water into the air. The fountain was

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<v Speaker 1>built twenty years ago, and before it there was a

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<v Speaker 1>statue of a man on a horse, and before that

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<v Speaker 1>there was nothing but open space where people gather to

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<v Speaker 1>sell things and argue about politics. Everything changes, Edmond says,

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<v Speaker 1>that is the nature of the world. But a map

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<v Speaker 1>does not need to capture every change. It captures the

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<v Speaker 1>feeling of a place at a particular moment. The map

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<v Speaker 1>I drew of this town in nineteen seventy is not wrong.

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<v Speaker 1>It is simply a snap shot of nineteen seventy. The

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<v Speaker 1>map I draw to day will be a snap shot

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<v Speaker 1>of to day. Both are true, Both are useful, They

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<v Speaker 1>are just true in different ways. Nods slowly. She writes

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<v Speaker 1>something in her note book. Can I see the oldest

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<v Speaker 1>map you have? She asks.

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<v Speaker 2>Edmund reaches into a drawer and pulls out a rolled

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<v Speaker 2>piece of paper. He unrolls it carefully, placing small weights

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<v Speaker 2>on the corners to hold it flat. The map is old,

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<v Speaker 2>the paper yellowed, the ink faded to a soft brown.

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<v Speaker 2>It shows the town as it was sixty years ago,

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<v Speaker 2>when Edmond was a boy. The streets are the same mostly,

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<v Speaker 2>but the buildings are different. There is a mill where.

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<v Speaker 1>The library now stands. There is a field where the

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<v Speaker 1>school is. There is a river that runs through the

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<v Speaker 1>center of town, long since buried in a pipe beneath

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<v Speaker 1>the asphalt.

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<v Speaker 2>Rose leans for board and studies the map with wide eyes.

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<v Speaker 2>There is a river here, she says, pointing there was,

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<v Speaker 2>Edmond says, the mill stream. It ran right through the

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<v Speaker 2>town square in the spring when the snow melted, it

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<v Speaker 2>would flood the market. The vendors would stack their crates

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<v Speaker 2>on tables and wade through the water, still selling, as

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<v Speaker 2>if a little flooding was nothing to worry about. What

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<v Speaker 2>happened to it, they buried it. In the nineteen sixties,

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<v Speaker 2>they decided the river was a nuisance, so they put

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<v Speaker 2>it in a pipe and ran it underground. They paved

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<v Speaker 2>over it and built the square. Rose looks at the

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<v Speaker 2>spot on the map where the river used to be.

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<v Speaker 2>She traces its path with her finger, from the edge

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<v Speaker 2>of town to the square and beyond a thin blue

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<v Speaker 2>line that no longer exists. That seems wrong, she says,

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<v Speaker 2>it does. Edmond agrees, but that is what happens to rivers.

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<v Speaker 2>They get in the way of progress, and progress wins.

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<v Speaker 2>A map maker's job is to remember the things that

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<v Speaker 2>progress erases. He looks at the map, at the thin

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<v Speaker 2>blue line that was once a river, and he feels

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<v Speaker 2>a quiet sadness that he has carried for sixty years,

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<v Speaker 2>not for the river itself, but for the way it

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<v Speaker 2>was forgotten. People in the town walk over the pipe

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<v Speaker 2>every day and never think about the water flowing beneath

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<v Speaker 2>their feet. They do not know what they lost, but

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<v Speaker 2>Edmond knows his maps.

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<v Speaker 1>No.

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<v Speaker 2>He rows up the old map and puts it back

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<v Speaker 2>in the drawer. Then he picks up his pen and

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<v Speaker 2>dips it in ink and continues drawing the new map.

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<v Speaker 2>He draws the square with its founting, and he draws

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<v Speaker 2>the streets and the buildings and the parks. And then

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<v Speaker 2>in the bottom corner, where no one will see it

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<v Speaker 2>unless they look very carefully, he draws a thin blue

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<v Speaker 2>line and labors it mill Stream underground. And he underlines

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<v Speaker 2>the word underground three times, as if to make sure

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<v Speaker 2>the world will not forget again. Rose watches him do this.

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<v Speaker 2>She does not say anything. She just writes in her

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<v Speaker 2>note book and nods and understands. The afternoon light fades

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<v Speaker 2>and the shadows lengthen across the desk, and Edmond and

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<v Speaker 2>Rose sit together in the round room at the top

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<v Speaker 2>of the spiral staircase, surrounded by maps, drawing the world

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<v Speaker 2>as it is and remembering the world as it was,

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<v Speaker 2>and making sure that neither one is lost