His quill is dipped. His parchment is waiting. His eyes are bright with inspiration. A world full of rollicking adventures and fascinating characters has begun to spill from his mind to the page, and from the page to the sun-drenched hillsides. The sleepy villages and gently sloping hills of La Mancha, where his eccentric hero dozes, are unfurling before him.
The hills appear in his mind’s eye, conjured from thin air, and the trail where she sits. The hills are tranquil and the distant windmills turn in perfect rhythm, accompanied by nothing but birdsong. He can almost hear it now—breezes caressing the treebranches, the chirps and the warbles, and the far-off sounds of a traveling band. He begins to spin her tale.
His imagination whisks him from the hills to the city streets, where people chatter among wafting aromas of saffron and grilled seafood. And there, reclined at his usual table, wielding fork and knife, is the self-indulgent squire himself. But the author sees what Panza doesn’t—the streets clearing, the kicked-up dust—and he ponders the loyal sidekick’s fate.
