Laird Hunt - Ray of the Star

“I thought you worked for Doña Eulalia,” said Solange,

“I do,” said Ireneo, and as he said this it struck him that perhaps the “Ah” Doña Eulalia had uttered and that he had repeated, there before those three, had had some kind of prophylactic effect, after all it hadn’t taken him very long to disobey them,

“Where are you going?” he said,

“Who’s coming for him?” Solange said,

“I don’t know,”

“Is it those three?”

“I don’t know, I never know, just like I didn’t know who you called us about,”

“She doesn’t tell you?”

“She doesn’t know either, she says it’s like those images on radar, they more or less all look alike, she just has a sense of how close they are and where they’re heading,”

“Radar?”

“Yes,”

“I see,”

“That’s right,”

“Who is she?”

“Doña Eulalia? an old woman who sees things, the city is crawling with them, all cities probably are,”

“Can she help him?”

“It depends on what you mean by help, she’s something of a generalist, she’s mostly pretty indirect, but she can surprise you,”

“Have you ever worked with Lucite?”

Ireneo looked at her,

“It’s used to encase things, enclose them, you have to wear gloves,”

“No, I haven’t,”

“I lost someone very dear to me,”

“Yes, so I understand,”

“When my grief started leaving me, which it did far more quickly than I can see now that I was aware of, I started taking little bits and pieces of that person, of what was left of him, and burying them in clear plastic, there’s a whole story that goes with it,”

“Indeed,” Ireneo said,

“One that found its ending last night after I left Harry’s and went home, would you like to hear that ending?”

“Yes,”

“One of my tears, which is to say a shard of metal caught in Lucite, spoke to me at some length as I was crossing the kitchen to go to bed, what do you think of that?”

“These are strange times,”

“They seem to grow stranger and stranger,”

“What did it say?”

“It said, in essence, that it no longer wished to be a tear,”

“Who could blame it,”

“That’s more or less what I thought and how I responded and then it went quiet and I threw it and its fellows into the trash,”

“Which is where we all end up,”

“I think I’m going to go over to the boulevard and just stand there for a while,”

“Do you mind if I join you, I think I won’t go and find Harry just now,”

“You could find him later, in fact, later, I’ll probably go and see him and you can follow me then, if you still want to,”

“I’m not sure I will,”

“I like that Harry,”

“Yes,”

“I like him quite a bit, although it’s probably hopeless, my liking him, what isn’t?”

“Doña Eulalia had me light more than one candle for him,”

“Multiple blips on the radar screen?”

“Something like that,”

“You know those old bastards used to bring me candy,”

“Candy?”

“Boxes and boxes, like they were after my teeth, wanted them to rot and fall out,”

“Doña Eulalia said he, Harry, was like a well that had sprung a leak, and that it would likely be hard to find a way to plug it,”

“I feel a little like a well that’s sprung a leak,”

“I could tell you about my shoes,”

“Yes, and the cliff,”

“I’ll think about Harry later,”

“Come stand with me for a while,”

“They told me stories, my shoes did, talked to me all the time,”

“You don’t look so fabulous, you look like you’ve got a leak too,”

“I’m sorry I was short with you last night, I’d just gotten rid of the shoes, and they were there when I did it,”

“The connoisseurs?”

“They kept me from jumping,”

“What do you mean?”

“After the shoes, they walked by just as I was about to do it,”

“I’m confused,”

“Maybe because they knew that they’d want me today, that their other guy had let them down,”

“Other guy?”

“They didn’t say who it was,”

“Alfonso? The centaur?”

“They didn’t say, just that they needed someone else, part time, for the odd job, I shouldn’t have gone with them, I was enjoying my breakfast,”

“We have to go back there, Alfonso’s a friend,”

“I don’t know if it was this Alfonso,”

“He’s a friend,”

“I’m not going back there,”

“It won’t take a second,”

“Oh, I think it will take longer than a second,”

Solange smiled, winningly, and grabbed Ireneo by his generously muscled forearm.

Not long after it happened, when the black wool he refused to take off even to sleep was still relatively fresh and the snow and ice covering the world was beginning to mix with mud and rain, Harry went for a walk that was remarkable only inasmuch as he was unable, even when he lost feeling in his extremities and every part of him began to ache and his lungs felt from one moment to the next as if they were being shot at with a nail puncher, either to reverse direction or stop until, thirteen hours after he had started, he staggered right, then left, then fell over into a large juniper bush, and although after his recovery he scoffed aloud when one of the counselors he had been assigned by his former company remarked that he had been “giving physical dimension to his grief,” since that time he had envisioned his so-called grief as a long, terrible line frayed a little at the ends, an image that might help us to understand not so much how but why it was, as we move toward our own ending, that just as Solange and Ireneo, after very little discussion, turned around to go and see about the golden centaur, Harry emerged from a small street on the other side of the boulevard and, after a moment’s pause brought on by his surprise at seeing them at all, let alone together, called out, but they had already turned and his voice was cut down by the poorly tuned chords of a sitar being struck with great vigor by a rather overdrawn bright-blue Hindu-swami sort of a statue, who had apparently rushed in to fill the void left by the Yellow Submarine, and in the seconds it took Harry to step through to the other side of the sound and the clearly skeptical fistful of people surrounding it, the two of them were disappearing around a thick, double-globed lamppost and striding off purposively, and although he had had it vaguely in mind to see if Alfonso (who was of course nowhere to be seen) would let him borrow back the submarine, or perhaps even give him one more ride in it for old time’s sake, catching up with Solange and Ireneo immediately swept any other considerations aside, and in hopes of quickly closing the gap between them, he pressed his still nifty (though otherwise unremarkable) shoes into a fairly satisfactory lope, one that on a day when his mind was less encumbered by thoughts of racks hung with drippings, memories of glittering calderas, and small, wet arms and calves in the moonlight, might have made him think of his time as a secondary school football player, when anything he couldn’t run past he could run through, unfortunately, immediately after successfully veering first past a chunky tourist sticking his fingers deep into a packet of candied oranges, then a bald man cradling the arm of a giant doll or mannequin no doubt shaken loose during the storm, then an ancient woman in dirty slippers slowly pushing a pram that held no less than five small, live, furred things, he was forced to stop by an enormous sparkling water truck that idled fully thirty seconds before pulling forward and clearing the way for Harry, who bolted forward so fast that he slipped on a pile of wet sand and twisted his knee and had to slow to a jog, which as it turned out was itself unsustainable, as, mere seconds after he had spotted Solange and Ireneo again, now off at a troubling remove, he began to feel faint, then remembered he had eaten and drunk nothing since the odd meal the evening before, and of course his sleep had been wretched, and he had just spent an hour in the company of Señor Rubinski’s drippings, and of course They were coming, and to make matters worse his voice was even less effective here in the face of a jackhammer that was smashing into the old stone ahead of him than it had been in proximity to the sitar, which is all to say that rather than closing the gap, as his initial burst had seemed to promise, said gap widened, with the result that the day’s third instance of tailing was an almost perfect inverse of the first two, and even if the chance intervention of the memory of himself, standing in his brown velvet jacket at the bar thinking of stealing church bells and lying not altogether chastely beside a glamorous co-star, momentarily kept his mind out of the Rubinski’s bathroom, Doña Eulalia’s parlour, and the long-ago motel room in that world covered with snow, the reprieve was short lived, and if he hadn’t chanced to look up just as the now-tiny figures he had almost forgotten he was following turned off the street into a building that seemed each time he looked at it as he drew nearer to have subtly changed not just its shape but its entire aspect, he might have taken one of the sharp turns his mind kept offering him and run into a wall or through a shop window or, as it had seemed to him the moment before he had fallen into the juniper bush, into a black lake ringed with snow, but in the event a few minutes later — having passed, without noticing him, Raimon in his Che Guevara costume emerging lost in thought from a side street — he stepped through the front door of the building into a courtyard lit even in the middle of the afternoon by globes of colored glass that rose along the undulating interior of the building, somehow deepening the smell of overripe citrus and damp stone wafting around him, not to mention the contrast between this enclosure and Doña Eulalia’s, which had smelled like nothing more than cinders and had been lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from a cornice that now put him in mind of a description he had once read in which a man, lost in a blackness of the sewers beneath a great city sees a single chink of light in the ceiling far above, then strode forward to the stairwell where, his eyes having inscribed an arc that took them all the way up one wavy bank of windows then slowly back down the other, he saw what his peripheral vision had initially told him were three more of the globes: the pale faces of the connoisseurs pressed against the glass of a second-floor window grinning down at him.