Laird Hunt - Ray of the Star

That both Doña Eulalia and Ireneo proved to be wrong — in the short term because Ireneo’s old Asics, for reasons all their own, instructed him to keep his head pointed pavementward on the boulevard; in the slightly longer term because Ireneo’s mother, who now lived in elegant retirement up the coast, fell gravely ill and required his immediate attendance — was far from unfortunate in re the potential of an eventual dynamic unfolding between the silver angel and the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, not least because the information that Doña Eulalia was ever more eager to provide them most likely would have, had it been imparted too early, especially the portion concerning Harry and the candles, had a chilling effect, difficult to overcome, even on considerably more solid ground than that provided by a gold box moving (even only in potential — Harry didn’t yet think he was ready) toward a silver box (which had no idea said gold box was coming), on the crowded matrix of a pedestrian thoroughfare so bustling, so full, as they say, of life and its attendant distractions, and detractors/detractions, such as the three old men who, just as Harry, four days into his self-imposed calvary, was beginning, in great earnest, to consider packing it in for the afternoon, came and stood before him, folded their arms over their chests, and launched into a withering appraisal of Harry’s utter lack not just of artistry, but also of even the smallest degree of presence, to the point, as they put it, that he was almost invisible,

“Yes practically invisible,” one of them said,

“I can’t believe we noticed him,”

“But of course we did,”

“In the end,”

“Still, we did see him,”

“He’s not invisible enough,”

“This is not a promising debut,”

“Another sorry Don,”

“Just like last year’s,”

“Although last year’s was better,”

“Marginally, but it’s true that silver is better for the Don,”

“The Don must be skinny, this one isn’t skinny, I don’t say he’s fat, but he’s certainly not skinny,”

“That’s not the worst of it though,”

“No, it’s not the worst of it,”

I’m a statue, Harry thought, I can’t move, I can’t talk, the bastards, or can I? is this some kind of a test?

“He should reconsider,”

“I bet he got that getup at Almundo’s, the old swindler,”

“We ought to talk to Almundo sometime, pay a visit, it’s been a while,”

“His makeup is running,”

“He looks like a giant duck,”

“The Don looked ridiculous, but not like a duck,”

I don’t believe this, Harry thought,

“He’s hopeless,”

“Won’t last the week,”

“Shouldn’t last the week,”

“We know you can hear us, friend,”

“Unless he’s a foreigner, one who doesn’t speak the language,”

“Everyone speaks the language,”

“He looks familiar to me,”

“Everyone looks familiar,”

“That’s a long way from being true,”

“It’s clear he’s listening,”

“The Don wears an old barber bowl for a helmet, that piece of plastic on his head is a poor replica of a real Knight’s helmet,”

“And where is the beard and Rosinante for that matter?”

“You can’t expect him to have a horse, none of the Dons ever had a horse,”

“But one had a Sancho Panza,”

“That Sancho Panza was little more than a stuffed hippo,”

“Let’s go and have some bubbly,”

“With those lovely olives,”

“And a bit of salted cod,”

“He doesn’t have the touch,”

“Neither a buffoon nor an artist,”

“Neither here nor there,”

“There’s a word for that,”

“The word is ‘fucked,’”

Jesus Christ, Harry thought, and after the three old men had uncrossed their arms and gone off to have their goddamn drink and olives, he dropped his lance, shook off his shield, sat down on his box, and fumbled in his duffel bag for a bottle of sparkling water, which to top it all off had come uncapped and was now empty, then looked up the boulevard and saw that, no doubt during his dressing down, the silver angel had vanished, not the first time she had done this while he was not looking, in fact she had managed to do it each day he had come and stood on his box and sweated and been snickered at, I’m so out of here, Harry thought, which was when his neighbor, the golden centaur, now free of all but his golden body paint, came and tapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand, introduced himself as Alfonso, and invited him for a drink.

“They’re quite right,” said Alfonso once they were installed in an appealingly deep burgundy booth in the back of a nearby café and had tall, lime-garnished glasses of chilled sparkling water before them, “The connoisseurs are blunt, but they know what they’re talking about, as of course they should since they’ve been monitoring the statues on the boulevard for over fifty years,”

“That long,” said Harry,

“I know,” said Alfonso,

“But why?”

“It’s a pastime like any other, but the point is they always get it right,”

“Has anyone ever ignored them?”

“Of course, but with dire consequences, we’re all very loyal to them, as they are to us, once they’ve decided we merit their attentions,”

“What sort of attentions?”

“A coin or bill here and there to make sure our hats get filled, a bottle of water placed in the shade of our boxes on a hot day, a story to entertain us or make us think when traffic is low or we are or both, a wedge of cheese or sausage when they think we could use it, an antihistamine when a cold or allergy sinks its teeth into us,”

“All that,” said Harry,

“And more,” said Alfonso, “Once they sent a number of us on a cruise, covered all expenses, draped us, as we embarked, in spangles, pearls, pins, earrings, bracelets, rebates, furs, masks, laces, tiffanies, ruffs, and falls, sent us six hours out to sea where, on an island of verdant lawns and rippling brooks and long, splendid beaches, we were regaled at such great length and so splendidly, by hosts who seemed to intuit our every desire, no matter how sunken below the surface of our external commodities, that we didn’t dare sleep for fear of missing even a moment of the happiness that was everywhere to be had, and when we returned we hoisted the connoisseurs high on our shoulders and, cheering, carried them up and down the boulevard until it was time to get back to work,”

“Really?” said Harry,

“More or less,” said Alfonso,

“Then it’s hopeless,”

“I didn’t quite say that, but yes, it is, the boulevard is for serious statues and for serious clowns, again I don’t wish to give offense, but you’re just a man standing around in a costume, who sweats copiously and moves when he shouldn’t, in short you lack the calling,”

“I thought maybe with some practice …” said Harry,

“It would take years, it took me years, I went to school for it, basic stuff, juggling invisible apples and getting myself in and out of invisible glass boxes,” Alfonso said and made his hands climb backwards up an imaginary flight of steps that ran from the sugar bowl to the mirror above the burgundy seatback behind him, a feat that Harry tried and failed miserably to duplicate,

“No, I don’t think so,” said Alfonso, not at all unkindly,

“It’s just that,” said Harry,

“You’re hoping to impress someone,” said Alfonso,

“A woman, an angel,” said Harry,

“Ah, the angel,” said Alfonso,

“I just want to talk to her,”

“And perhaps get to know her a little and take a walk together and so on,”