Ray of the Star by Laird Hunt

over and over again one summer night long ago, as she attempted with no success to teach herself how to perform a backflip.



II
    The past, since it does not exist, is
hard to erase. Tears and the gnashing
of teeth.

T his move, the difficult, perhaps impossible perfor mance of which many of us can commiserate with, in which the body leaps up and back, while time, of course, continues to move forward, might be diverting enough to stop a moment and consider—picture for example the long gorgeous lift of the Olympic athlete in the midst of a perfect floor exercise, or the delicate, deadly grace of the Shaolin Temple Kung Fu master flipping backwards, through a snow shower, above waving bamboo, or a determined teenaged girl crashing backwards over and over again into bright blue water—as having teetered for a moment at the midpoint of this story, the days again began to slip by, and while it might be interesting to consider in greater detail, for example, how Ireneo came to the conclusion that his mother was, if not faking her illness, then certainly exaggerating its extent, and that in consequence his presence at her bedside was no longer required, and that he might just as well slip out in the middle of the night and run most of the way back to the city, where, after paying a brief visit to Doña Eulalia, who had recovered from her own dubious illness and informed him that, as she sensed the situation regarding the first individual with the broken face had been greatly ameliorated and that communicating with her was now merely a matter of professional courtesy, finding Harry, for whom the situation was worsening, should be his priority, he made haste for the boulevard and an interview with the centaur, who, at the end of his shift, told him that the individual he was searching for could be found in such and such a part of the city, or how it was that one balmy evening, and not for the first time, Solange—whose curiosity and progressive warming had led her to remove her silver tears one by one and take concomitant, exploratory steps across the boulevard in the direction of the improbable, appealing yellow apparition—came to be leaning, with a slight smile gracing her never-smiling silver lips, against the side of the Yellow Submarine, while Harry, heart smashing up and down inside him, lay just a papier mâché wall away from her, whistling a sort of Beatles medley, we could just say that while time has moved forward, some not insignificant backflipping has occurred, and consequently, we are no longer quite where we last were, a statement that, if we accept the notion that complexity is derived from the intricate and unexpected arrangement of banalities, we can be content with, though perhaps not in the stomach-fluttering way that Harry was content to be lying where he was lying, more like in the understatedly pleased way that Ireneo was content to be running in the city again, even following a piste he was absolutely certain was an incorrect one, that Harry wouldn’t be anywhere near the arcaded renaissance courtyard the tricky-looking centaur had directed him to, that all he would find there would be the usual motley assortment of northern European group-tour participants, some wearing ball caps and/or T-shirts proclaiming their affiliations, as with unadulterated pleasure—convinced they were at last, after a series of false starts, in the midst of an authentic moment—they gobbled second-rate tidbits thawed and deep fried in filthy kitchens hiding behind ornate exteriors, which is exactly what Ireneo did find and had plenty of time to consider, and from multiple angles, as for good measure he ran several slow laps waiting to see if Harry would make an appearance on the terrace of the grand café under the arches, where Bavarians ate fried potatoes and bruschetta with such infectious gusto that eventually Ireneo plopped down at an empty table and ordered a large bottle of sparkling water and a plateful of potatoes,