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shutters, and jumped into bed.

T wo days later, Harry opened them again with a plan, or rather the bright beginnings of one, and while, after so recently spending so much time on the inside of his head, one might expect that a good deal of slightly soggy thinking had gone into reaching it—a long-ago colleague, subjected to a lengthy dose of Harry’s thought process, once compared it to the higgledy-piggledy fretwork of boards laid down in pre-modern times across bogs and marshes, the remains of which could still be found, along with the victims of their treachery, in certain regions of Europe—on this occasion, Harry had simply woken, legs still twitching, with a bucket of golden paint floating before his eyes, so that after he had spent a bit of time with the local yellow pages, executed his ablutions, and made a lightning dash, back pressed against the side of the building, behind and past Señora Rubinski, who was standing outside the door tapping her foot, he paid a visit to Almundo’s Store for Living Statues, which he had selected as much for the size of its advertisement—twice that of Ernesto’s Living Statue Emporium—as for its proximity to his apartment, nor was he disappointed, as Almundo was able with great efficiency and appealing panache to kit Harry out with everything—including gilded armor, gilded box, gilded lance, golden body paint, body-paint remover, a large duffel bag—he would need to make a most convincing living statue, one that would, according to Almundo, attract the greatest sympathy of passersby and provide the foundation upon which he could transmit the full flourishing of his artistry,
    “Speaking of which,” Harry said, “any suggestions?”
    “Stand very still, my friend,” said Almundo, “stand very, very still,”
    “And beyond that?” Harry asked,
    “Look down, think happy thoughts, and bathe every evening to keep your skin from breaking out,” said Almundo,
    “Thank you, I will,” said Harry, eager to get started, but already dusk was sweeping through the city, lights were flicking on, and as he alternated between hefting and dragging his duffel bag, it became clearer and clearer that he would have to wait until the next day to make his debut, which did not stop him, once he had done a medium-length tour of duty with Señora Rubinski, from spending a quiet hour on his box in front of the wall mirror in his bedroom, dressed and made up as what had been pitched to him by Almundo as the one and only “Knight of the Woeful Countenance,” but which, at least in the problematic light of his floor lamp, made him look dangerously like some kind of laminated hobgoblin or gigantic duck.

S till, he rose very early the next morning, ate some hard sausage and a tomato, drank half a bottle of sparkling water, applied his makeup, packed his duffel bag, and made his way to the slowly waking boulevard where he set himself up in what he recalled being a largish gap in the line of statues—of which there were none yet in sight, it being far too early—at a point he decided was more or less equidistant between the golden centaur and a large flower kiosk, and had the advantage of being situated directly beneath one of the largest plane trees on the boulevard, which, during the heat of the day, would provide him with some measure of shade, and then, with a steady stream of locals on their way to work and a few sleepy tourists heading for fresh juice, melons, packets of nuts, and glass cups of milky coffee at the market drifting past him, he planted his golden box, pulled on his golden costume, did a few preemptive deep knee bends and arm stretches, swiped at the air with his lance, then stepped up and struck an overly elaborate pose—a sort of supplicant’s arrangement he had puzzled out the previous evening in front of the mirror in lieu of his normal anti-RLS routine—which he held for what seemed like ages, but was really more like three minutes, and then tried another, and