An excerpt from Hudson by Hernán Ronsino, translated by Mallory Craig-Kuhn

When Navia finally says my father is dead, I am about to go on stage to play. I don’t know why it is that in transcendent moments I always think of trivial things: the world opens out into a multitude of dots, and I can’t help but illuminate the lesser plotlines, the hidden sounds. For example: backstage, with my body overtaken by an airy calm, and as I probe the gentle movement of a molar with the tip of my tongue, I think that this city has a river that cuts it in half; a Gothic cathedral; a statue of Leo Tolstoy with one arm longer than the other; and a name that’s impossible to remember. It’s a city in Eastern Europe. Navia’s voice repeats that it just happened. If you want, Juan, we can cancel, he says, we can cancel everything. And he gives my shoulder an exaggerated squeeze; a squeeze that lasts and lingers, that makes me intensely aware of one part of my body.…