He knew where he was; a block or two north would be the Imperial Canal—no, it was Imperial Highway this far inland—and three or four blocks north of that would be the restaurant where he'd first got a job washing dishes. And where had that doctor lived? In a basement only a few buildings away from the restaurant, he recalled. The standards of cleanliness in the restaurant's kitchen had provided the man with plenty of patients. And Rivas had gone back to him a few times during the ensuing years—once for a clap cure and a couple of times to have dueling wounds sewed up.
Rivas set off in that direction, noticing apartments where friends had lived whose names he now couldn't remember, terrace bars where he'd taken young ladies for drinks on
long ago late nights, canals he'd fallen into . . . . Much had
changed—there were lots full of charred rubble where he remembered houses, new bars that had been Junk & Relic stores in his day, a new wide hole in the street where some cluster of antique sewer tunnels must have collapsed, over which a gaily beribboned but unsteady bridge had been built—but so much had not changed that he thought the ghost of young Gregorio Rivas must still haunt these streets and alleys and rooftop bridges; a self-consciously cynical ghost, inordinately proud of its skill with both sword and pelican, its capacity for liquor, and all the dues it imagined it had paid. The place was still Venice, where he'd spent his youth, still crowded with old buildings rotting under bright new paint, curbside hot food vendors, shouting parrots and street lunatics, still redolent with the smells of ordure and spicy cooking.
Though the restaurant had mercifully burned down, the doctor's building was still there, but as he scuffed down the steps to the man's door he wondered whether he would still be there. It had been—what—six years? He knocked at the door.
After a few seconds it swung open and he felt weak with relief to see that the man peering out of the doorway was the doctor. «Doctor Dendro!» Rivas said. «I'm glad you still live here. Do you still have that thing you used to call a stretcher barrow? There's a—»
The gray-haired man was frowning. «Who are you?» he interrupted.
«Don't you recognize me? I'm Greg Rivas. I came to you several times for—»
«Rivas.» The doctor stared at the ceiling. «You had the clap.»
«Well,» said Rivas, nettled in spite of everything, «yes. Once. But right now I'd appreciate it if you'd—»
Abruptly the doctor saw Rivas's hand. «My God, man, what have you done to your hand? Come in here and—»
«Doctor,» said Rivas loudly, «I'd be grateful if you'd look at my hand.» More quietly, he went on, «But first I wish you'd get your stretcher barrow and come look at a friend of mine.»
«He worse off than you?»
«Yes.»
«All right.» The doctor waved him inside, and when Rivas had reeled in and blinked around enough to be able to see in the dimness, he smiled, for the place hadn't noticeably changed since his last visit. Here was still the old wood stove autoclave, here were the window-blocking stacks of terrarium mold gardens, the astrological charts and the live, caged, two-headed snakes which may patients insisted be consulted before they'd accept any medication, the cupboards full of ancient and almost certainly useless bottled pills.
Doctor Dendro had put on his antique white coat with Doctor, Doctor, Gimme The News stitched on it, and from a closet rolled out the extended, padded wheelbarrow Rivas remembered. «Your man in much pain?» he asked Rivas.
«Unconscious.»
«Won't risk bringing a hypodermic needle, then. Broke one since you were in last. Down to seven now.»
He wheeled the device out the door and Rivas followed.
«I can't pay you today,» Rivas said, «but as soon as I get back to—»
«I'll take an I.O.U.» As they went up the steps the doctor sniffed. «Or will I? Blood's bad stuff, Rivas. You used to have a little more sense.»
«It was an accidental dose. I gave some to this friend of mine as a, a sedative, and we both wound up doused in it.»
«It's only a sedative to people who want that kind of sedative.»
When they got up to street level Rivas swayed dizzily in the sudden blast of sunlight.
«Sure you don't want a ride in this yourself?» Dendro asked dubiously.
«No—thank you—I'd fall asleep, and when I next sleep it's going to be for about twelve hours.»
He led the doctor back to the alley, and down it to the arch in the wall, and when he stumbled into the enclosed court the two children were gone but of course the far-gone still lay where he'd been, at the foot of the garbage pile. Rivas pointed, then leaned back against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting.
The doctor trundled his wheelbarrow over to the boy and crouched to look at him. He picked up one of the skeletal wrists, then dropped it and pushed back an eyelid. He looked over at Rivas and then stood up. «Sorry,» he said. «Boy's dead.»
Rivas nodded and shrugged, and it wasn't until the too bright scene blurred and fragmented that he realized, to his weary horror, that he was crying, for the first time in more years than he could remember. He tried to stop and discovered he couldn't. He was breathing in harsh gasps, tears running down his unshaven cheeks, and he didn't hear the doctor approach.
Dendro put his hand on Rivas's shoulder. «He was a close friend?»
Rivas shook his head. «Just . . . some kid. I don't know what the hell's the matter with me.» He looked up. The doctor had put the wasted corpse in his wheelbarrow.
«I'll take him to the burial pit,» Dendro said, «after I've fixed up your hand. Get up now.»
Rivas climbed to his feet and plodded after the doctor.
An hour and a half later, his hand a bandaged numbness swinging at his side, Rivas was wandering along the Lennox Street sidewalk, wondering which old acquaintances he might be able to find who'd loan him some money and give him food and a place to sleep. He could remember a number of people, but somehow he couldn't picture any of them being particularly glad to see him, especially since his years of success in Ellay. And of course it was out of the question to consider looking up any of his old girlfriends. He'd never understood how some people could be friends with ex-lovers; his own romances always ended with at least one party feeling nothing but loathing for the other.
A street band on a corner ahead was banging out a melody on instruments made of kitchen utensils and car parts, and Rivas slowed, trying to identify the tune of the song. Then with a shock he realized it was a song he'd written himself, many years ago. He kept trying to remember a lyric before the singer could sing it, and finally managed to, moving his lips silently half a beat ahead of the band:
He had slowed to a stop in front of the musicians, and the singer slid a foot forward to nudge the hat that lay inverted on the pavement. Glancing down, Rivas saw a handful of jigger cards in it. He looked up, met the man's gaze and shrugged apologetically, and the man rolled his eyes in a way that clearly conveyed, Then take off, hobo.
Rivas shambled on, but a moment later the music came to an abrupt, twanging halt. He looked back and saw the band hastily packing up, and looking beyond them he saw why.
Half a dozen of the sort of madwomen known locally as pocalocas were striding aggressively down the street, their arms swinging and their ragged skirts sweeping the pavement. Music often threw pocalocas into violent frenzies that abated only when the music stopped, and they'd been known to claw out eyes and bite as ferociously as dogs.