Slow River

I had to walk through the tiny kitchenette to get to the bathroom. I almost banged my head on the rafter over the tub. As usual, I felt dislocated. It was odd, to wake up alone and nameless.

Not for much longer.

It was midafternoon by the time I got out to look for Spanner.

Springbank, the road that had once groaned under a thousand rubber tires a minute, was now bobbled with gray vehicle ID sensors and laced with silvery slider rails that glistened like snail tracks in the late September sunshine. It was the first day in two weeks I had not had to wear a coat. Foot traffic was heavy, and sliders hissed to a stop at almost every pole to pick up or drop off passengers. The occasional smaller, private car hummed and dodged impatiently around the tubelike sliders.

The building, old and massive, was built of sandstone. The sign over the entrance was a picture of a polar bear. Inside, it was the same as all bars.

Spanner was there. I threaded my way through the smell of stale beer and newly washed floors toward the fall of dark gold hair, and slid onto the stool next to her.

Spanner lifted her head. We looked at each other a moment. It was strange to not touch. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes,” It felt like a year, or an hour. It had been just over four months. I beckoned the bartender and nodded at the glass Spanner nursed between her hands. “A beer and…”

“Tonic for me.”

There had to be a reason she wasn’t drinking. People changed, but not that much. I tried to keep the tone light. “Waiting for anyone in particular?”

“Just sitting.”

She knew I knew she was lying, but I had gone past the stage of being angry, of facing her with it. It was Spanner’s life, Spanner’s body.

In here, the bright sunshine was filtered by old beveled glass and well-polished mahogany to a rich, dim glow, but it was enough to see the glitter in Spanner’s eyes, the way she kept glancing up at the mirror behind the bar to see who came in the door. Her skin looked bad and she had lost weight. I paid for the drinks.

She sipped at hers. “How have you been?” She sounded as though she did not really care about the answer.

“Well enough.” I hesitated. “Spanner, I’ve found some work, a job I might take. I need your help.”

She finally dragged her attention away from the mirror and looked at me. “What happened to all your noble ideas about an honest living?” There was no mistaking the edge of contempt in her voice.

I had not expected this to be easy. “This is the last time. I want a new ID, a permanent one. I want to work, get an honest job.”

“Ah. You need my dishonest help so you can make an honest living.”

I looked at Spanner’s face, at the hard, grooved lines by mouth and eyes that belonged to all those who had lived on their wits too long, and wanted to take her face between my hands, wanted to make her face her own reflection and shout, Look, look at yourself! Do you blame me for wanting to earn my living in a way that’s not dangerous? In a way that no one will ever be able to use to make me feel ashamed? But it had never done any good before.

“I’ve found a PIDA that might make a match. I need help with it.”

“Well, as you always said, I’ll do anything for money.”

“Spanner…” Even though I had tried to prepare for this, the pain of reopening old wounds was sharp and bright. I took a deep breath. “What’s your price?”

“Let me think about it awhile.”

We both knew what she would ask, eventually. “Fine, you do that, but I need the preliminary work completed now, within the next couple of days.”

Spanner glanced in the mirror again, then at her wrist. She was getting nervous.

“I have an interview today,” I pressed. “I should be starting work tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Fine, fine. Come by the flat tomorrow.” Her attention was beginning to drift.

I sighed and stood. “Your flat, then, tomorrow.” But she wasn’t listening anymore.

When I reached the street door, a couple were just coming in. They were laughing, wore expensive clothes, good jewelry. I glanced back. Spanner was rising to meet them.

Outside, adjusting to the bright afternoon after the dim warmth of the bar, I hesitated. Those two were trouble. Maybe Spanner was too desperate for what they were offering to notice the casual hardness of their faces, the way their eyes had flickered automatically over the room looking for exits, checking for weapons.

I waited outside for nearly ten minutes before I realized I could do nothing to help. I left reluctantly, wondering why—after all she had done—I still cared.

Chapter 2

Lore is five. Tok and Stella, the twins, are nine. They have been playing in the fountain in an Amsterdam neighbor’s gardens. Lore has tried to catch the upspouting water in her mouth.

Tok is shouting at her. “Don’t you want to know what it is that you’re drinking?”

“It’s water,” she says, puzzled.

“How do you know it’s clean?”

“But it’s always clean.”