Beautiful Blood by Lucius Shepard Page A

brushed crumbs from his beard.
    “This cheese is excellent,” he said. “You should try it. Allie, my companion, soaks it in an infusion of berries. Quite tasty.”
    Again Rosacher declined. He watched the artist eat for several seconds and then, feeling awkward with the silence, he asked how the work was going.
    Cattanay shrugged. “It goes and it goes. I’ve been unable to manufacture a proper magenta. The color changes so much on the scales…” He gestured with the sandwich. “We’ll get it right sooner or later.”
    “I meant to ask if you had any idea of how long Griaule can survive?”
    “Haven’t a clue. Sorry. I suppose he could pop off any old time. You need to ask an expert in dragon physiology…if there are such. You were a doctor once, no? You’re more qualified than I to give an opinion.”
    Pigeons perched on a beam beneath the platform began to squabble. The wind shifted, bringing a burning smell from the vats. Rosacher realized he’d become so accustomed to the dragon that most of the time he paid it no more attention than a rock—whenever he spoke about Griaule, he did so in the abstract, as if he were referring to an idea, a principle, something other than the dragon’s monstrous reality.
    “How’s business?” Cattanay asked.
    “Manageable. We make plenty of missteps, but one learns to adapt.”
    “It’s the same with me. Always something. Loggers haven’t returned with wood to keep the vats going or someone’s taken a fall. I’ve delegated responsibility, yet it’s a rare day when I’m not called away to deal with some trouble.”
    “At least when you’re done you’ll have a monument to commemorate your labors.”
    “The mural? I doubt it. How long do you think it’ll take before they decide to rid themselves of Griaule’s corpse? A week? A month? No more, surely.”
    Rosacher murmured in agreement.
    “There’s a man in Punta Esperanza who’s had some success with reproducing images from life,” said Cattanay. “Perhaps by the time it’s finished, he’ll have refined the process and the mural will survive in that way. It’s hardly the same thing, though.”
    Cattanay had another bite of sandwich and Rosacher, kicking his heels against the side of the platform, said, “May I ask a personal question?”
    His mouth full, Cattanay signaled him to go ahead.
    “Are you happy?”
    Cattanay swallowed, wiped his mouth. “That’s a hell of a question…though I hear it often. Allie asks it of me almost every night.”
    “I’m certain the context is very different.”
    “Oh, without a doubt.” Cattanay picked at a bit of food trapped between his teeth. “Happy’s not a word I generally apply to myself. You might say I’m content. I’m doing work I love. Things aren’t perfect, but I suppose I’m happy enough. Happier than you by the look of it.”
    “You’ll get no argument from me on that account.”
    Tipping his head to the side, Cattanay seemed to study him as though he were a troublesome area on a canvas. “Perhaps you lack passion,” he said. “That’s what people need in order to know even a minute’s happiness. Without passion and the focus passion brings, there’s only confusion. That’s how I view it, anyway.”
    “I used to be passionate about science, but no more. I was never passionate about the business. The business…it was something to do, something easier than science. I thiink I’ve used it as an excuse not to do what I really wanted.”
    “You’d best find something else you really want, then. That is, if happiness is your goal.”
    “I think my goals may be changing.”
    “Pah! Mine change a dozen times each morning before lunch. I’ll wish for a better source of a magenta and then the sight of an art student with a nice derriere …well, you know how it goes.”
    With a grunt, Cattanay got to his feet. He balled up the paper in which his sandwich had been wrapped and tossed it off the tower. Thin streams of people were passing