At the ladder’s end, Abu and Thanakar stood in the dark between the railway tracks. “What are we doing here?” asked the doctor.

“No biting,” answered Abu. “Still I wish we had a flashlight . . . if I were a slave to wishing, that is.”

They both laughed, and Abu uncorked his bottle. “Give me some,” demanded Thanakar.

“Just a taste. It’s very strong if you’re not used to it. Even if you are.”

“Just a taste.” The doctor held out his hand, and Abu passed the bottle. “Don’t get drunk,” he cautioned.

“I can’t carry you back up.”

The doctor drank, gurgled and coughed. “My God, that’s horrible,” he said, as soon as he could speak.

“What’s in it?”

The prince took the bottle back and drank a long, meditative swallow. He held the liquor in his mouth, as if trying to analyze the taste. “I want to walk,” he said, taking the doctor’s arm. He shook the bottle in his other hand, to hear how much was left.

They walked down towards the river, stumbling in silence between the railroad tracks. When Abu spoke, his voice was soft and serious. “I’ve often asked myself. I think it must be distilled from a mixture of the illusions it creates. It doesn’t remind you of anything else, and it leaves no aftertaste. That is because it takes away your judgment and your memory. It’s very thick, and so it makes your mind unclear. And it burns your throat. Sometimes, when you’ve drunk too much, it’s as if there were a fire all around you.

You can feel it underneath your skin. I don’t know. They say it’s made from blood.”

“Blood?”

“But I don’t believe it. If it were, how could I drink it?”

They had reached a line of boxcars, pulled up on an old siding. In the doorway of each one burned a small lantern. People squatted, talking. As they passed, one stood up and shouted to them in a harsh voice.

“Biters,” whispered Abu. “Wine sellers and pimps. Take no notice.”

“Come!” shouted the biter.

“Ssh, take no notice,” repeated Abu. And then, “What a snob I am,” he said, laughing. Possessed of a sudden impulse, he walked over to the car. It was arranged as a kind of store, disorganized, but clean: bins of vegetables, tools, clothes. Bottles of liquor. The man who had called to them stood in the doorway, scowling down at them. The atheist’s cross and circle was branded on his forehead, and on his cheek, too, the scars persisted where he had been cut. He had been arrested more than once.

“Yes?” asked Abu. “What do you want?”

The man glared at him. Then, with a jerky dismissive motion, as if he hated them, he gestured towards the wares in his shop. The gesture included a ferocious young woman sitting on a packing crate.

“What is this?” asked Abu, pointing to one of the liquor bottles.

The man’s scowl deepened. “Wine,” he said sulkily.