Turbinio

Alcohol and Spicy Shrimp

The bigger the city, the worse the plagues and pestilences, you discovered in Philadelphia.

You had arrived a day before the runners and deep down you couldn't quite believe it; but your last meeting with Diego had served as an impetus to find civilization as quickly as possible, even if it posed more dangers than dinosaurs.

You ended your sales just before sunset to see your patient at a nearby hotel. The man had been visibly no better or worse since nine in the morning. The same labored breathing and high fever. But this time, the deep-set eyes met yours when you entered the room and remained fixed on you as you examined him.

He was wearing a Saint Francis amulet. You touched it and smiled at him, then gave him more liquid. He still didn't want to eat, but he took some milk and swallowed another dose of his antipyretic without protest. He remained motionless during the examination and while he drank, but when you started to wring out a warm cloth to put on his chest, he suddenly reached out with one hand and grabbed your arm.

He slapped his chest with his other hand and emitted a strange murmur. This left you a little confused, until you realized what he was muttering.

That man was a guard, you didn't know exactly who he worked for, and he couldn't tell you. About three days ago, he was kicked in the chest by a horse and suddenly weakened. He could no longer speak and was breathing heavily. You believed that it was an infection that had been present before and had been triggered by the horse's blow.

"Is that so?'' You asked. You took the bag of herbs and placed it on top of the warm cloth. ''Well, all right. I'll think about it.''

You chose "El Quinto Regimiento", which he seemed to like. You were forced to sing it three times until he seemed satisfied and lay down with a low cough, enveloped in camphor smoke.

You stopped outside the hotel, carefully wiping your hands with the bottle of distilled alcohol you were carrying.

"There's been talk of a measles outbreak in Willmington.'' Said a young waiter on his break when you told him about your patient. "Is it true, witch doctor, that savages are less able to deal with the infection than Europeans, while Africans and Mexicans are more resistant than Americans?''

You looked at him, a little tired, but not quite willing to be rude. With an elusive gesture, you sat down on the hotel's veranda and ordered a drink from the same waiter, who brought it in the blink of an eye, curious about your answer.

"Call me by my name, I'm not a doctor nor a witch.'' You replied. ''(Y/N).''

''(Y/N)... You're Mexican, right? They talk about you a lot out there, even more than the runners.''

''Hum...'' You picked up the glass and took a sip. Whisky. One of the cheaper ones. ''They're almost all dead, there's not much to talk about them in this race.''

"They're saying that the families will be indemnified, since only the amateurs are dying.''

''Indemnified? Are they paying the mothers with a few coins for the death of their sons?''

''Well... no one was forced to take part.''

"I want my drink!" Some man shouted from inside the hotel. ''Where's the damn waiter with my damn drink?! I've got an appointment!''

The waiter threw his head back and peered at the door for a moment, then rushed inside, walking as fast as he could, but it was too late, the dissatisfied customer was already on the veranda.

"There you are!" The man said. He was an old man who was cordially oblivious to the staff's break times, small and rotund. "A drink, young man! I need a drink!''