ut tripped over the frame of an unknown Francis Bacon self-portrait. The merchant started to fall and Spyder instinctively reached out to grab him. Bulgarkovs barbed wire ripped through the palm of Spyders right hand.
"Shit!" yelled Spyder.
"Take this," said Bulgarkov, going to the back of his stall and returning with a silk scarf. He wrapped the material tightly around Spyders wounded hand and stanched the flow, but blood had already splashed on the pavement and the floor of the stall.
"Youre a goddam menace in that suit, man," Spyder said.
"Im so sorry. " Bulgarkov grabbed a book from the stall and handed it to Spyder. "Here, the book you were admiring, please take it, with my apologies. "
"Im okay. It just startled me, is all," said Spyder, but his hand was throbbing. "Dont go square dancing in that get-up. Adios. " He took the book and headed off, following the directions Bulgarkov had given him.
As Bulgarkov said, the cinema was indeed small, a converted cafe, full of silent patrons, with a wrinkled sheet for a screen at one end and a clattering film projector at the other. Through the front entrance, Spyder could see a sliver of the face of a young, handsome Orson Welles. He was sweating and his eyes were wide. Welles voice came through the open door, "Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision-he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath…?
"The horror! The horror!"
A shadow moved across Spyder. "When they told me you were in Berenice, I knew youd show up here. "
Spyder loo
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