* * *
The following Monday Matt went to the guitar factory to see how Chacho was getting along with the supplies he’d sent him. Boxes of watercolors, oil paints, and pastel crayons had arrived, along with brushes and various kinds of paper. To his surprise he saw Chacho working on an entire outside wall. It was a mural of people dancing, to go by the sketch done in charcoal on the whitewashed surface. Fidelito, Listen, and Ton-Ton were watching, while Mr. Ortega strummed a guitar.
“H-he’s really fast,” said Ton-Ton. “Started this morning and now, uh, look.” It was indeed impressive. At one end were flamenco dancers, and at the other were more modern figures doing whatever modern dancers did. In the middle was an orchestra led by a man who was unmistakably Eusebio Orozco. In one corner, high up as though she were floating, was Mirasol, doing the Trick-Track with an invisible partner.
Chacho had a stepladder and was working near the top of the wall to draw birds circling over the musicians. “This is the easy part,” he called down to Matt. “Doing the actual painting is hard.”
Matt sat down next to Mr. Ortega, who continued to play. “Chacho’s a natural,” the man said. “One of his ancestors was José Clemente Orozco, the best artist Mexico ever turned out. It runs in the family. Eusebio is a good artist too, but he’s better at music.”
Matt watched in amazement as Chacho dragged the ladder from one end of the mural to the other to add things that had just occurred to him. “What would he be like with training?” he said, turning so Mr. Ortega could read his lips.
“Something wonderful,” the man said, his fingers moving over the strings of the guitar. “The original Orozco was mad about painting murals even though he had a weak heart and had lost one hand and an eye at an early age. He had to stop and rest before he could climb a ladder. People like that are driven.”
“We absolutely have to find Chacho a teacher,” said Matt, thinking that Ton-Ton needed one as well. They had so much talent! And to think that all the Keepers thought they were good for was making ratty sandals out of plastic.
He saw Listen lurking behind Ton-Ton. “I know you’re there, so don’t pretend you’re not,” he said.
“I don’t see you and you don’t see me,” she said.
“That doesn’t make any sense, chiquita.” He sat down on the ground next to her.
“Yes, it does. You put me into the freezer and I’m staying here.” Listen scooted to the other side of Ton-Ton, who put out a lazy hand and hauled her back.
“L-life is too short for stupid arguments,” the big boy said.
“What are you talking about, Listen? I didn’t put you into a freezer,” Matt said.
She hugged herself and leaned over so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Yes, you did. That’s what Dr. Rivas calls ‘ignoring people.’ You don’t talk to them, you don’t see them. It’s like being a bug on the bottom of a shoe. Dr. Rivas used to put me into the freezer when I was bad. He wouldn’t let me play with Mbongeni or anything until I said I was sorry.”
Another reason to dislike Dr. Rivas, thought Matt. “This time I’m apologizing. I was so upset by Mirasol’s death that I couldn’t think of anything else. I think I ignored everyone for a while.”
Listen uncurled herself and put out her hand. He took it. “That’s okay. I was bad and deserved to be punished,” she said. “Do you know what I did to make up for it? I told Chacho about Mirasol’s dancing, and he put her up there on the wall. It looks like she’s flying with the birds.”
They sat for a while, watching Chacho speed from one part of the wall to another until he was satisfied with his sketch. “I’ll think about the colors next,” he said. “I don’t know much about mixing oil paints, so it’s going to take a while. I have to figure out how to protect the picture from sunlight or rain. Oh, crap! It better not rain.” Chacho looked unhappily at a thundercloud rising over the distant mountains.
“I’ll have a plastic sheet hung from the roof,” Matt assured him. He’d never seen the boy so animated. Chacho, as Listen would have put it, was flying with the birds. “Come and have lunch at the hacienda,” Matt said. “You need to rest.” Mr. Ortega put down his guitar and led the young artist away.
“I’m going to Paradise tomorrow,” Matt told Listen. “Would you like to come?”
“You bet! Can Fidelito come too? I told him he could fly a stirabout and see the Scorpion Star up close.”
“You’re not running around on your own,” Matt said, thinking that not long ago he could have told Mirasol to watch them. Depression settled on him like a fine dust.