Once Listen sat up in the middle of the night and screamed, “I want Dr. Rivas! I want Dr. Rivas!” The guards fell over themselves trying to calm her down. Boris sang her a Russian lullaby so melancholy that Listen went into hysterics.
46
GLASS EYE DABENGWA
And then, one morning, they were awakened by a knock on the door. The light was already on, and the guards were passing their cigarette back and forth. The same man Matt had seen outside the operating room marched in. He was dressed in a general’s uniform, with so much gold braid on the shoulders you could hardly see his neck. The guards snapped to attention and ground the cigarette under a heel.
“Idiots! You don’t get stoned on duty!” shouted the man. He slapped Boris hard and shoved Samson against the door. Matt watched hopefully—they could have snapped the officer in two—but the guards only cowered before his obvious authority. The man turned to Matt and Listen. “Come on! Hurry up!”
Boris and Samson herded them down the hall, with the general striding in front. “Hey, mister! Are you an African?” yelled Listen, running to keep up.
The general halted and turned around. She almost ran into him. “Why do you ask?”
“ ’Cause you’re dark like me. I’m an African. My name’s Listen, and I’m going to grow up to be a drug queen.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I once knew a woman called Listen, but she died long ago.”
“I know,” the little girl said excitedly. “I’m her clone—or I woulda been if she’d lived. Tell me about her. What was she like?”
The general knelt down beside her. “She was a most beautiful and kind lady.” The hard expression faded from his face, and he smiled.
Matt did a double take. He’d seen this man before, whining for a shipment of opium. At the time he’d been dressed in a plaid suit and high-heeled boots. The uniform made him look almost respectable, but Matt knew he didn’t deserve to wear it. He wasn’t a real general. He was a drug addict. “You’re Happy Man Hikwa,” Matt said. “Are we going to a costume party?”
The hard expression came back. “You’ll soon learn what kind of party we’re going to.” The man picked up Listen and continued down the hall.
What a fool I was to walk into the hands of our enemies, Matt thought as they walked on. He should have hidden until he found Cienfuegos. How easily the soldiers had disarmed him. He might as well have handed the weapons over and saved them the trouble.
I wonder what shape Glass Eye is in, said El Patrón in a casual, chatty way. His replacement parts used to wear out faster than mine.
Do you know something I don’t? thought Matt. He heard a dry cackle and imagined the old man sitting in the back of Hitler’s car, enjoying the homage of his slaves.
Just because they took your weapons doesn’t mean you aren’t armed, said El Patrón. Matt waited for more information, but the voice only came when it felt like it. He had no control over it.
Matt experienced a moment of abject terror when he entered the hospital room. Glass Eye Dabengwa almost overflowed the chair he was sitting in. His legs were like tree trunks covered in gray bark, and his toes, with their gnarled and discolored nails, spread out like the talons of a bird of prey.
He was dressed in a skimpy hospital gown, and his seamed arms, repaired from many battles in his youth, bulged out of the sleeves. His body was massive, nourished, so rumor said, on the blood of children. But much the same rumor had been circulated about El Patrón. It could be said of any drug lord who harvested clones.
The only mercy was that Dabengwa’s eyes were cloaked by dark glasses. The curtains in the windows were drawn too, and the only light was from a dim lamp covered by a shade. Matt wondered whether something was wrong with the man’s vision. He certainly hoped so.
Dr. Rivas was seated in another chair across the room, and Listen immediately flew to him. A pair of nurses cowered against a wall. The rest of the space was taken up by African soldiers.
“Who is this child?” Glass Eye said in a voice that resonated like distant thunder.
“The baby patrón,” said Happy Man.
“Baby Patrón. I like it. Come closer, boy,” said Dabengwa.
Matt struggled to hang on to his courage. Was it his imagination or did he hear an odd sound in the room? “I am the heir of El Patrón,” he stated as firmly as he could. “I am the Lord of Opium.”
Dabengwa’s large head turned toward him. Click. Whirr. There were those strange noises again. “I see only a boy.”
“Appearances are deceiving. I’m actually a hundred and forty-seven years old.”