“He was my compadre. We crossed the border together. Like an idiot, I wanted to be a big star in Hollywood and he . . . ” Mr. Ortega paused. “Eusebio has always been happy doing exactly what he is doing now. He came with me for friendship, and look where it got him.”
Wsssss went Eusebio’s sandpaper as he polished the wood.
“The Farm Patrol shot me with a stun gun. Here.” Mr. Ortega pointed to his ear. “In that instant the world vanished, the world for a musician, I mean. It made me stone deaf.”
“What happened next?” said Matt. He had never had such a long and personal conversation with his music teacher. In fact, the man hadn’t seemed to like him much.
“Eusebio, may God reward him, defended us with a guitar. He played as though we were in a concert hall, not surrounded by enemies. I couldn’t hear it, but I could see his fingers moving over the strings. No man was ever a better musician. It was such a unique defense that the Farm Patrol brought us to El Patrón. Later I learned that my friend described me as a famous pianist and himself as the world’s greatest guitar maker. Which he is, of course. Unfortunately, it didn’t save him from being microchipped. If you hadn’t needed a music teacher, I would have ended up here.”
Matt didn’t know what to say. He had assumed that Mr. Ortega had been hired as the bodyguards were. When El Patrón wanted something, his dealers in the outside world found it for him, whether it was a doctor, a dentist, a repairman, or a gardener. It seemed odd at the time that the only piano teacher the old man could find was deaf, but Matt had been very young and frightened. He didn’t dare ask questions.
“I want to show you something,” Mr. Ortega said. He took up one of the guitars leaning against a wall and tuned the strings. He laid his cheek against the wood, and Matt realized that he was listening to the music with his bones. It was the same thing he did when teaching piano. Satisfied, Mr. Ortega proceeded to play the most beautiful flamenco music Matt had ever heard. The notes flowed through the air like water into a desert pool, and it made anyone else’s guitar playing seem cheap and tinny.
Eusebio turned toward the sound. His mouth opened as though he were drinking in the music, and his eyes cleared. The sandpaper fell to the floor. On and on Mr. Ortega played until a Farm Patrolman, whose job it was to maintain the craft eejits, came in and ordered him to stop.
The music halted. Matt woke up. He, too, had his mouth open, and it was as though he’d been shaken out of a wonderful dream. “How dare you!” he shouted at the Patrolman in the best El Patrón manner. “Get out and don’t bother us again!” The Farm Patrolman did a double take and began apologizing. “Get out!” screamed Matt. The man fled.
But the dream had been shattered. There was nothing—nothing!—Matt hated more than having music interrupted. He wanted revenge! He wanted the Patrolman flogged or, better still, cockroached—
“Are you all right?” asked Mr. Ortega.
Matt blinked. No, he wasn’t all right. For a moment he had simply vanished into rage. He had no memory of what he’d said to the Patrolman.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” said Mr. Ortega. Eusebio went back to polishing. “Celia told me that you were having problems. Cienfuegos thinks it’s great when you sound like the old man, but she says it’s dangerous. She’s a curandera, you know, a traditional healer. She thinks you might be suffering from spirit possession.”
Matt choked on the water. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Probably,” said Mr. Ortega. “No doubt there’s a psychological explanation, but I always find it useful to listen to Celia. Or read her lips,” he amended with a sad smile. “That music you just heard was written by Eusebio. I discovered that he wakes up a little when I play it. I thought you might be interested, since you like talking to Waitress.”
Matt was overcome with embarrassment. Was it possible to do anything in this place without being found out? Cienfuegos must have spread the story. “I was curious about her, that’s all,” he said. “I’d like to go now.”
“Would you mind if I stayed?” The music teacher picked up the guitar.
“Not at all.”
“You should visit the drug factory,” said Mr. Ortega, “keep up with the family business. It’s bursting at the seams now because they can’t export the opium. The dust alone in that place would knock you on your nachas.”
“That can’t be good for the workers,” said Matt.
“They’re eejits,” the music teacher said. “They don’t know when they’re stoned.”