The Lord of Opium(27)

Matt recoiled from the thought of retraining. Mirasol left silently, and Celia settled into one of the heavy iron chairs that El Patrón had looted from an old Spanish castle. She looked completely out of place. Her apron was stained with tomato sauce, and there were two brown patches where she habitually wiped her hands. Her dress was cheap and ill-fitting. And yet the vast wealth of El Patrón’s private wing seemed ugly next to her. Or perhaps it was the difference between the live deer and the metal one. “I don’t like it here,” Matt blurted out. “I want to come back to you.”

“Mi hijo,” she said sadly. “I can call you that when no one is listening. You are the Lord of Opium.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“You have no choice,” she said.

“We could run away. I know where El Patrón’s wealth is. I can open the border and we can escape to Africa or India or I can buy a little island in the Pacific—”

Celia hugged him as he’d been wanting her to do ever since he came back. “Oh, dear! You’re too young for all the problems you have inherited. But God arranges these things for a purpose. What was I but one of a hundred thousand women El Patrón enslaved throughout his long life? Yet Fate decreed that I arrive at the moment you needed me. María befriended you when no one else would. Tam Lin gave you the strength to escape when the time came. Without us, you would merely be a heart beating in an old man’s chest. You are meant to end the evil of this place, and you can’t run away.”

“You sound like María,” Matt said. “She’s always trying to civilize me.”

“She used to call you Brother Wolf,” remembered Celia. “Speaking of María, when is she going to visit?”

“Esperanza won’t let her come.”

Celia thought for a moment. “You know how to use the holoport. Open a channel to the Convent of Santa Clara and ask for Sor Artemesia. She’s somewhat scatterbrained, but her heart is good. If Esperanza is away, she can be talked into fetching María.”

“That’s a great idea! I can ask for Fidelito, Chacho, and Ton-Ton, too.” Matt was so pleased he couldn’t stop smiling. “We’ll have a party. They’ll have a picnic on that side and I’ll have one here. It’s almost like having a real visit, and we can do it every day.”

Celia wiped her eyes with her apron. “I must have chopped too many onions,” she said. “Later, perhaps, you can ask Esperanza to let the boys visit. She doesn’t really care what happens to them. And don’t have Cienfuegos with you tomorrow. Sometimes it’s good to be alone with friends.” She kissed Matt good night, but soon returned with the dusty, chipped Virgin of Guadalupe that she had brought from Aztlán. “There’s too much gloom in this place,” she said. “You need something gentle to rest your eyes on.” And she left the light burning in the hall.





12





THE LONG-DISTANCE PICNIC




Celia brought Matt’s breakfast and said that Waitress had been kept in bed to allow her hands to heal. Matt didn’t mind, because he was going to visit his friends. He’d seen them five days before, but it seemed more like five weeks, so much had happened. He made a selection of things from El Patrón’s apartment—a crystal goblet, the golden deer, a walking stick carved in the shape of a striking cobra—and then put them away. The boys might think he was showing off. In the end he took only the music box with the Mexican gentleman and lady.

Alone in the instrument room, Matt suffered a moment of doubt. María was capable of crying for a dead goldfish. How was she reacting to the deaths of her father and sister? He decided to ask Sor Artemesia’s advice before summoning her.

Matt held on to a table leg with one hand while activating the screen with the other. He didn’t want to be lured into the holoport while it was opening. The room at the Convent of Santa Clara was empty, but a bell summoned a UN official.

“Great regrets, mi patrón, but Doña Esperanza is away,” the official informed him. “She said to tell you that the doctors you requested are being sought. It might take weeks.”

“Very well. I would like to speak with Sor Artemesia instead,” said Matt.

“Sister Artemesia?” the man asked, clearly surprised. “But she’s only a teacher.”

“I like talking to teachers. Please call her.”

The man went away, and soon Sor Artemesia hurried into the room, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress and straightening the veil she wore over her hair. “I hope you aren’t angry because I was here yesterday,” she began. “It’s such a quiet place, and the light is so good for doing embroidery—”