The Lord of Opium(32)
“She wasn’t there. She’d taken María to New York for dancing lessons. I talked to my friends from the plankton factory.”
The jefe raised his eyebrows, and Celia shrugged. “He didn’t tell me what happened,” she said.
“I had a picnic, okay? I ate on one side of the portal and the boys ate on the other.”
“So far, so good,” said Cienfuegos. “What went wrong?”
“Fidelito let María’s bird out of a cage. It flew through the portal and shattered like a piece of glass.”
The jefe nodded and took another drink of pulque. “The holoport is a wormhole connecting one place to another. Inside, I’m told, it’s as cold as outer space. I don’t understand the science and neither did El Patrón, but he always had brainy people working for him. It’s no great loss. There are lots of birds.”
“You don’t understand!” cried Matt. “The holoport made me feel like I was really in the same room with my friends. I was happy. Then the bird died, and I knew it was all a big lie. I don’t want the boys on the other side of a wormhole. I want them here, and I want María, too. I am owed those lives!”
Celia and Cienfuegos looked at each other sharply. “What an odd turn of phrase,” murmured Celia.
“It’s only a coincidence,” said Cienfuegos.
“Another thing,” Matt said, close to tears and trying to control it. His head was pounding. “I’m tired of people talking in riddles. Say what you mean or shut up! I’m going to my apartment, and I want my food sent there along with Mirasol.” He got up, intending to stride out like a tough guy, but instead he knocked the chair over and almost fell himself. No one tried to help him.
Never had El Patrón’s private wing seemed more like a refuge. Matt could shut out the world, and no one could criticize him. No one would expect him to make decisions. Even the gloomy old paintings looked different. The little princess who had seemed hypnotized was merely showing off her dress. She was waiting for a compliment she knew would come. The dwarf next to her wasn’t in pain, as Matt had first thought. He was listening to a conversation beyond the edge of the picture.
“Do you want me to serve you?”
Matt turned to see Mirasol carrying a tray. The long table was already set with two places, and the chandelier was ablaze. “Put the tray down. I’ll serve you,” said Matt.
Mirasol devoured the meal with her usual speed. Matt contented himself with watching her feed. My pet Waitress, he thought, and was obscurely pleased that Celia didn’t like the girl being there. It’s my apartment. I’ll invite who I please, he thought.
He was still trying to puzzle out how anyone could think of El Patrón as a saint. All those prayers and silver charms were wasted. El Patrón wasn’t going to fix ulcers or restore Mr. Ortega’s hearing. He’d caused the problems in the first place. And what did Cienfuegos mean, my heart is frozen? It didn’t seem frozen, the way he begged for help.
Matt noticed that Mirasol had cleaned her plate and was piling on more food than was good for her. “Stop,” he ordered. Mirasol stopped and waited for further instructions. One of the good things about her was that she never questioned his commands. She didn’t criticize him, and she was always there. Unlike María. How could María go off to Nueva York when she knew he was longing to see her? It was disloyal. She belonged to him.
Matt remembered the many times El Patrón had described his childhood, using exactly the same words as though he were reciting a long prayer. The Drug Lord’s Prayer, Matt thought with a twisted smile. María would scold him for disrespect, but why should he care what she thought? She was dancing and partying without him.
El Patrón had a rosary with only one bead on it: He wanted the lost years of his seven brothers and sisters added to his own. Eight lifetimes.
Matt hugged himself. His head pounded, and even his skin was sore. I’m sick, he realized with amazement. He’d suffered from asthma and from Celia’s doses of arsenic, but never in his life had he contracted an infectious disease. The asthma was caused by being kept in a room full of sawdust as a small child. Celia, of course, fed him arsenic to save him from being used for transplants. He was immunized against everything else.
“Mirasol,” he said. The girl sat unmoving. “Waitress . . . ” She looked up. Matt sucked in his breath. The light from the chandelier was too bright, and he was suddenly covered with sweat. El Patrón had always called himself a cat with nine lives, and he’d achieved only eight of them. Matt remembered his confrontations with Esperanza and Major Beltrán, and the way words suddenly appeared from nowhere. He remembered the old, old voice whispering in his ear. What if . . . what if . . . I’m the ninth life? Matt thought.