The Lord of Opium(77)

“Heck, yes,” responded Ton-Ton. “He was g-giving us the big lecture about not having diseased opinions. He was rolling up crumbs and when he got a big glob, he popped it into his, uh, mouth.”

“Only, a roach crawled onto the table and he mashed it up with the rest,” Chacho crowed. “Huck! Huck! Huck! Blort! All over the table. Wonderful!”

“Yeah, he lost it big-time!” said Ton-Ton. “L-later, when we escaped, Luna, Flaco, and I locked the Keepers into their compound and covered all the exits with bags of salt. Th-they were in there a week, and the only water they had to drink was from the toilet.”

“Huck! Huck! Huck! Blort!” shrieked Fidelito, beside himself with glee.

Matt knew what they were doing. They were covering for him by coming up with more and more outrageous stories. By the time they’d finished, Matt’s breakdown was lost in a welter of crude jokes. Daft Donald wrote on his yellow pad, You have good friends, and Matt silently agreed.

When things had settled down and they were back to devouring cupcakes and oranges, Fidelito leaned against Matt and said, “What did Tam Lin used to say?”

“We were sitting under some cottonwoods, same as now, and the leaves were making that rattling sound,” said Matt. “I said it was almost as though the trees were talking. Tam Lin said that the Hopi Indians believed the cottonwoods were talking, only that the voices were those of the Hopi gods. If you listened and were wise enough, he said, you could understand what they wanted you to do.”

“Wow,” said Fidelito. He fell silent. The wind gusted through the little valley, ruffling the surface of the pools and sending the leaves into a flurry of sound. After a while it died down, and the little boy said, “I wish I knew what they were telling me.”

“So do I,” said Matt. “So do I.”





31





THE PARTY




A wide swath of desert had been converted into a soccer field and an arena that could be used for a circus, a rodeo, a wrestling ring, and a stage for the musicians. Bleachers had been set up for the boys, Listen, and Sor Artemesia. Matt wanted Celia, Mr. Ortega, Daft Donald, and Cienfuegos to be with them, but Celia said that this was a party for children and besides, it wasn’t fitting for servants to sit with the Lord of Opium and his guests. She and the others had folding chairs some distance away and supplied themselves with food from a separate table.

It wasn’t like El Patrón’s parties. Those had been formal affairs with many speeches and hundreds of guests, as well as at least a hundred bodyguards. Dictators, generals, UN members, famous film stars, and even the remnants of old royal houses attended. The most important guests, of course, were the other drug lords, or at least those who weren’t at war with Opium. Glass Eye Dabengwa had been an ally then, but he rarely visited because he had so many enemies at home. No one was sorry about that. Sitting next to Glass Eye was like sitting next to a sleeping crocodile that might wake up at any moment and take a chunk out of you.

In those days there had been many tables covered with spotless white cloths and dishes trimmed in gold. Maids circulated with trays of drinks, and waiters provided cigars or hookahs for whoever wanted them. There was always a fountain of red wine with orange slices bobbing in it, and ice sculptures that melted into puddles before the festivities were over. There weren’t going to be any wine fountains or hookahs at this party, and the guests were limited to six, not counting the servants. But in its way this celebration was grander than anything El Patrón had hosted.

The soccer match began after breakfast. It was preceded by Farm Patrolmen on horses, carrying the flags of both Argentina and Brazil. The horsemen galloped around the field in intricate patterns that were almost like a dance. Then the teams marched in. The game itself was a feast for Matt’s eyes. He’d never seen a soccer match and didn’t know the rules, but he thought that the players’ movements were every bit as elegant as the horses’ had been. Ton-Ton, who understood the game very well, yelled himself hoarse. The Argentineans won and were rewarded with gold coins.

Matt thought briefly of the Mayan game pok-a-tok. If these were the old days, the losing Brazilians would be minus their heads by now. They would have been sacrificed to the god of death who, pleased with the gift, might look the other way when it came time for the ruler of the country to die. Perhaps that was the attraction of the game for El Patrón.

After a midmorning break, trapeze artists swooped back and forth on swings, moving with breathtaking speed. Five of them balanced on a man pedaling a bicycle across a tightrope. Others juggled flaming torches or chain saws with the motors going. It was almost too much to take in, and Matt realized that he should have spaced the events over several days. By the time the act was over, Listen was cranky. Sor Artemesia took her off for a nap, and so they missed the rodeo.