The Lord of Opium(78)

They came back in time for lunch and the pachanga, which everyone agreed was the best show yet. Rodeo riders played the parts of bullfighters, except that they carried no swords and there weren’t any bulls. A pachanga, Matt explained, was far more dangerous than a bullfight because it involved cows. Cows were a lot brighter than bulls and wouldn’t be fooled by a cape. They quickly learned that the real target was the man and acted accordingly.

The trick was to lure the cow into an enclosure, but most of the time the men had to run for their lives, with the animals thundering after them. El Patrón had loved this sport and laughed himself silly when someone got trampled. Matt made sure this didn’t happen by having Farm Patrolmen on horseback ready to rescue someone who tripped.

Now came the part Fidelito was waiting for. The wrestlers climbed into the ring and swaggered around to let everyone see their costumes. El Pretzel had a black mask with purple and gold rays on it, and purple spandex pants. El Salero was in yellow and had a saltcellar tucked into his tights. La Lámpara, the Grease Spot, was so called because he oiled himself up before a match. He was wearing a slippery-looking green body stocking. El Muñeco, who was supposed to play the Good Guy, had refused to come to Opium. No amount of money would tempt him. As a replacement, Matt had hired El Angel, who didn’t look a bit angelic in spite of his white attire and a halo, which he removed before the match.

Fidelito was beside himself with joy. He pointed out the dirty tricks committed by everyone except El Angel. The referee never seemed to see them, and when the boys screamed what was going on, he never seemed to hear them. Finally, after El Pretzel had tied up El Salero in spite of having salt thrown in his eyes, and after the Grease Spot had slithered out of everyone’s grasp, El Angel came back from several losses to defeat everyone and be declared the winner.

“That was the best show ever.” Fidelito sighed, rubbing his stomach as though he’d eaten a big meal.

“They’re all cheaters,” said Listen. “Even that Angel guy. I saw him trip the Grease Spot and whomp him on the back of the neck.”

“I think it’s an act,” Matt said. “I don’t think anyone gets hurt, or not much.”

“It’s real. My grandma said so, and she never told lies,” Fidelito said.

The sun was low in the west when servants brought out the dinner. They had tamales and barbecued ribs, chiles rellenos, and moro crabs flown in from Yucatán. These had been El Patrón’s favorite foods, and Matt liked them too. For dessert they had crème caramel custards. Mirasol had been serving meals all day, and Matt made sure she sat down now and ate something. But the food was rich, and both Fidelito and Listen were sick by the time dinner was over. Sor Artemesia offered to put them to bed.

The last activity of the day was classical guitar music. Both Matt and Chacho were anxious to hear it, and Ton-Ton stayed to be sociable, although his taste ran more to mariachi bands. Celia, Daft Donald, and Cienfuegos went off to perform chores, and Mr. Ortega left to select the guitars that would be given to the musicians as awards. Thus, there were only three spectators to watch the concert.

The sky was dark by now. The stage was brightly lit and, unlike the other settings of the day, undecorated. There were no garish masks or prancing horses, no brightly colored streamers or circus folk banging drums to increase the excitement. The stage was bare except for six chairs. The backdrop was a simple white curtain. A light breeze blew through the water sprayers that had been installed overhead to cool the air.

Five men in black suits with stark white shirts filed out along with a woman in a long scarlet dress. The men carried guitars, but she carried panpipes, which she placed on one of the chairs. They began to play, starting with the traditional Portuguese fado, a word that meant “fate.” The woman sang of lost love, of poverty, of being abandoned. Ton-Ton leaned over and said, “It’s p-pretty depressing,” and Chacho told him to shut up.

The next offering was flamenco music from southern Spain. One of the men sang and the woman danced, swirling her long skirt. Then they both danced with a rhythm that set Matt’s pulse racing. They were like the gentleman and lady on El Patrón’s music box, only much, much better. The man clapped to the beat while the lady danced around him, and Chacho and Matt joined in. Ton-Ton shrank down in his seat.

This was followed by classical guitar pieces by Villa-Lobos and a version of Rodrigo’s Andalusian Concerto and Fantasy for a Gentleman. These had been El Patrón’s favorites. He’d had them played over and over because he thought he was a gentleman, and maybe even a king.