The Lord of Opium(79)

Last of all the woman took up the panpipes and, accompanied by one guitarist, played the wild music of the Andes, which sounds so much like wind blowing through icy canyons.

When it was over, Chacho and Matt clapped wildly and stood up to show their appreciation. “Come with me,” Matt told the musicians. “I have a workshop filled with the finest guitars in the world. I would be pleased if you would accept one for each of yourselves.”

They thanked him enthusiastically, for who had not heard of the fabulous guitars of Opium? They packed up their instruments and followed, with Matt in the lead. It was a long walk, but by now the air had cooled. The black sky and brilliant stars worked their magic on the musicians. Matt heard them whispering among themselves. They had never seen anything like it. The skies over Portugal were murky, as were those of all of Europe. Even in the high Andes, the air was not so clean.

Mr. Ortega had thoughtfully lined the walk with candles housed in yellow sleeves to keep the wind from blowing them out. This, too, impressed the musicians. “They’re like Chinese lanterns. So artistic,” said the woman.

The guitar factory was ablaze with light. The performers were astounded by the wild variety of instruments hanging on racks, but when they reached the guitar room itself, their amazement knew no bounds. There were hundreds of the instruments. They tiptoed inside, almost afraid to approach such a treasure, and so at first they were not aware of Eusebio and Mr. Ortega sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room.

Mr. Ortega had laid out the six chosen instruments on Eusebio’s work table.

First the woman turned and whispered, “Isn’t that—”

And a man said, “I thought he was dead. He walked out one day and never came back.”

“But it is him.” Then all the musicians approached the two men and reverently bowed.

“Señor Orozco. Of course no one else could have made such magnificent instruments,” said the woman. “We are so honored to meet you.”

Eusebio stared straight ahead, not reacting.

“Are you all right, sir? Oh God! You haven’t gone deaf?”

“He isn’t deaf. I am,” said Mr. Ortega, who could read lips. “He is as the others are in this godforsaken place. He is an eejit.”

The woman gasped and fell to her knees. She took Eusebio’s large, work-roughened hands in her own and gazed intently at his face. The other musicians also knelt, as though they were at a shrine.

“The greatest musician of our age has come to this,” murmured one of the men.

But his voice was drowned out by Chacho’s cry. The boy pushed past the performers and pulled Eusebio’s hands away from the woman. “¡Por Dios! Look at me!” he said. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your son.”

* * *

“If only I hadn’t brought the musicians here,” Matt said to Cienfuegos, who had been summoned as soon as the emergency happened.

“Sooner or later Chacho would have found out,” said the jefe. The musicians had fled, taking their trophy guitars with them. Their faces showed clearly the contempt they had for Matt, though they had the good sense to remain silent. In their eyes he had taken the greatest musician of the age and turned him into a zombie.

“What am I going to do with Chacho?”

The boy crouched next to his father and refused to be moved. Ton-Ton sat with him. Neither of them looked at Matt.

“I can have a bed made up next to Eusebio. It won’t be fancy, but I don’t think Chacho is used to better.”

“No, I mean how can I help Chacho?” asked Matt. “He was already trying to recover from his ordeal in Aztlán. Now he seems completely lost.”

Cienfuegos looked at the two boys sitting at the guitar master’s feet. They’d been there for an hour, unmoving. “You can’t do anything,” he said. “All he wants is for his father to be normal, and we know that’s impossible.”

“No, it isn’t!” said Matt.

The jefe shrugged.

Mr. Ortega stirred in his chair. He, too, had been silent for an hour. “I remember you, Chacho,” he said. “You were such a lively little boy, and so bright! Your mother had died and you’d been taken to your grandfather’s house. Eusebio and I went there before we left for the United States. We thought we could send for you once we’d made our fortune, but . . . ” His voice trailed off.

“How could Chacho have recognized his father’s face after all this time?” asked Matt. “I remember things from when I was eight, but not clearly.”

“He had a picture,” Ton-Ton said, speaking for the first time. “When he came to, uh, the plankton factory, Jorge took it away from him and tore it up. ‘Boys have to be broken and mended before they can become good citizens,’ he said. ‘No personal loyalties are allowed.’ ”