The Lord of Opium(87)
He tethered the horse under a ramada, and he and Listen slopped through the mud to the guitar factory. Child eejits were singing in one of the rooms, not German folk songs this time, but a Christmas carol. El Patrón had liked carols, although, to be honest, the old man hadn’t cared about the holiday except as a chance to get more presents.
Children, go where I send thee
How shall I send thee?
I will send thee one by one
One for the little bitty baby
Born, born, born in Bethlehem.
“That’s nice,” said Listen. “What baby are they talking about?”
“Jesus,” said Matt, racking his brain for information about Jesus. He hadn’t paid much attention to religion because, until recently, he hadn’t had a soul.
“Oh. You mean Jesús Malverde.”
“No, not him. Someone much earlier. He was born on Christmas Day. Didn’t you celebrate Christmas in Paradise?”
“Dr. Rivas says that religious holidays are crap,” declared the little girl.
Matt experienced a new dislike for the man. “We’ll celebrate it this year, and Sor Artemesia can tell you about the Three Kings who bring gifts to good children. Consider it ‘cultural history.’ ” They watched the choir and their elderly music master. The voices were high and sweet like the sandhill cranes over the oasis.
“Their eyes . . .,” Listen said.
“They’re eejits,” said Matt, and pulled her on before she could think about it. Outside, the rain began again. Lightning flashed, and he saw the little girl silently count, One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two. Chacho and Mr. Ortega were sitting by a window, drinking maté. Eusebio was stringing a guitar, pausing to listen as he tightened the tension. One end of the room was filled with guitars. It’s like the opium factory, thought Matt. It’s a machine you can’t turn off.
“Matt,” said Chacho, putting down his cup. “Or should I say mi patrón?”
“He’s come halfway, bug brain. You can do the rest,” said Listen.
Mr. Ortega laughed. “I told you, if anyone can nag the dickens out of someone, it’s Listen. Welcome, mi patrón or Matt or whatever you want to be today. We’ve been enjoying the storm, although I miss hearing thunder. I can feel it through the earth.”
Matt sat across from Chacho. They didn’t speak. It was awkward after all this time, but Mr. Ortega expanded on his appreciation of the monsoon, and Listen wandered over to watch Eusebio. She was very much at ease in this place.
Matt thought his friend looked thinner and more haunted, and no wonder. It had to be tough watching Eusebio day after day. “Maybe you can come to the hacienda for a visit,” said Matt. “I’d like that.”
“Excellent idea!” said Mr. Ortega. “I’ll get the umbrellas.”
“Father . . .” Chacho looked toward Eusebio.
“Will be better for the break,” the piano teacher said. “Por Dios, he must be sick of looking at your long face all the time, Chacho. I know I am.” He hurried the boy into a raincoat and pushed him out the door. Matt collected Listen and went back for the horse. The eejit children were singing:
Children, go where I send thee
How shall I send thee?
I will send thee seven by seven
Seven for the seven that never got to heaven.
They found Ton-Ton taking apart a music box on Celia’s kitchen table. “He says he knows how to put it back together. I sure hope so,” said Fidelito. The box was one that fascinated him, because it showed a pirate and a sea captain crossing swords to a song called “High Barbary.” No one knew where High Barbary was, but Fidelito liked to dance to the music, slashing a stick around as though he were fighting pirates.
“If you break it, I’ll beat the stuffing out of you,” he told Ton-Ton.
“Y-you can try,” said the big boy. “Don’t look so, uh, worried, chico. I took apart all the others and th-they’re fine.”
“You didn’t touch ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ ” said Fidelito.
“That’s too difficult,” Ton-Ton said. The cowboy, the man in black, and the lady sat among a number of boxes at the far end of the table.
“Chacho!” cried the little boy as he and Mr. Ortega came in. “Look at this music box. It’s padrísimo!” He reached for “Sunshine,” but Celia blocked his way.
“I have to cook here. This isn’t a playground,” she scolded. Mirasol followed, carrying a stack of mixing bowls.
“Please, please let us stay. This is the best place in the house.” Fidelito hung on to her apron and smiled winningly.