The Lord of Opium(95)
Except for Tam Lin, it had been remote from him. Matt didn’t really know most of those people. But Mirasol, dulled and silent though she was, had been a living presence. Her eyes followed him as the sunflower, her namesake, turned its face to the sun. Now something had departed, and he did not know what it was.
Dr. Rivas came into the room. He was no longer dressed for surgery, but had reverted to a white lab coat. “I’m sorry, mi patrón,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “She was a pretty thing and quite bright for an eejit. I imagine you’d like us to take care of the disposal.”
“The what?” asked Matt, coming out of his trance.
“We have procedures to deal with this situation. Cienfuegos does it all the time. It isn’t healthy for you to grieve for someone who wasn’t really there.”
“Just as you never grieved for your eejit son,” Matt said.
Dr. Rivas winced. “I deserved that. But you see, I knew my son before. I have memories.”
“And I have memories of Mirasol.” Matt turned back to the motionless figure on the bed.
The doctor fussed with the equipment, detaching the blood pressure cuff and switching off the heart monitor. “I don’t know whether you have any religious preferences,” he said. “El Patrón was a Catholic, or at least he liked the ceremonies. I could have Sor Artemesia say a prayer over Mirasol.”
Matt thought of Listen’s quotes from the doctor: Religious holidays are crap. God doesn’t exist. Mbongeni is a happy baby. The rabbits are dee-diddly-dead. “Please go. And send me Sor Artemesia.”
The nun was as respectful as anyone could wish. She said a rosary over Mirasol and prayed silently. “I don’t think I can give her absolution,” she said hesitantly.
“What’s absolution?” said Matt.
“When someone is dying, Catholics give them the last rites. The person confesses his sins and is forgiven so that he can enter heaven. Mirasol couldn’t have confessed to anything. What sins could she have committed in her state?”
“What happens with dying infants and people in comas?”
“You’re right, mi patrón. These emergencies do come up, but the rite must be done while the person is alive. Mirasol is dead. It’s too late.” Sor Artemesia tried to pull the sheet over Mirasol’s face, but Matt prevented her.
“Not yet,” he said. “I say she’s still alive.”
“But the doctor—”
“Are you going to believe someone whose lifework is turning people into eejits? I am the Lord of Opium, and I say she’s alive.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don’t even know whether Mirasol has been baptized,” the nun said nervously.
“Then do it now.”
Sor Artemesia looked from Mirasol to Matt and back again. “I’m so confused. Perhaps eejits do die in a different way. Perhaps life fades slowly and it would be all right. . . . ”
Matt knew she was trying to convince herself. “Saint Francis would forgive you,” he said. “He forgave Brother Wolf, after all.”
Sor Artemesia left and returned with water, olive oil, and flowers. She poured water over the girl’s forehead and made the sign of the cross over her. “I’m doing a conditional baptism,” she explained. “If Mirasol has already been taken into the church, this one won’t count.”
When the nun was finished, she anointed the girl’s forehead with oil and spoke in a language Matt had never heard before. He didn’t interrupt her, for the ceremony had a quality that moved him deeply. At last she said, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” She placed the flowers in Mirasol’s hands.
“What language is that?” Matt asked.
“Latin. It was used by priests for many hundreds of years. The church prefers modern languages now, but I’ve always thought that God pays more attention to Latin.”
They stood silently for a few moments, and then Cienfuegos came to the door. “Dr. Rivas said you needed me to dispose of Mirasol.”
“Dr. Rivas can go to hell,” said Matt. “We’re taking her back to Ajo. She will be buried in the Alacrán mausoleum.”
A flicker in the jefe’s eyes showed how startled he was, but he didn’t argue. “Very well, mi patrón. I’ll get the hovercraft.”
* * *
Matt found Listen curled up in Mbongeni’s crib. “Come on. We’re leaving,” he said.
“I won’t,” she cried, clinging to the little boy. “Mbongeni needs me.”
“He’ll forget you the minute you’re out of the room.” Matt roughly pulled her arms away from the boy and dragged her out of the crib. She scratched and kicked him. “Stop that! Mirasol is dead, and we’re taking her body to Ajo.”