The Lord of Opium

by Nancy Farmer

  “María,” said Matt, and instantly found himself tongue-tied. It was a problem going back to his early childhood. Sometimes things were so overwhelming that the power of speech left him. Now all he could do was look. When he’d had the fever, he had tried to call up María’s image. He could remember her dark hair and eyes, her hands always in motion, but the spirit of her actual presence was missing. Now—infuriatingly!—she was here and he was rendered speechless.

  María understood his problem. She always had. “Take your time, mi vida. I have enough conversation for both of us. Gosh, I’m glad to see you! I wish you’d been with me in Nueva York. You would have loved the concert halls and operas. I think you’d have liked the operas. The sets were beautiful, but I kept thinking, ‘How can the heroine stand it when the hero keeps bellowing songs at her face?’ ”

  “I want you with me,” Matt managed to say.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” said Esperanza from a chair next to the altar cloth.

  María laughed delightedly. “Why can’t I visit him, Mother? I used to do it all the time.”

  “You were a child then.” Esperanza in her black dress looked like a patch of midnight in the brightly lit convent room.

  “It isn’t as though I’d be alone,” argued María. “Father and Emilia can look after me.”

  Matt smiled inwardly as he observed Esperanza’s discomfort. Get out of this one if you can, he thought.

  But she didn’t even try. “Tell Matt more about your trip to New York.”

  And María, swept along on a tide of enthusiasm, obeyed. The buildings were so huge they were like entire cities, she said. Walkways went from one to the other, and you needn’t ever set foot on the ground. Which was good. The streets were dangerous. Every kind of food was available for the city dwellers, although she worried about the people on the street. They didn’t look happy at all, and she wanted to take food to them, but Mother objected.

  “That’s right up there with her idea of inviting the homeless in for a bath,” muttered Esperanza.

  “Saint Francis would have done it,” María said.

  She had learned the latest dances, the fósforo, the paseo de luna, the huka huka (although that was vulgar and not proper for young ladies). The dance instructor got hair oil on her dress while teaching her, and Mother fired him and bought her a new dress. Oh! The clothes in Nueva York were so beautiful! Did Matt know that the latest rage was glow-in-the-dark underwear? Of course you had to wear something transparent over it.

  Matt didn’t take in much of what she said, although the glow-in-the-dark underwear caught his attention. Mostly he basked in her warmth. If she were there with him, he knew he could face the terrifying problems hanging over his head.

  “Who’s that?” asked María.

  Matt snapped to attention and looked around. He half expected to see Cienfuegos eavesdropping, but it was Mirasol.

  She must have been in the room all along. Matt was so used to her presence that he’d stopped noticing it. She followed him everywhere, sitting (as she was now) on the floor to await orders. She was wearing a sky-blue dress instead of her waitress uniform, and he wondered where she’d gotten it. She was as different as it was possible to be from María—fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a frosting of freckles instead of María’s magnolia-petal skin. But the main difference, of course, was her behavior. She was utterly passive, with none of María’s fire. She simply waited, her eyes fixed on Matt, for whatever he might require.

  “I’ve never seen her before,” said María. “Is she a guest of the Alacráns?”

  “A guest—no.” Matt scrambled for an explanation.

  “Hey, there! What’s your name?” called María.

  Mirasol rose gracefully to her feet. “I am called Waitress,” she said.

  Esperanza laughed harshly. It was the first time Matt had heard anything like humor from her, and it wasn’t cheering. It sounded like someone choking on a piece of gristle. “She’s an eejit,” Esperanza said. “You can tell by the eyes.”

  “An eejit!” María’s mouth fell open.

  “A very pretty one too,” her mother said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? El Patrón used to like pretty waitresses.”

  “It’s nothing like that!” cried Matt.

  “Then . . . what is it?” said María. She had backed away from the portal and was standing next to her mother.

  “She’s a pet.” Matt knew immediately that he’d made a mistake. The argument might work with Mr. Ortega and Daft Donald—though he suspected they laughed at him behind his back—but not María.

  “You don’t make pets out of eejits,” she said.

  “You made one out of me,” Matt said, hoping to deflect her anger. “I used to be an animal, remember?”

  “You were a friend. Eejits are different. Liking them is—is—perverted.” María had a mulish streak, and it was in full display now.

  “I felt sorry for her, that’s all,” Matt said lightly. “Like you do with the homeless.”

  “It’s not at all the same.”

  María’s face was pale, and her hands were clasped—a bad sign, Matt remembered. She did it when she was about to lose control of her emotions. He was close to losing his, too. How dare she attack him when he was trying so hard to do the right thing? All he wanted was to save the eejits.

  “I understand about drug lords having girlfriends,” said María. “They all do it, and the wives have to put up with it. MacGregor kept Felicia for years. But at least she was a real woman, not—this.”

  “Shut up and listen for a moment,” said Matt. “Waitress is just someone I’m trying to help. I don’t know where you’re getting these crazy ideas, but if you don’t like her, I’ll send her away. Go to the kitchen, Waitress. Now.”

  Mirasol turned and glided out of the room.

  “I don’t know if I believe you. I’ll have to think about it,” said María.

  “Fine! Go ahead and think. You’ve been doing the huka huka with greasy men in New York, but that’s okay. You’re Miss Butter Wouldn’t Melt in Her Mouth. You think you’re Saint Francis’s baby sister.”

  “Don’t you make fun of Saint Francis!” María’s nostrils flared like an angry pony’s.

  “I will if I like. He’s only a myth, anyway,” said Matt. He knew he’d gone too far, but he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. That’s the stuff, an old, old voice whispered in his mind. Make your women toe the line.

  María gasped and fled the room. He couldn’t pursue her. He couldn’t do a thing.

  Esperanza rose. “Well, that was entertaining.”

  “It’s your fault! You put the idea into her head,” accused Matt.

  “Did I? Oh, fie! Bad girl!” Esperanza playfully slapped herself on the wrist.

  “You won’t win this battle. I know María. She’ll forgive me, even though there’s nothing to forgive.”

  “We’ll see,” said the woman. “Just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll let Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito visit. They’re trashing the convent anyway.”

  Matt was surprised at her gesture of goodwill, but she had achieved her goal, to drive a wedge between him and María. As for Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito, Esperanza could easily let go of them. They were expendable. She didn’t care what happened to them.

  17

  THE FOUNTAIN OF CHILDREN

  Matt avoided Dr. Rivas and Cienfuegos and went into the garden to think. He didn’t even want to see Mirasol. The rage that had threatened to overwhelm him faded, but it still frightened him. Why can’t I control myself? he thought. Why can’t I be good by merely saying, “Be good”? But it didn’t work that way.

  Maybe he should make a list of rules on a card to refer to: Rule 1: Don’t lose your temper. Rule 2: Be courageous. Rule 3: Send Mirasol away.

  She would be miserable if he sent her away. It wasn’t her fault that she was programmed to serve him. Besides, he really wanted to help her, only not w
hen María was around. Rule 4: Don’t tell lies. That was a toughie. Drug lords prospered by telling lies. Even Esperanza thought it was okay.

  Matt wandered deeper into the garden. A path led beneath a series of arbors, each one different and each one with its own hummingbird feeder. Vines were hung with clusters of purple and green grapes. A giant squash dangled yellow fruit, and a third arbor was dotted with red roses. Then—most wonderful of all—Matt saw a mass of deep-blue morning glories. Nothing at the Ajo hacienda equaled this waterfall of flowers.

  There was a sound coming from the far end of the arbor, a bird or a kitten. Matt listened more closely. Could it be the child he’d seen? It couldn’t be an eejit. They were unable to cry. He edged forward, not wanting to startle whoever it was. He saw the vines tremble. The person was inside the leaves, hiding in a burrow like a rabbit.

  Matt quietly approached and pulled back the vines.

  It was a little girl, an African girl. She was about Fidelito’s age, but much thinner. Her arms were like matchsticks clasped around her skinny chest, and just above one elbow was a vicious-looking wound as though she’d been bitten by a dog.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Matt said. The girl looked up and screamed. She bounded out of the leaves and zigzagged through the garden. “Stop! Stop! I won’t hurt you!” shouted Matt. He tried to catch up, but she knew the garden and he didn’t. He followed what he thought was her trail and ended up in front of a wall.

  By now he was exhausted, what with the aftereffects of scarlet fever and opening the holoport. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Few children came across the border and none, as far as he could remember, had been black.

  This girl was no eejit. She had to be someone’s daughter, and if so, the person should have protected her from animals. A dull rage kindled in Matt’s head. How dare someone neglect such a frail child? Matt would find out who it was and punish him.

  For now, though, he was lost. He had chased the girl through gardens and between buildings until he’d lost his sense of direction. It didn’t matter. It was pleasant to be left alone in such a beautiful place. A fountain cast up a spray of water that flashed in the sun before raining back on the upturned faces of statues of children. They held out their hands like real children, and the sculptor had given them expressions of joy so lifelike that Matt smiled in sympathy. What a wonderful work of art!

  And how strange. Opium was no place for children. Matt wandered on, and presently he came to a sliding door. Inside he found a room full of large glass enclosures with no clear purpose. It might have been a zoo, except that the animals were missing. Long tables were covered with gleaming, stainless-steel pans and microscopes, and along one wall were giant freezers. Idly, he opened a heavy iron door, and a dense cloud of fog swirled out. He saw racks of bottles with tiny writing: MACGREGOR #1 to MACGREGOR #13 in one rack, DABENGWA #1 to DABENGWA #19 in another. The bottles were dated. In a third rack he found MATTEO ALACRÁN with one of the bottles—#27—dated more than fourteen years before.

  Matt slammed the door.

  He fled to one of the enclosures and pressed his face against the glass to calm his nerves. Those bottles were tissue samples. This was where he had been created. That date, fourteen and a half years earlier, was his birthday, the day he was harvested from a cow.

  After a while Matt’s heartbeat slowed to normal, and he forced himself to look inside. Mechanical arms reached across the enclosure, the floor of which was a treadmill. Wisps of hay were trapped between the joints. Once, a cow had stood here and her legs had been flexed by the mechanical arms while the treadmill slowly ground forward. Someone had placed hay in her mouth, which she chewed mindlessly, dreaming of flowery meadows.

  “I was going to give you a tour, but I see you’ve already found the lab,” said Dr. Rivas. He was standing in the open doorway, and behind him was the fountain of children. “You really should rest for a while, mi patrón. You aren’t well yet.”

  “I want all the tissue samples destroyed,” said Matt.

  “That would destroy a hundred years of work. To a scientist, that is a mortal sin.”

  “I don’t understand about sin, but I know evil when I see it,” the boy said passionately.

  “Cloning isn’t the only thing that goes on here.” The doctor pulled out a chair and sat down. “The scientists made many discoveries about congenital diseases. Do you know about sickle-cell anemia? They learned to grow healthy bone marrow in this lab to replace the diseased marrow of a victim.”

  “By using clones, I suppose,” Matt said.

  “At first. But by sacrificing a few, they saved thousands. They regenerated spinal tissue to heal paralysis. You see, this was the premier research lab in the world, because we could experiment on humans. Well, almost humans.”

  Matt struggled with the idea. The longer he was in Opium, the more the line between good and evil blurred. Of course it was good to save people who, through no fault of their own, were suffering. You cut corners, made compromises, and soon you were in the same position as El Patrón, shooting down a passenger plane to avert a war.

  “Where are those scientists now?”

  Dr. Rivas smiled sadly. “With El Patrón.”

  “That’s what I would call a mortal sin,” said Matt. He looked at the freezers lining the wall. They extended from floor to ceiling, with a ladder on wheels to allow access to the top levels. There must be thousands of bottles in there, he thought. “What if we only destroyed the drug lord samples?”

  “Surely you want El Patrón’s,” said Dr. Rivas. “What if you should fall ill and need a transplant? You’re the first clone who has lived beyond his thirteenth year, and we don’t know whether there are hidden weaknesses in you. Forgive me for using that word, mi patrón. I’m a scientist, not a diplomat. But please consider: When you were young, we tried to protect you against everything, and yet you still developed asthma and caught scarlet fever.”

  “I’ll take my chances. There will be no more clones.”

  “Mi patrón—”

  “No more clones!” shouted Matt. He almost walked out before realizing that he didn’t know where he was. “Which way is my room? I’d like to lie down.”

  “Of course! You can rest in the nursery. It’s much closer.”

  The doctor led Matt back along the path by the fountain, and the boy paused to let a breeze blow a fine spray over his face. “This is so beautiful,” he said. “Why is it here?”

  “El Patrón wanted statues of his brothers and sisters who had died, but of course there were no pictures of them. He selected Illegals for models from what he could remember.”

  “He used real children?” Matt stepped out of the spray.

  The seven statues faced the center of the fountain. The girls were so small, they could not look over a windowsill, not even if they stood on tiptoe. The five boys were larger, and two of them, the ones who had been beaten to death by the police, were almost adults. They were filled with joy by the water that pattered over their faces. Their hands were outstretched to hold this miracle that fell all year long, not just for two months in dry, dusty Durango.

  And the models? What had happened to them?

  18

  THE AFRICAN CHILD

  The nursery, fortunately, had normal-size beds. Matt didn’t think he could stand a row of empty cribs. It was a brightly lit room with pictures of baby animals on the walls. Stuffed dolls, building blocks, and simple puzzles were strewn over the floor. Matt lay down. He really was tired, and depressed for so many reasons that he had trouble sorting them all out: the fight with María, Esperanza’s scorn, the child who had fled from him in the garden, the clone lab, and last of all, the fountain full of El Patrón’s embalmed memories.

  He fell into a deep sleep and only stirred when he heard a strange noise: Bub-bub-bub-bub-bub. A sharp voice said, “You take that out of your mouth, Mbongeni.” Matt heard a scuffle and an outraged squawk. He was so tired he didn’t want to open his eyes, but the thought
occurred to him that the room was littered with toys. Recently used toys.

  He opened his eyes. Someone had raised bars around one of the beds, creating a cage. Inside sat a chubby black boy in diapers. He was too old for diapers, being at least six, and he was rocking back and forth. Bub-bub-bub-bub-bub, he said, blowing air through his lips. Outside the bars sat the little girl Matt had seen in the garden. The place where the bite had been was covered by a bandage.

  “Do you want a bottle, Mbongeni?” asked the girl. “Nice, warm milk? Nummy-nummy-nums?”

  Mbongeni smiled, and a line of drool fell from his lips. The girl got up and went to a small fridge. She removed a bottle and put it into a microwave for a few seconds. She was so tiny and businesslike that Matt was charmed. She had clearly not seen him yet.

  The microwave chimed, and the girl expertly tested the temperature of the milk on her skinny wrist before handing it to the boy. “Muh! Muh!” he cried, cramming the nipple into his mouth and sucking lustily.

  “That’s very good,” said Dr. Rivas. He was sitting on the far side of the bed, and the little girl watched him intently. “If you were bigger, I’d let you take Mbongeni for a crawl. I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to stop him if he got into trouble.”

  “I wish he could talk,” said the girl.

  “He’ll always be a baby, but he doesn’t seem to mind.” The doctor looked up and saw Matt. “There’s someone I want you to meet—no seas timida. Don’t be shy, little one.”

  “No,” moaned the girl, but Dr. Rivas picked her up and carried her to Matt’s bed.

  “Mi patrón, this is Listen, a very bright girl.”

  “I saw her in the garden,” said Matt. “She was crying because something had bitten her.” He held out his hand, but the girl flinched away.

  The doctor grimaced. “That, I’m afraid, is an ongoing problem.”

  “Someone should protect her.”

  At this, Listen looked up and met Matt’s eyes for the first time.

  “I want to be your friend,” the boy said, extending his hand again. She touched it briefly and retreated. “What kind of name is Listen?” he asked Dr. Rivas.