The Lord of Opium

7

MAJOR BELTRÁN

Matt woke up feeling elated. He wasn’t confused as he’d been in the morning. He knew he was in El Patrón’s bedroom, but the mattress was new and the windows were open, letting out the odors of old age. Today he would have the servants take up the musty carpets and change the curtains. The tapestries would be stored and the walls scrubbed.

I can do anything I want, thought Matt, stretching out on the clean, fresh sheets. It seemed incredible that he’d been here only two nights. The first he’d slept on the ground at the oasis; the second had been spent here in the lair of the old man. But I can make it my own, the boy thought happily. He sprang up, eager to explore his new empire.

In the old days he hid in shadows, avoiding the cruel remarks from people who thought him lower than a beast. He’d learned to move like a shadow, eavesdropping and trying to make sense of the world around him. Now he had come into the light.

Today he would contact María. She would come to him, and he would show her how everyone obeyed him and how they need never hide their love again. They would be together always and perhaps become prometido, engaged to be married.

Matt halted. What, exactly, was marriage for? María said it was important, but he hadn’t paid attention to her reasons. Why would he? At the time he’d been a clone, and they didn’t get married. He knew that Felicia had been handed over to Mr. Alacrán as part of a drug deal. Fani had refused to marry Mr. Alacrán’s son until her father drugged her. María had been promised to Felicia’s son Tom. It didn’t matter that Tom’s idea of a good time was to nail frogs’ feet to the ground.

Nothing about the Alacráns made marriage even slightly attractive.

Before the wedding there was something called dating, for which you needed a girlfriend. Matt had a vague idea of the practice from watching TV, but nothing of the sort existed in Opium. For most of his life he’d had only one friend, who happened to be a girl. Did that qualify? As for having more than one, it hadn’t occurred to him until he met the boys at the plankton factory.

Chacho and Ton-Ton bragged about all the pretty chicas they knew. There weren’t any chicas at the plankton factory, but the boys assured Matt that they’d been muy popular back in their old homes. Girls, according to them, were the most fun you could have. Especially when they were competing with one another to make you happy. Ton-Ton swore he had at least five following him around.

Matt wondered how Ton-Ton managed this, because he had a face that looked like it had been slammed into a wall. He didn’t dare ask. Nor could he ask Chacho why girls were lining up to take him to parties. He didn’t want them to know how ignorant he was. When it came time for him to describe his own adventures, he stole stories from TV shows. He had to be careful, because the only shows El Patrón had allowed were a hundred years old.

One thing had stuck in Matt’s mind, though: Ton-Ton said that good girls were always chaperoned. Matt wasn’t sure what a bad girl was, but María was definitely good. If he invited her, Esperanza would insist on coming along.

Esperanza. Some of the contentment leaked out of the day.

An antique clock struck the hour, and the sun on its face moved forward as the starry night retreated. It was six a.m. Matt had discovered a whole shelf of clocks that did amusing things: An old woman hit an old man over the head with a broom when the hour struck, a rooster spread his wings and crowed, a ballerina turned to the music of Swan Lake. There were music boxes, too. On one, an old-fashioned gentleman and lady danced around a sombrero to the tune of the Mexican Hat Dance. Their tiny metal feet darted in and out, and the lady swirled her long skirts. It pleased Matt to know that the old man had such innocent pleasures.

After breakfast he went in search of Celia but found her together with Major Beltrán. The two had their backs to him, and Matt approached with the stealth that had become second nature to him. Celia was holding a coffeepot while the major sampled the brew. “Disgusting! You should never make coffee with tap water,” the man said. He was dressed in a uniform that was surely meant for a parade ground. His shoulders were broadened with gold epaulets, and a black military hat made him look tall and powerful.

“Throw this swill out and use distilled water,” the major ordered. “Grind the beans just before you brew them. This morning’s offering tasted like floor sweepings.”

“I’m sorry, comandante,” Celia said humbly.

“There was an insect in my bedroom this morning,” Major Beltrán went on. “A dirty, disease-carrying insect such as you would never find in a decent home. I opened the window and it flew in.”

“It must have been one of the bees from the flower beds.”

“I don’t care what it was. I want the apartment sprayed with insecticide and the flower beds, too.”

“Oh, but El Patrón never allowed that—” Celia began.

“El Patrón is dead,” the major said bluntly. “Another thing: I won’t eat food made by those creatures.” He waved his hand at an eejit stirring soup. “They haven’t the faintest idea of hygiene.”

“I tell them to wash their hands,” Celia said.

“Look at this!” Major Beltrán grabbed the soup stirrer’s hand and held it out for her to inspect. The eejit did a little dance like a jittery windup toy trapped behind a piece of furniture. It was an activity Matt had seen before when one of the servants couldn’t fulfill a task. “There’s dirt caked under his fingernails,” cried the major. “From now on you will prepare all my meals.”

“I thought I told you to stay in your apartment,” Matt said. The two spun around.

“He didn’t like the food I sent,” explained Celia. “What was I to do? He’s a representative of the UN. Muy importante.”

“He isn’t important here,” said Matt. “Last I heard, Opium wasn’t a member of the UN.”

“Ah! It’s the little drug lord,” said the major, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me, don’t you feel lonely rattling around in this big mansion? Wouldn’t you like some other children to play with?”

“Please return to your apartment,” said Matt. He clenched his fists and then unclenched them. He didn’t want the man to know that the insult had struck home.

“Be careful, little drug lord. Your country is surrounded by enemies. It isn’t wise to offend an ally.” Major Beltrán let go of the eejit, and the servant grabbed the ladle and started stirring again.

“Get out,” Matt said.

“Make me,” jeered the major.

Too late Matt realized that he and Celia were the only Real People in the kitchen. He wasn’t strong enough to tackle the man by himself, and Celia was too old. But it was dangerous to let Major Beltrán get away with defiance. A weak drug lord was very soon a dead one.

“You’re only a boy,” the major said scornfully. “Or at least that’s the official position. I would call you something else. You can’t possibly inherit this country.”

Celia watched the man with large, worried eyes.

“You have no authority over me,” Major Beltrán said. “I will go and come as I please. All those who would have protected you are dead, and your only guardians are a fat, old cook, a deaf music teacher, and a half-wit bodyguard who can’t even speak.”

Casually, without any attempt to hurry, Matt walked over to the soup eejit and watched what he was doing. His mind was racing as he hunted for some way out of this situation.

“Quit stalling, little drug lord,” the major said. “Doña Esperanza sent you here to open the border, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Matt had gone to the stove with no purpose, or at least none that he was aware of. But once there a voice, deeply buried in his mind, whispered, He wants to kill you. It was so real that the boy glanced up to see whether someone else was in the room.

“I’ll open the border when I think it’s the right time,” Matt said, watching the soup eejit.

“If you do it now, Doña Esperanza will be merciful. She doesn’t have to be, you know. She has an entire army at her disposal.”

Matt felt the back of his neck prickle. He wanted to spin around, to discover what the major was doing, but he instinctively felt that this was bad strategy. He must look as though he were in control. Do it, the voice in his mind said. “Do what?” Matt said aloud.

Don’t waste time with stupid questions! thundered the voice. Do it! As though someone else had taken control of his body, Matt’s hands grabbed the pot, and he whirled around. The major was much closer than he thought, and Matt threw the boiling soup at him.

The major jumped back, but not quickly enough. The soup splashed over his coat, and he frantically pulled it off. A knife clattered to the floor. Celia screamed. In the same instant Matt was aware that Cienfuegos was in the doorway.

The jefe launched himself across the room, slammed the man into a wall, and punched him three times like a professional boxer. The major collapsed. Cienfuegos casually took a pitcher of ice water from the table and poured it over him.

“It was good strategy using the soup, mi patrón,” he said, “but next time throw it at his face.” He went to the hall and called for eejits to carry the major to his apartment.

* * *

Matt’s hands were shaking as he clutched the mug of coffee Celia had given him. He didn’t know which had upset him more—the major’s attack or Cienfuegos’s lightning response. “Would he really have killed me?” he asked. “If he had, no one could have opened the border.”

“He would have taken you hostage and forced you to do it. I’ve had my eye on him ever since he learned you were the sole heir,” said the jefe.

“You need more bodyguards,” said Celia, supervising the eejit who was cleaning up the spill.

“I don’t know why I threw that soup,” Matt said. “Something just came over me.”

“That’s how the old man was,” Cienfuegos remembered fondly. “He was like a samurai warrior, always in the present. No one had time to outguess him.” The jefe was lounging with his feet up on the table, holding a similar mug, except that his had pulque in it.

“I don’t really like to hurt people,” Matt admitted.

Cienfuegos gazed at him over his drink. The jefe’s light-brown eyes were intent, like a coyote watching a rabbit. “You get used to it,” he said at last.

Celia bustled around, preparing another pot of soup. “I’ve been thinking about possible names for our new drug lord,” she said. “How about El Relámpago, the Lightning Bolt, or El Vampiro?”

“I lean toward vampires,” said Cienfuegos. “They come out after dark and drink blood. Very scary.”

“For the hundredth time, I don’t want another name,” Matt said.