The Lord of Opium

11

FEEDING A PET WAITRESS

One good result of the battle was that Nurse Fiona returned to the hospital. Matt did accompany her, taking an inhaler along in case he suffered another asthma attack. He saw at once why Fiona hated the place. The halls and rooms were empty except for a few ghostly eejits going about their chores.

“I have to tell them to do everything,” said Fiona. “If I don’t give them work, they stand there and jitter, but without patients nothing gets dirty. I have to make them wash perfectly clean floors over and over again. It’s enough to make you run barking.”

Matt was getting used to her odd language. “To run barking” meant to go crazy. “A fair pong” meant something stank.

“I also have to tell them when to eat, sleep, and defecate. What kind of job is that for someone who got an A in her A-levels?” Fiona said. Matt assumed this was an achievement. He didn’t ask about it, because he didn’t want a long explanation. He watched as she disinfected the wounds and, in Cienfuegos’s case, put in stitches. “A knife fight! You bad boys,” she scolded. “Reminds me of my brothers. They were always trying to see who could lean out the window farthest and coming home with dirty great cuts on their heads. It made no difference to their intelligence, for they had none to begin with. However did you come by those scars?” she asked, examining Daft Donald’s neck.

“He tried to blow up the English prime minister and the bomb went off too soon,” said Matt. “He can’t talk.”

“Fancy that! You meet all sorts in this place,” Fiona chirped. “Take Mr. MacGregor. There was a nasty piece of work, seducing poor Felicity and driving her mad with drugs. I was present at his operation years ago. He was getting a new liver and a set of kidneys—they usually do that at the other hospital, the one in the Chiricahua Mountains, posh place really, not like this dump. Anyhow, he was prepped and ready to go when they wheeled in his clone. Gracious! MacGregor hadn’t allowed the doctors to anesthetize it. A transplant goes better without drugs, but I do think they could have given it a happy shot. It was struggling so hard I was certain it would give itself an injury—”

“Are you as stupid as you sound?” said Cienfuegos.

Fiona’s mouth flew open. “Well! Is that all the thanks I get for stitching you up?”

“Do you think it’s smart to talk about clones?”

“I don’t see why not. After all, El Patrón had clones and—and—” Fiona turned pale. “I didn’t mean that! You can’t think I was talking about you, young master! Why, Tam Lin used to brag about how clever you were, and I never thought of you that way.”

“Just shut up,” Matt said wearily. He felt sick at the memory of MacGregor’s clone and yet, buried in the nurse’s ridiculous prattle were the words I never thought of you that way. It was enough to make him forgive her, if not like her. “You have one more patient,” he said. “Waitress’s hands are burned.”

“Oh, but I don’t work on eejits,” faltered Fiona. “There’s the vet hospital for that, over by the horse barn. Only, I don’t think they fix eejits either. They replace them.”

“You will take care of Waitress’s hands and do it immediately,” said Matt. “She’s as human as you are, and despite your stupid prejudice, she can feel pain. Isn’t that so, Cienfuegos?”

The jefe had the grace to look ashamed. “Eejits can feel pain, mi patrón, otherwise I couldn’t train them. I don’t think they suffer in the same way we do. They scream, but it’s an automatic function, like your heart beating or your stomach digesting food. You don’t think, ‘Today I’m going to digest that omelet I had for breakfast.’ The omelet arrives in your stomach and the reaction happens. To suffer implies emotion, and eejits don’t have that.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Matt, and left the room.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with Celia and Mr. Ortega when Daft Donald returned. The man wore a bandage slantwise above one eye, and it was clear to Matt that Cienfuegos had intended to blind him.

“Looks like you poked your nose into someone’s business,” remarked Mr. Ortega.

Daft Donald wrote on his pad of paper. Matt and I were rescuing a lady.

“A lady! Sounds romantic. Was it . . . oh, let me think . . . María?”

“It was Waitress,” said Matt, annoyed. Everyone seemed to know about him and María. Daft Donald scribbled busily, describing the fight and how Cienfuegos almost died because he tried to attack Matt.

“Why did he do that?” exclaimed Celia, horrified.

He was out of his mind, wrote Daft Donald.

“But the microchip is supposed to stop attacks against the patrón!”

“I’ve heard that samurai warriors go into a state of no-thought,” said Mr. Ortega. “If Cienfuegos wasn’t aware of what he was doing, the microchip wouldn’t recognize the threat.”

I agree, wrote Daft Donald.

“Whatever the reason, mi vida—I mean mi patrón,” Celia said, “you must be very careful around him. You should have let him finish Waitress’s training.”

“I wouldn’t let an animal suffer like that,” said Matt.

Celia paused before she answered. “Waitress isn’t like an animal . . . or a human. She may look like she’s suffering, but it means no more to her than rain falling on a rock.”

“That’s how people used to talk about me,” said Matt. “When I was a clone, people insulted me all the time, and I felt it. Why wouldn’t she?”

No one said anything for a while. A pair of kitchen eejits peeled potatoes by the sink, and a fussy-looking man measured spices into a pot on the stove. Matt thought he might be the French chef Celia had talked about.

“I’m worried about you,” said Celia after a few minutes. “It isn’t healthy to care for someone who can never love you back.”

“That would be true if Mirasol were a Real Person,” Matt argued, “but I’ve decided that she’s a pet. People keep all kinds of things, dogs, horses, cats, even fish. How much love can you get from a fish? They’re pretty and fun to feed, and that’s about it. From now on I’ve got a pet Waitress, and I’m going to feed her whenever I like.”

“What did he say? Waitress is a fish?” said Mr. Ortega, who didn’t always understand what people said.

She’s the best-looking fish I’ve ever seen, wrote Daft Donald. I’d have liked one myself when I was that age.

“We’re in trouble,” muttered Celia, getting up to move the French chef to another chore.

* * *

That evening Matt and Mirasol sat side by side in a pool of light under the great crystal chandelier. He served the food because her hands were bandaged, and he cut the meat up for her too. “Eat slowly,” he urged. But Mirasol seemed to have an on-off switch where feeding was concerned. The command eat meant gobble unless it was baked custard.

He tried various dishes—asparagus, turkey, fried shrimp, polenta—and they all met the same rapid treatment. For dessert he gave her strawberry ice cream, and she wolfed that down too.

Matt put the small gold statue of a deer he’d discovered in El Patrón’s apartment in front of Mirasol. “What do you see?” he asked. She remained silent, staring ahead. Perhaps that was too difficult a problem, he thought. He put her fingers on the cool metal. “What do you feel?” She was silent.

“If you don’t know, I’ll tell you,” he said. “That’s a deer. Not a real one, of course. It’s made out of gold and is muy valioso. Those things on its head are antlers. Real deer are warm because they are alive, but this one is metal and so it’s cold. Like this spoon.” He moved her fingers off the statue, picked up the utensil, and pressed it against her cheek. “Cold is what you feel when you eat ice cream.”

It was no use. She sat there like a stuffed bunny, yet there had to be a way to awaken her. With Eusebio it was music. With her, baked custard. If you could find one pathway, couldn’t you find others and gradually open up her soul?

Whatever a soul was. María talked about them, but Matt hadn’t paid attention because he didn’t have one until El Patrón died. According to the priest, clones went out like candles when they died and didn’t have to bother about heaven and hell.

Celia—surprisingly, for she had never before ventured into El Patrón’s private wing—appeared in the shadows at the far end of the banquet hall. “It’s time for Waitress to go to bed,” she said. “She’ll be exhausted tomorrow if she doesn’t rest.”

“Where does she sleep?” Matt asked, interested.

“Far from here. Come along, Waitress.”

The girl stood up obediently.

“I don’t want her to go to the eejit pens,” said Matt. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her lying in the dirt next to a toxic waste pit.

“Don’t worry, mi patrón. The house eejits have their own dormitory.”

“She could stay here,” he suggested.

“That would confuse the poor girl. She’s programmed to go to the dormitory, and any change would require retraining.”

Matt recoiled from the thought of retraining. Mirasol left silently, and Celia settled into one of the heavy iron chairs that El Patrón had looted from an old Spanish castle. She looked completely out of place. Her apron was stained with tomato sauce, and there were two brown patches where she habitually wiped her hands. Her dress was cheap and ill-fitting. And yet the vast wealth of El Patrón’s private wing seemed ugly next to her. Or perhaps it was the difference between the live deer and the metal one. “I don’t like it here,” Matt blurted out. “I want to come back to you.”

“Mi hijo,” she said sadly. “I can call you that when no one is listening. You are the Lord of Opium.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“You have no choice,” she said.

“We could run away. I know where El Patrón’s wealth is. I can open the border and we can escape to Africa or India or I can buy a little island in the Pacific—”

Celia hugged him as he’d been wanting her to do ever since he came back. “Oh, dear! You’re too young for all the problems you have inherited. But God arranges these things for a purpose. What was I but one of a hundred thousand women El Patrón enslaved throughout his long life? Yet Fate decreed that I arrive at the moment you needed me. María befriended you when no one else would. Tam Lin gave you the strength to escape when the time came. Without us, you would merely be a heart beating in an old man’s chest. You are meant to end the evil of this place, and you can’t run away.”

“You sound like María,” Matt said. “She’s always trying to civilize me.”

“She used to call you Brother Wolf,” remembered Celia. “Speaking of María, when is she going to visit?”

“Esperanza won’t let her come.”

Celia thought for a moment. “You know how to use the holoport. Open a channel to the Convent of Santa Clara and ask for Sor Artemesia. She’s somewhat scatterbrained, but her heart is good. If Esperanza is away, she can be talked into fetching María.”

“That’s a great idea! I can ask for Fidelito, Chacho, and Ton-Ton, too.” Matt was so pleased he couldn’t stop smiling. “We’ll have a party. They’ll have a picnic on that side and I’ll have one here. It’s almost like having a real visit, and we can do it every day.”

Celia wiped her eyes with her apron. “I must have chopped too many onions,” she said. “Later, perhaps, you can ask Esperanza to let the boys visit. She doesn’t really care what happens to them. And don’t have Cienfuegos with you tomorrow. Sometimes it’s good to be alone with friends.” She kissed Matt good night, but soon returned with the dusty, chipped Virgin of Guadalupe that she had brought from Aztlán. “There’s too much gloom in this place,” she said. “You need something gentle to rest your eyes on.” And she left the light burning in the hall.