The Lord of Opium

31

THE PARTY

A wide swath of desert had been converted into a soccer field and an arena that could be used for a circus, a rodeo, a wrestling ring, and a stage for the musicians. Bleachers had been set up for the boys, Listen, and Sor Artemesia. Matt wanted Celia, Mr. Ortega, Daft Donald, and Cienfuegos to be with them, but Celia said that this was a party for children and besides, it wasn’t fitting for servants to sit with the Lord of Opium and his guests. She and the others had folding chairs some distance away and supplied themselves with food from a separate table.

It wasn’t like El Patrón’s parties. Those had been formal affairs with many speeches and hundreds of guests, as well as at least a hundred bodyguards. Dictators, generals, UN members, famous film stars, and even the remnants of old royal houses attended. The most important guests, of course, were the other drug lords, or at least those who weren’t at war with Opium. Glass Eye Dabengwa had been an ally then, but he rarely visited because he had so many enemies at home. No one was sorry about that. Sitting next to Glass Eye was like sitting next to a sleeping crocodile that might wake up at any moment and take a chunk out of you.

In those days there had been many tables covered with spotless white cloths and dishes trimmed in gold. Maids circulated with trays of drinks, and waiters provided cigars or hookahs for whoever wanted them. There was always a fountain of red wine with orange slices bobbing in it, and ice sculptures that melted into puddles before the festivities were over. There weren’t going to be any wine fountains or hookahs at this party, and the guests were limited to six, not counting the servants. But in its way this celebration was grander than anything El Patrón had hosted.

The soccer match began after breakfast. It was preceded by Farm Patrolmen on horses, carrying the flags of both Argentina and Brazil. The horsemen galloped around the field in intricate patterns that were almost like a dance. Then the teams marched in. The game itself was a feast for Matt’s eyes. He’d never seen a soccer match and didn’t know the rules, but he thought that the players’ movements were every bit as elegant as the horses’ had been. Ton-Ton, who understood the game very well, yelled himself hoarse. The Argentineans won and were rewarded with gold coins.

Matt thought briefly of the Mayan game pok-a-tok. If these were the old days, the losing Brazilians would be minus their heads by now. They would have been sacrificed to the god of death who, pleased with the gift, might look the other way when it came time for the ruler of the country to die. Perhaps that was the attraction of the game for El Patrón.

After a midmorning break, trapeze artists swooped back and forth on swings, moving with breathtaking speed. Five of them balanced on a man pedaling a bicycle across a tightrope. Others juggled flaming torches or chain saws with the motors going. It was almost too much to take in, and Matt realized that he should have spaced the events over several days. By the time the act was over, Listen was cranky. Sor Artemesia took her off for a nap, and so they missed the rodeo.

They came back in time for lunch and the pachanga, which everyone agreed was the best show yet. Rodeo riders played the parts of bullfighters, except that they carried no swords and there weren’t any bulls. A pachanga, Matt explained, was far more dangerous than a bullfight because it involved cows. Cows were a lot brighter than bulls and wouldn’t be fooled by a cape. They quickly learned that the real target was the man and acted accordingly.

The trick was to lure the cow into an enclosure, but most of the time the men had to run for their lives, with the animals thundering after them. El Patrón had loved this sport and laughed himself silly when someone got trampled. Matt made sure this didn’t happen by having Farm Patrolmen on horseback ready to rescue someone who tripped.

Now came the part Fidelito was waiting for. The wrestlers climbed into the ring and swaggered around to let everyone see their costumes. El Pretzel had a black mask with purple and gold rays on it, and purple spandex pants. El Salero was in yellow and had a saltcellar tucked into his tights. La Lámpara, the Grease Spot, was so called because he oiled himself up before a match. He was wearing a slippery-looking green body stocking. El Muñeco, who was supposed to play the Good Guy, had refused to come to Opium. No amount of money would tempt him. As a replacement, Matt had hired El Angel, who didn’t look a bit angelic in spite of his white attire and a halo, which he removed before the match.

Fidelito was beside himself with joy. He pointed out the dirty tricks committed by everyone except El Angel. The referee never seemed to see them, and when the boys screamed what was going on, he never seemed to hear them. Finally, after El Pretzel had tied up El Salero in spite of having salt thrown in his eyes, and after the Grease Spot had slithered out of everyone’s grasp, El Angel came back from several losses to defeat everyone and be declared the winner.

“That was the best show ever.” Fidelito sighed, rubbing his stomach as though he’d eaten a big meal.

“They’re all cheaters,” said Listen. “Even that Angel guy. I saw him trip the Grease Spot and whomp him on the back of the neck.”

“I think it’s an act,” Matt said. “I don’t think anyone gets hurt, or not much.”

“It’s real. My grandma said so, and she never told lies,” Fidelito said.

The sun was low in the west when servants brought out the dinner. They had tamales and barbecued ribs, chiles rellenos, and moro crabs flown in from Yucatán. These had been El Patrón’s favorite foods, and Matt liked them too. For dessert they had crème caramel custards. Mirasol had been serving meals all day, and Matt made sure she sat down now and ate something. But the food was rich, and both Fidelito and Listen were sick by the time dinner was over. Sor Artemesia offered to put them to bed.

The last activity of the day was classical guitar music. Both Matt and Chacho were anxious to hear it, and Ton-Ton stayed to be sociable, although his taste ran more to mariachi bands. Celia, Daft Donald, and Cienfuegos went off to perform chores, and Mr. Ortega left to select the guitars that would be given to the musicians as awards. Thus, there were only three spectators to watch the concert.

The sky was dark by now. The stage was brightly lit and, unlike the other settings of the day, undecorated. There were no garish masks or prancing horses, no brightly colored streamers or circus folk banging drums to increase the excitement. The stage was bare except for six chairs. The backdrop was a simple white curtain. A light breeze blew through the water sprayers that had been installed overhead to cool the air.

Five men in black suits with stark white shirts filed out along with a woman in a long scarlet dress. The men carried guitars, but she carried panpipes, which she placed on one of the chairs. They began to play, starting with the traditional Portuguese fado, a word that meant “fate.” The woman sang of lost love, of poverty, of being abandoned. Ton-Ton leaned over and said, “It’s p-pretty depressing,” and Chacho told him to shut up.

The next offering was flamenco music from southern Spain. One of the men sang and the woman danced, swirling her long skirt. Then they both danced with a rhythm that set Matt’s pulse racing. They were like the gentleman and lady on El Patrón’s music box, only much, much better. The man clapped to the beat while the lady danced around him, and Chacho and Matt joined in. Ton-Ton shrank down in his seat.

This was followed by classical guitar pieces by Villa-Lobos and a version of Rodrigo’s Andalusian Concerto and Fantasy for a Gentleman. These had been El Patrón’s favorites. He’d had them played over and over because he thought he was a gentleman, and maybe even a king.

Last of all the woman took up the panpipes and, accompanied by one guitarist, played the wild music of the Andes, which sounds so much like wind blowing through icy canyons.

When it was over, Chacho and Matt clapped wildly and stood up to show their appreciation. “Come with me,” Matt told the musicians. “I have a workshop filled with the finest guitars in the world. I would be pleased if you would accept one for each of yourselves.”

They thanked him enthusiastically, for who had not heard of the fabulous guitars of Opium? They packed up their instruments and followed, with Matt in the lead. It was a long walk, but by now the air had cooled. The black sky and brilliant stars worked their magic on the musicians. Matt heard them whispering among themselves. They had never seen anything like it. The skies over Portugal were murky, as were those of all of Europe. Even in the high Andes, the air was not so clean.

Mr. Ortega had thoughtfully lined the walk with candles housed in yellow sleeves to keep the wind from blowing them out. This, too, impressed the musicians. “They’re like Chinese lanterns. So artistic,” said the woman.

The guitar factory was ablaze with light. The performers were astounded by the wild variety of instruments hanging on racks, but when they reached the guitar room itself, their amazement knew no bounds. There were hundreds of the instruments. They tiptoed inside, almost afraid to approach such a treasure, and so at first they were not aware of Eusebio and Mr. Ortega sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room.

Mr. Ortega had laid out the six chosen instruments on Eusebio’s work table.

First the woman turned and whispered, “Isn’t that—”

And a man said, “I thought he was dead. He walked out one day and never came back.”

“But it is him.” Then all the musicians approached the two men and reverently bowed.

“Señor Orozco. Of course no one else could have made such magnificent instruments,” said the woman. “We are so honored to meet you.”

Eusebio stared straight ahead, not reacting.

“Are you all right, sir? Oh God! You haven’t gone deaf?”

“He isn’t deaf. I am,” said Mr. Ortega, who could read lips. “He is as the others are in this godforsaken place. He is an eejit.”

The woman gasped and fell to her knees. She took Eusebio’s large, work-roughened hands in her own and gazed intently at his face. The other musicians also knelt, as though they were at a shrine.

“The greatest musician of our age has come to this,” murmured one of the men.

But his voice was drowned out by Chacho’s cry. The boy pushed past the performers and pulled Eusebio’s hands away from the woman. “¡Por Dios! Look at me!” he said. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your son.”

* * *

“If only I hadn’t brought the musicians here,” Matt said to Cienfuegos, who had been summoned as soon as the emergency happened.

“Sooner or later Chacho would have found out,” said the jefe. The musicians had fled, taking their trophy guitars with them. Their faces showed clearly the contempt they had for Matt, though they had the good sense to remain silent. In their eyes he had taken the greatest musician of the age and turned him into a zombie.

“What am I going to do with Chacho?”

The boy crouched next to his father and refused to be moved. Ton-Ton sat with him. Neither of them looked at Matt.

“I can have a bed made up next to Eusebio. It won’t be fancy, but I don’t think Chacho is used to better.”

“No, I mean how can I help Chacho?” asked Matt. “He was already trying to recover from his ordeal in Aztlán. Now he seems completely lost.”

Cienfuegos looked at the two boys sitting at the guitar master’s feet. They’d been there for an hour, unmoving. “You can’t do anything,” he said. “All he wants is for his father to be normal, and we know that’s impossible.”

“No, it isn’t!” said Matt.

The jefe shrugged.

Mr. Ortega stirred in his chair. He, too, had been silent for an hour. “I remember you, Chacho,” he said. “You were such a lively little boy, and so bright! Your mother had died and you’d been taken to your grandfather’s house. Eusebio and I went there before we left for the United States. We thought we could send for you once we’d made our fortune, but . . . ” His voice trailed off.

“How could Chacho have recognized his father’s face after all this time?” asked Matt. “I remember things from when I was eight, but not clearly.”

“He had a picture,” Ton-Ton said, speaking for the first time. “When he came to, uh, the plankton factory, Jorge took it away from him and tore it up. ‘Boys have to be broken and mended before they can become good citizens,’ he said. ‘No personal loyalties are allowed.’ ”

“I didn’t know that,” said Matt.

“Chacho, let me show you something.” Mr. Ortega took up one of the guitars. As before, he laid his cheek against the wood to feel the music with his bones. Then he played the flamenco music Eusebio had written, and it was even better than anything performed that night. The guitar maker turned toward the sound. His eyes cleared. He put his hand on Chacho’s shoulder. The boy trembled.

“Chacho,” said Eusebio, and convulsed violently. Mr. Ortega stopped playing at once.

“Go on,” pleaded the boy, but Mr. Ortega shook his head.

“It’s too dangerous. Eejits—men in your father’s condition—can’t be put under too much stress. They break down and die.” By now Eusebio’s eyes had resumed their dull expression. “Believe me, this is better. If Matt is successful in his search for a cure, your father will be healed.”

“I don’t want to leave him,” the boy said tearfully.

“Nor shall you,” the music teacher said. “I’ll move in and keep you company. It wouldn’t be good for you to be alone with your father in his condition.”

“I’ll stay too,” Ton-Ton blurted out.

“You don’t have to,” said Matt. “We could come back during the day.”

“He n-needs me,” the big boy said. “I don’t want a fancy mansion with circuses and, uh, soccer matches. I don’t want all that swanky stuff. Besides, maybe my parents are here somewhere, harvesting the d-damn poppies. Maybe Fidelito’s grandma is here. Oh, go away and leave us alone!”

So Matt left, deeply shocked by the turn of events. All he had wanted was to make his friends happy, and it had gone horribly wrong. He went back along the path lit with candles. Above, the stars twinkled with a remote light and the Scorpion Star, as always, hovered over the southern hills.