The Lord of Opium

33

MIRASOL DANCES

He had dinner alone with Mirasol, because everyone else was at the guitar factory. “It’s not my fault,” he told her. “I didn’t turn Eusebio into an eejit, but they blame me just the same. Why can’t they understand that I was just as much a prisoner as he was for many years?”

Mirasol watched his face, although her eyes showed no emotion. “I wish you were María,” Matt said. “No, I shouldn’t say that. You can’t help being what you are.” He gave her as much food as he thought healthy and then, on a whim, ordered her to take off her shoes. He knew this was a bad idea, but the impulse was irresistible.

The writing on the sole of her left foot was extremely small. He fetched a magnifying glass. It was a three-part number for month, day, and year, and the date had expired three months before.

Matt sat back, shocked. Mirasol looked healthy, and he’d been feeding her well. He tried to limit the amount of work she did, but she was programmed to work. If she didn’t, she jittered. She might live for years or she might die tomorrow. The microchips had an unknown physical effect, and the more there were, the more they interfered with life.

“Oh, Mirasol,” he said, taking her hands. What if she never awakened? What if she simply went out like a candle? A machine did that. It worked until one day you turned it on and nothing happened. Cienfuegos had warned him that awakening Mirasol could kill her, but what did it matter when she was doomed already?

“What do you like?” said Matt. Suddenly it seemed important to make the rest of her existence happy, if only he could figure out how. So far the only thing that penetrated the dull surface of her mind was a crème caramel custard. And then he thought of Eusebio.

Microchips blunted conscious thought, but certain things escaped them. He remembered Mirasol standing by the window of the dining room and smelling—he was certain of it—a creosote-laden breeze from the desert. She’d responded to his illness by fetching help. She’d wiped his forehead with a damp cloth when he had a fever, and no one had told her to do that. Smell, taste, the sight of pain—all these had gotten through to her.

Mr. Ortega had reached Eusebio with music. The man had been a composer, and music existed on such a deep level with him that nothing could erase it. Matt knew he was the same. “Come with me,” he told Mirasol. They went to his music room, and he played the piano and guitar. He put on recordings, and when he played a recent dance piece, she reached for his hand.

She’d never done that before.

“Do you like that? Can you hear it?” Matt asked. The piece was called “Trick-Track.” He’d recorded it when he learned how much María liked dancing. It involved stamping, clapping, and twirling. Every now and then someone would shout, “Trick-Track!” and you had to change partners. Matt had seen it on TV.

Mirasol trembled as he pulled her to her feet. “I don’t know how to do this, but we’ll play it by ear,” he said. It turned out that Mirasol knew all the steps and didn’t need him. She was dancing with someone only she could see, and when the recording shouted “Trick-Track!” she moved to another unseen partner.

Matt watched. She was very good, but then she’d always been graceful. When the music ended, her head and arms drooped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. And then she fell.

He caught her. He laid her on the carpet and lifted his hand to ring for help before remembering that he would get Dr. Kim. Anxiously, he felt her pulse. It was normal. Her breathing was untroubled. There was none of the jitteriness that went with an eejit about to go rogue. In fact, she seemed to be deeply asleep, and he watched her for a long time.

Finally, he bent down and kissed her. “Wake up, Waitress,” he said. She sat up at once and watched him with incurious eyes, waiting for his next command.

* * *

This was a secret Matt intended to keep from everyone. He could imagine what Celia and Sor Artemesia would say. Cienfuegos would tell him Mirasol didn’t understand what she was doing, and Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega would make sly jokes. As for Ton-Ton, his probable reaction made Matt’s blood run cold. You’re d-dancing with an eejit? Way to go, muchacho. You’re s-so hard up for girls you have to take advantage of someone without a brain.

The next day he gave orders that no one was to disturb him when he was at work. He had computers and a desk moved into what had been Felicia’s apartment. He aired out the sickly smell of alcohol and drugs and ordered her supply of laudanum to be taken to the opium factory.

He did have work, lots of it. He received reports from all over the country about supplies needed, worker shortages, and the energy flow from the two nuclear plants in Tucson. The doctors in Paradise wanted more equipment. Dr. Rivas said that the Bug had smeared excrement on the walls of the observatory, and they needed to be repainted. Mbongeni kept calling for Listen, which was interesting, the doctor said, because it was the first real word the little boy had learned. Other reports came from places Matt hadn’t visited, Farm Patrol outposts close to the border of Marijuana to the east and Cocaine to the west. Fortunately, El Patrón had set up such a well-organized empire that things ran smoothly without much interference.

After a couple of days, everyone except Chacho and Mr. Ortega returned to the hacienda. “He’s, uh, pretty torn up,” said Ton-Ton. “M-maybe you should visit him.”

“He knows where I live,” Matt said.

“You know where he lives,” Listen said pertly. She and Fidelito had formed an alliance and swaggered around arm in arm, getting into all sorts of mischief. “You’re the Big Bug. You visit him.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” said Matt, irritated. Still, he was pleased to have some of his friends back, and if they deserted him to visit Chacho he had his new office. And Mirasol.

Matt unbent enough to take them to the greenhouses. As he expected, they were delighted, and he let them select flowers and fruit to take back to Chacho. “It would mean more if you took them,” said Sor Artemesia. Matt ignored her. His plan was to find a cure for the eejits first and then present Chacho with the happy news.

Weeks passed. Cienfuegos sent plants and animals to Esperanza and ordered supplies. He disappeared once a week to visit the Mushroom Master. Matt would have liked to go too, but there simply wasn’t enough time. Opium products moved out steadily. María was allowed access to the holoport a few times with her mother present. The doctors did not find a way to remove the microchips.

Suddenly it was fall. Summer had passed unnoticed in a daily routine of horseback riding, hovercraft flying (Ton-Ton shone there, too), bookkeeping, construction of new eejit pens, and, after the work was done, dancing with Mirasol.

Matt didn’t do it too often. He was afraid to, although Mirasol seemed unharmed by the exercise. He’d been unable to find any other piece of music that affected her. By now he was thoroughly sick of the cheesy rhythms of “Trick-Track,” but it was worth it to see her briefly awakened. It was like glimpsing a statue at the bottom of a lake. For a few moments the water cleared, sunlight poured into the depths, and the features of the statue became distinct. When the music stopped, the darkness closed in again, and Mirasol fell asleep.

He had kissed her only twice more. It seemed he would be setting out on a dangerous path he might not want to follow. When she lapsed into unconsciousness, he held her. He was holding her now and wondering how long this situation could go on. Outside, the clouds had built up, and thunder rolled around the horizon. It was the monsoon season. The storm made him restless, and he wanted to be out on a horse.

The expiry date on Mirasol’s foot was now six months old. He had protected her in every way possible, but time was running out. He hugged her more closely.

“Wow! So this is what you do in here,” said a sharp little voice.

Matt looked up to see Listen standing in the closet doorway. “You! How did you get in here?”

“There’s this neat tunnel behind the music room with doors opening into other rooms. Fidelito found it.”

“Is he here?” Matt felt sick. Now the story would get out everywhere.

“He saw a big spider and took off,” said the little girl, smirking. “It was only a daddy longlegs. They can’t bite. Dr. Rivas says they’d like to, but their jaws aren’t strong enough.”

Matt lowered Mirasol to the carpet.

“What’s wrong with her?” Listen asked.

“I’ve been trying to wake up her mind,” said Matt. “She responds to certain things, but the effect doesn’t last.”

“You mean, like the crème caramel custards?”

“How did you know about that?”

“They don’t call me Listen for nothing,” said the little girl. “Big people don’t pay attention to little kids, and I learn lots of stuff. Dr. Rivas told Cienfuegos that the only way to keep Mirasol awake was to feed her crème caramel custards until she was fat as a pig.”

Thunder shook the building, and the lights dimmed briefly. The air outside must be fresh and cool, but inside it was stale. Matt had closed all the windows to keep from being observed. “She also responds to music—well, one piece of music,” he said.

“Like Mr. Orozco,” said Listen.

Matt remembered that this was Eusebio’s other name. “Yes. She dances to it and when it’s over, she falls asleep. I leave her alone for a while because I think she needs to rest.”

“Wow! It’s like Sleeping Beauty.”

“I thought you didn’t like fairy tales,” said Matt.

Listen stuck out her tongue. “Sor Artemesia says it’s ‘cultural history.’ She says it’s no different from anthropology, which is a respectable science.”

Clever Artemesia, thought Matt. She’d found a way past Listen’s prejudice. “You like Mirasol, don’t you?” he said.

“Sure! She saved me from the Bug. She can’t help being a crot.” (Matt winced inwardly at the word.) “Mirasol’s like Mbongeni. He can’t help being brainless, ’cause Dr. Rivas made him that way.”

For a minute the enormity of what Listen had just said didn’t sink in on Matt. “You knew that?” he said in amazement. “And you still like Dr. Rivas?”

Listen squatted next to Mirasol and stroked her hair as you might a dozing cat. “She’s really pretty when she’s asleep.”

Matt nodded. That thought had occurred to him, too. Awake, you noticed the eejit eyes and the utter passiveness. You couldn’t get past it. Asleep, you could see that she was outstandingly beautiful.

“Dr. Rivas told me about Mbongeni ages ago,” said Listen. “It was when the other Mbongeni was operated on.” She stopped stroking Mirasol’s hair and turned away. “People hate clones. They’re mean to them and say all kinds of nasty things about them. I was lucky because my original died before I was born, but Mbongeni wasn’t. Dr. Rivas said that it was right to keep him a happy baby, ’cause then he’d never know when people were insulting him. And he is happy. I play with him all the time, and I wish you’d let me go back there.”

“What other Mbongeni?” asked Matt.

Listen put her arms around her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not telling.”

“There was another clone, wasn’t there? An older one.” Matt bent down and spoke directly into her face. Listen scooted around until her back was to him. “It’s no good keeping your eyes closed. I know what happened and so do you. Glass Eye Dabengwa came to the hospital and the other Mbongeni was operated on.”

“Didn’t see any Glass Eye Dabengwa. The other Mbongeni was sick. Dr. Rivas said so. He had a bad heart, and they had to take it out.”

The little girl was shaking, and so Matt held her. He rocked her back and forth, saying, “That’s all right. We won’t talk about it anymore.” He cursed the doctor for exposing her to things no child should know. He had a good idea where Listen’s night terrors came from. “I’m sorry I asked you the question. Let’s wake up Mirasol, and I’ll take you horseback riding.”

“Now? It was raining buckets when Fidelito and I went into the tunnel.” Listen gave a sigh and settled into Matt’s arms.

“It’ll be fun,” he assured her. “We’ll get wet and the horse will get wet. It’s like swimming in the air.”

This interested the little girl, who had learned to swim in the huge Alacrán pool. Sor Artemesia taught her and watched while she and Fidelito, who’d been taught by his grandmother, splashed around.

“Watch this,” said Matt. He clapped three times and said, “Waitress, wake up!” Mirasol shot to attention, ready for orders.

Listen crowed with delight. “It’s magic! I mean, ‘cultural history.’ Can I watch her dance?”

“Not today,” Matt said. “I don’t know how good it is for her to do it too often. And Listen”—she turned toward him—“let’s keep Mirasol’s dancing our secret.”

“Okeydokey,” she agreed. “Only, I get to see her next time.”

“Okeydokey,” said Matt.