The Lord of Opium

46

GLASS EYE DABENGWA

And then, one morning, they were awakened by a knock on the door. The light was already on, and the guards were passing their cigarette back and forth. The same man Matt had seen outside the operating room marched in. He was dressed in a general’s uniform, with so much gold braid on the shoulders you could hardly see his neck. The guards snapped to attention and ground the cigarette under a heel.

“Idiots! You don’t get stoned on duty!” shouted the man. He slapped Boris hard and shoved Samson against the door. Matt watched hopefully—they could have snapped the officer in two—but the guards only cowered before his obvious authority. The man turned to Matt and Listen. “Come on! Hurry up!”

Boris and Samson herded them down the hall, with the general striding in front. “Hey, mister! Are you an African?” yelled Listen, running to keep up.

The general halted and turned around. She almost ran into him. “Why do you ask?”

“ ’Cause you’re dark like me. I’m an African. My name’s Listen, and I’m going to grow up to be a drug queen.”

The man’s eyes widened. “I once knew a woman called Listen, but she died long ago.”

“I know,” the little girl said excitedly. “I’m her clone—or I woulda been if she’d lived. Tell me about her. What was she like?”

The general knelt down beside her. “She was a most beautiful and kind lady.” The hard expression faded from his face, and he smiled.

Matt did a double take. He’d seen this man before, whining for a shipment of opium. At the time he’d been dressed in a plaid suit and high-heeled boots. The uniform made him look almost respectable, but Matt knew he didn’t deserve to wear it. He wasn’t a real general. He was a drug addict. “You’re Happy Man Hikwa,” Matt said. “Are we going to a costume party?”

The hard expression came back. “You’ll soon learn what kind of party we’re going to.” The man picked up Listen and continued down the hall.

What a fool I was to walk into the hands of our enemies, Matt thought as they walked on. He should have hidden until he found Cienfuegos. How easily the soldiers had disarmed him. He might as well have handed the weapons over and saved them the trouble.

I wonder what shape Glass Eye is in, said El Patrón in a casual, chatty way. His replacement parts used to wear out faster than mine.

Do you know something I don’t? thought Matt. He heard a dry cackle and imagined the old man sitting in the back of Hitler’s car, enjoying the homage of his slaves.

Just because they took your weapons doesn’t mean you aren’t armed, said El Patrón. Matt waited for more information, but the voice only came when it felt like it. He had no control over it.

Matt experienced a moment of abject terror when he entered the hospital room. Glass Eye Dabengwa almost overflowed the chair he was sitting in. His legs were like tree trunks covered in gray bark, and his toes, with their gnarled and discolored nails, spread out like the talons of a bird of prey.

He was dressed in a skimpy hospital gown, and his seamed arms, repaired from many battles in his youth, bulged out of the sleeves. His body was massive, nourished, so rumor said, on the blood of children. But much the same rumor had been circulated about El Patrón. It could be said of any drug lord who harvested clones.

The only mercy was that Dabengwa’s eyes were cloaked by dark glasses. The curtains in the windows were drawn too, and the only light was from a dim lamp covered by a shade. Matt wondered whether something was wrong with the man’s vision. He certainly hoped so.

Dr. Rivas was seated in another chair across the room, and Listen immediately flew to him. A pair of nurses cowered against a wall. The rest of the space was taken up by African soldiers.

“Who is this child?” Glass Eye said in a voice that resonated like distant thunder.

“The baby patrón,” said Happy Man.

“Baby Patrón. I like it. Come closer, boy,” said Dabengwa.

Matt struggled to hang on to his courage. Was it his imagination or did he hear an odd sound in the room? “I am the heir of El Patrón,” he stated as firmly as he could. “I am the Lord of Opium.”

Dabengwa’s large head turned toward him. Click. Whirr. There were those strange noises again. “I see only a boy.”

“Appearances are deceiving. I’m actually a hundred and forty-seven years old.”

Glass Eye wheezed. It took a moment for Matt to realize it was a laugh. “You sound like the old vampire, at any rate.”

“We don’t know how much of the personality clones inherit,” said Dr. Rivas. “None has survived this long.”

Glass Eye dismissed the comment. “No matter. He’s in my power now.”

Dr. Rivas paused before saying, “Mi patrón, let me warn you that he still has an army. There are men in Ajo—”

“Silence!” Glass Eye nodded to a nurse, who looked perfectly terrified as she approached with a bottle of some liquid. The man sucked on a straw. Click. Whirr.

Matt thought, So Dr. Rivas is calling him patrón now. He was disgusted, but not surprised.

“Where’s Mbongeni?” Listen suddenly asked. Dr. Rivas shushed her, but it didn’t work. “Mbongeni’s my best buddy, and I want him back.”

Glass Eye seemed to notice her for the first time. “Another child,” he said.

“I’m Listen,” said the little girl, wriggling out of the doctor’s grasp. “I want my buddy, and I know he wants me. Do you know where he is?”

Matt grabbed her before she could get too close to the ancient drug lord. She didn’t seem to understand the danger she was in. Dabengwa removed his glasses, and there they were, the yellow eyes that never blinked, the eyes of a crocodile peering up through leaf-stained water. They whirred as he focused on her.

“I am Mbongeni,” said Glass Eye.

Matt felt sick. Part of him was, of course—the heart, maybe the liver.

Listen laughed. “You’re making fun of me ’cause I’m a little kid. Mbongeni is about so high”—she held out her hand, palm down—“and he’s not too bright, but that’s not his fault. He’s a baby and always will be.”

Glass Eye was paying close attention to her. He reached out his hand and turned hers over. “This is how they measure size in Africa. With the palm up.” Matt shuddered to see his massive paw enclose hers, but she shook him off.

“I’m an African, but I’ve never been there,” she said.

“Is your name really Listen?”

“She’s your wife’s clone,” said Happy Man Hikwa.

“I’m not a clone, you turkey. Once the original dies, the clone becomes a full human.” The little girl folded her arms and scowled at Happy Man.

Glass Eye grinned, something Matt didn’t think was even possible. The famous teeth of a twenty-year-old gleamed in his weathered face, and something squeaked in his neck. “She’s as cheeky as the original,” he said with approval.

“Tell me about her, Mr. African. I always wondered what she was like.”

“Well . . . ” The yellow eyes swiveled, remembering. “She was very clever, too clever really. How she could hide when she was naughty! I would look for her all over the presidential palace. I would send guards to seek her out, but she always escaped them. Then, when I was worried enough to forgive her, she reappeared, hanging her head as you do now and promising never to do whatever it was again.”

“She was like one of those brightly colored hummingbirds you have here,” said Happy Man. “They hang in the air, and when you try to grab them, they disappear.”

“Nobody but a dum-dum would try to catch a hummingbird,” Listen said scornfully.

Glass Eye wheezed again. He was pleased with her. “You do remind me of her. So quick. So pretty. I’m glad you didn’t terminate her, Dr. Rivas.”

Matt could see the little girl trying to figure out the word. Fortunately, it wasn’t part of her vocabulary.

“How come you don’t blink, Mr. African?” said Listen, gazing into his face. “If I don’t blink, my eyes hurt.”

“Listen! Don’t ask rude questions!” cried Dr. Rivas.

Dabengwa waved his hand at the doctor. “It’s all right. Her original would have said the same thing. My eyes are artificial, child. They are machines, like little cameras. Dr. Rivas made them for me many years ago, after I was injured by a car bomb. He replaces them every so often.”

Listen was impressed. She went up close and watched as he swiveled them back and forth. “Is that why they make squeaky noises?”

“They should not do that,” grumbled the drug lord. “I need them replaced, but one cannot have several operations at once. Parts of my body are artificial. I was not blessed with a fine hospital and many clones as El Patrón was.”

The little girl cocked her head to one side. She was clearly pondering the meaning of that last sentence. “Why is it important to have many clones?”

“Let the man rest,” interrupted Dr. Rivas. “Please overlook her questions, mi patrón. She chatters like a tree full of birds, and half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“That’s not true!” cried the little girl. “I’m smart. I can recite the names of planets and the twenty biggest stars in the sky. I can dissect a rabbit, or could if Dr. Rivas would let me.”

“Now is not the time,” said the doctor, pulling her away roughly. Glass Eye slumped in his chair, and the nurse came forward again with a glass of liquid.

“We will conduct more business tomorrow,” Happy Man announced. “The drug lord is tired.” He went to the door, but Glass Eye wasn’t finished.

“Tomorrow,” he said heavily. “I will see you tomorrow, Baby Patrón. And then you will open the border for me.”

Never, thought Matt as they were led away.