The Lord of Opium

After he left, Matt continued looking at the drawing of Mirasol and the painting (as he imagined) of María. Mirasol’s wasn’t as skillfully done, but it showed her bright beauty and her eyes gazing at something in the far distance. They weren’t dead as they’d been in life, but still remote. María was altogether more interesting. She smiled as though she had some prank in mind that could get you into trouble, but would be fun anyway. Matt was suddenly overcome by a desire to see her.

He hurried to the holoport room, chose the icon, and activated the screen. The sickness that had come over him when he first used it had gone away. The scanner had evidently adjusted itself to recognize his slightly different handprint, and Matt could now open parts of the border or communicate with people as often as he pleased.

“At last,” said a voice behind him. Matt turned to see Sor Artemesia standing in the doorway. “Please let me stay, Don Sombra. I’ve been so worried about María. She must be lonely with me gone and with you . . . neglecting her.”

“I haven’t been neglecting her,” said Matt, stung.

“María doesn’t know that. She thinks you’ve forgotten her.”

Matt was annoyed to have company, but he could hardly send Sor Artemesia away. She was the closest thing María had to a real mother. By now the portal had cleared, and they saw the peaceful convent room. A small woman in a nun’s habit was dozing in a chair.

“Sor Inez!” called Sor Artemesia. The woman jerked to attention.

“¡  Jesús y María! Please wait and I’ll get Esperanza,” she cried.

“Stop!” ordered Sor Artemesia. “You are to fetch María alone. Don’t bring her mother. Do you understand? Alone.”

“Esperanza will skin me alive,” said Sor Inez.

“She won’t if she doesn’t know. I have the Lord of Opium here, and you can’t imagine the pain he’ll cause if you don’t obey.” The little woman scurried off.

“I couldn’t possibly hurt anybody from here,” said Matt.

“I have found,” said Sor Artemesia, “that if you give an order forcefully enough, people will obey it without thinking too much.” María appeared almost immediately, so she must have been waiting nearby. Matt wondered for how long.

“Sor Artemesia!” she cried. “Please come back, or make Mother send me to you. I’m so lonely”—and then she noticed Matt. “Mi vida, why didn’t you answer my calls? It’s been weeks. Have you left me for Mirasol?” Tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Matt felt terrible. He’d been so wrapped up in grief that he hadn’t considered the effect of his silence on María. “Mirasol is dead,” he said. His throat closed up, and he couldn’t speak for a moment.

“How—” began María.

“She was an eejit. They don’t live long,” said Sor Artemesia.

And then María drew the kind of conclusion that was so typical of her and that made Matt love her. “You were trying to save her,” she said. “I understand now. You were trying to save her, and she died anyway. How awful it must have been for you!”

The generosity of this conclusion made tears come to Matt’s eyes too. He blinked, remembering Mirasol dancing and then falling limp into his arms. It hadn’t been as high-minded as María thought. “I want you to come here,” he said.

“I’m trying. I keep arguing with Mother, but she’s like a brick wall. She’s—oh, this is terrible—she’s trying to arrange a marriage for me.”

“You’re too young,” said Sor Artemesia.

“I know. It won’t be an actual marriage, more like a betrothal. Honestly!” María stamped her foot and looked, for an instant, like Esperanza in a snit. “You’d think it was the fifteenth century, with girls being given away like favors to slimy old men. It’s one of Mother’s friends on a human rights board. He’s not really old. Thirty-five or so, but he’s hopeless. He wants me to help him do good works, distribute pamphlets on dental hygiene or getting immunized against AIDS.”

Sor Artemesia stifled a snort of laughter. “Mija, isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To emulate Saint Francis?”

María looked daggers at the nun. “Of course, but not with him. I haven’t got anybody on my side here. Please call Emilia or Dada. Maybe they can back me up.”

Both Matt and Sor Artemesia flinched. They knew the story of El Patrón’s funeral had been kept secret to protect Matt’s fragile hold on the Alacrán empire. “What should I do?” the nun mouthed silently.

Matt thought rapidly. Sooner or later the news had to come out. He was a lot more confident of his power than he had been months ago. “I’m going to tell you something that you absolutely have to keep secret,” he said, without much hope that María would.

“Aren’t Emilia and Dada there?” she said uncertainly.