The Lord of Opium

“Yes, it does. You put me into the freezer and I’m staying here.” Listen scooted to the other side of Ton-Ton, who put out a lazy hand and hauled her back.

“L-life is too short for stupid arguments,” the big boy said.

“What are you talking about, Listen? I didn’t put you into a freezer,” Matt said.

She hugged herself and leaned over so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Yes, you did. That’s what Dr. Rivas calls ‘ignoring people.’ You don’t talk to them, you don’t see them. It’s like being a bug on the bottom of a shoe. Dr. Rivas used to put me into the freezer when I was bad. He wouldn’t let me play with Mbongeni or anything until I said I was sorry.”

Another reason to dislike Dr. Rivas, thought Matt. “This time I’m apologizing. I was so upset by Mirasol’s death that I couldn’t think of anything else. I think I ignored everyone for a while.”

Listen uncurled herself and put out her hand. He took it. “That’s okay. I was bad and deserved to be punished,” she said. “Do you know what I did to make up for it? I told Chacho about Mirasol’s dancing, and he put her up there on the wall. It looks like she’s flying with the birds.”

They sat for a while, watching Chacho speed from one part of the wall to another until he was satisfied with his sketch. “I’ll think about the colors next,” he said. “I don’t know much about mixing oil paints, so it’s going to take a while. I have to figure out how to protect the picture from sunlight or rain. Oh, crap! It better not rain.” Chacho looked unhappily at a thundercloud rising over the distant mountains.

“I’ll have a plastic sheet hung from the roof,” Matt assured him. He’d never seen the boy so animated. Chacho, as Listen would have put it, was flying with the birds. “Come and have lunch at the hacienda,” Matt said. “You need to rest.” Mr. Ortega put down his guitar and led the young artist away.

“I’m going to Paradise tomorrow,” Matt told Listen. “Would you like to come?”

“You bet! Can Fidelito come too? I told him he could fly a stirabout and see the Scorpion Star up close.”

“You’re not running around on your own,” Matt said, thinking that not long ago he could have told Mirasol to watch them. Depression settled on him like a fine dust.

In the end he took Cienfuegos, Listen, Fidelito, Sor Artemesia, and the Mushroom Master. The last was the jefe’s idea. “The old fellow has done so much for us. Sooner or later he’ll have to return to his cramped life in the biosphere, and I want him to have happy memories.”

“Are you sure that going up into the sky will give him a happy memory?” Matt asked.

“He can bring his umbrella,” said Cienfuegos.

40

THE CLONING LAB

The minute they left the ground, the Mushroom Master gave a wail of despair and jammed the umbrella down over his head so hard that one of the spokes snapped.

The rainy season was over except for a few stray storms. The ride was smooth, and the land below was covered with sheets of golden poppies. Cienfuegos flew low so everyone could admire them. “On the way back we’ll fly over the biosphere,” he said to the old man. “You’ll enjoy seeing it from the air.” The only answer was a low moan.

“I told Dr. Rivas that the Mushroom Master is a fungus expert from California,” the jefe informed them before landing. “I don’t think he’d be happy to learn I took someone out of the biosphere.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Matt, whose attention had been focused on seeing María.

“He doesn’t like people poking their noses into what he considers his territory,” said Cienfuegos. “All of you keep your mouths shut about the Mushroom Master—pay attention, Listen and Fidelito. There are microphones hidden everywhere. And you, sir,” he addressed the old man, “please stay close to me. Bad things happen to people when they’re alone with Dr. Rivas.”

Matt wondered what the jefe was up to. He made it sound like the trip was dangerous, and perhaps it was. Neither he nor Matt had forgiven the doctor for microchipping the new security guards, doctors, and pilots.

When they arrived, the Mushroom Master was escorted inside and allowed to recover from his fright. “Airsickness,” Cienfuegos explained to Dr. Rivas, who was waiting to greet them. “Poor old fellow. Barfed his socks up the minute we left the ground.” Sor Artemesia took Listen and Fidelito away, to visit Mbongeni.

The Mushroom Master was soothed with pulque, his new favorite drink. “You must send me the wild yeast responsible for this,” he told the jefe. He then described the chemical reactions that fungi were capable of, the joy of watching a yeast bud develop, and the different odors produced by the action of mold on old sneakers.