The Lord of Opium

Listen curled up on the bed, but it was too small to include Matt, and he had to sleep on the floor. Exhausted though he was, he couldn’t get comfortable. He dozed and woke and worried. The Russians snored erratically and occasionally woke each other up with a snort.

Sometime during the night Listen climbed out of bed and sat down next to Matt. “I get scared in the dark,” she told him. “Most times I used to climb into the crib with Mbongeni. I tried to teach him scissors, paper, rock, but it was too hard for him. We played paper and rock instead, but you need scissors to make it work. Anyhow, he liked moving his hands around.” She began to cry softly, and Matt held her until she fell asleep again.

*  *  *

They lost track of time. Air seeped in through a vent, but it was never fresh, and the fumes from the guards’ cigarettes made them sick. The same food was brought three times a day, but the Russians got most of it.

At night Matt went over his last sighting of Glass Eye Dabengwa. It had been at El Patrón’s birthday party three years before. Silence radiated from wherever the African drug lord walked. It reminded Matt of a large predator arriving at a waterhole. The birds stopped singing, the monkeys faded through the trees, and the antelopes clustered together, hoping that there was safety in numbers.

But there was no safety in numbers where Glass Eye was concerned. He had wiped out entire villages for trivial slights. Matt hoped that by imagining the man he could get used to his presence. But the memory of those unblinking yellow eyes appeared to him in dreams and lingered long after he’d awoken.

Matt practiced Russian with the guards and managed to communicate a few basic requests, such as soap, towels, and toothbrushes. Boris and Samson seemed unaware that such luxuries were necessary, but they were eager to please. They passed the requests on, and the supplies arrived.

“Ask them for deodorant,” suggested Listen.

“For us?” asked Matt, surprised.

“For them.”

“Boris would probably eat it,” said Matt. He suspected that even if he learned fluent Russian, the guards wouldn’t have much to say. They were stoned all the time. They sat in front of the door in a state that was almost hibernation. But they could wake up quickly. Matt tried to sneak Listen past them, and they hurled him across the room without even breaking into a sweat.

Once Listen sat up in the middle of the night and screamed, “I want Dr. Rivas! I want Dr. Rivas!” The guards fell over themselves trying to calm her down. Boris sang her a Russian lullaby so melancholy that Listen went into hysterics.

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.