The Lord of Opium

“I think it was the artist’s name,” said Matt.

They gathered in front of the portrait, admiring the skill with which it was drawn. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to paint like that,” said Chacho.

“You can study art here,” offered Matt. “I can hire teachers.” Chacho gave him a sad smile that meant, Oh, sure. Poor boys like me don’t get such chances. But Matt meant it. Why shouldn’t the boys stay here forever? They had no homes to return to. Why shouldn’t he, with his limitless wealth, give them everything they wanted? Chacho could paint; Ton-Ton could build machines. It was too soon to know what Fidelito was good at, but something would turn up.

They spent an hour playing with music boxes. Ton-Ton took one apart and showed everyone how the gears moved and how a metal hammer hit notes on a tiny marimba. More gears moved the dancers’ feet or caused them to twirl around. It was complicated, but the older boy knew exactly how everything fit together. It was the way Ton-Ton thought.

The most interesting box had three people on it—a cowboy playing a guitar, a woman in an old-fashioned dress, and another man dressed in black. They danced around one another, with the man in black always coming between them. Having three dancers meant the mechanism was far more complex than the other boxes, said Ton-Ton. Even he wasn’t sure how it was done.

“You’ll never know, dear,/how much I love you,” the cowboy sang in a tinny voice, “please don’t take my sunshine away.” But the man in black was dedicated to taking the sunshine away, and the lovers never got together.

Celia appeared at the door and announced that dinner was served. Salad bowls had been placed at every setting, and Cienfuegos, Sor Artemesia, and Listen were already seated. Listen treated the nun with something close to respect. Matt wondered what had happened.

Long purple shadows flowed out of the west. The tall windows were open, and the smell of freshly cut grass wafted in. Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito sat up very straight, not touching their salads. Matt guessed that Sor Artemesia had drilled them on table manners since they’d arrived from the plankton factory. In the old days they would have fallen on the food like starving wolves.

“Always use the outermost fork first,” the nun instructed them. “That is for salad. As the courses appear, you move to the next fork and the next. The same applies to knives and spoons.” It was no wonder the boys were cowed. Even Matt wasn’t sure how to navigate through twelve utensils. She must have asked for the place settings in order to teach them.

Mirasol filled everyone’s goblets with fruit juice, except for Cienfuegos, who had his usual pulque.

“I’ve heard of this banquet hall,” said Sor Artemesia. “Long ago, before María’s parents broke up, they used to come here to meet with El Patrón and his fellow criminals. I, of course, was left with the girls. Which reminds me, Matt, how did the Alacráns take your being the heir? I imagine Emilia’s nose was put out of joint when she discovered she wasn’t going to be the Lady of Opium.”

Matt dropped his fork on the floor, and Mirasol quickly replaced it with another. The boys were already eating, glancing at Sor Artemesia to be sure she approved. Listen was picking mushrooms, which she disliked, out of her salad. Matt met Cienfuegos’s eyes. How were they going to get out of this one?

“By the way, where are Emilia and her father?” asked the nun. “I thought they’d be here, if only to hear about María. What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

Cienfuegos nodded at Matt. “You have to tell her.”

“Esperanza should have done it,” said the boy.

“But she didn’t. She tossed the ball to you.”

“I don’t want the damn ball!”

By now everyone had stopped eating, and Sor Artemesia looked worried. “Is something wrong?” she said.

“You bet there is,” said Listen. “They’re both dead.”

Sister Artemesia gasped and automatically crossed herself. “Was there an accident?”

“Nope. El Patrón killed them. Everyone who went to his funeral drank poisoned wine and fell down dee-diddly-dead.”

“Shut up, you fool!” shouted Matt. Sor Artemesia put her head down as though she were about to faint. He jumped up to catch her, and Ton-Ton put his hands out.