The Lord of Opium

The writing on the sole of her left foot was extremely small. He fetched a magnifying glass. It was a three-part number for month, day, and year, and the date had expired three months before.

Matt sat back, shocked. Mirasol looked healthy, and he’d been feeding her well. He tried to limit the amount of work she did, but she was programmed to work. If she didn’t, she jittered. She might live for years or she might die tomorrow. The microchips had an unknown physical effect, and the more there were, the more they interfered with life.

“Oh, Mirasol,” he said, taking her hands. What if she never awakened? What if she simply went out like a candle? A machine did that. It worked until one day you turned it on and nothing happened. Cienfuegos had warned him that awakening Mirasol could kill her, but what did it matter when she was doomed already?

“What do you like?” said Matt. Suddenly it seemed important to make the rest of her existence happy, if only he could figure out how. So far the only thing that penetrated the dull surface of her mind was a crème caramel custard. And then he thought of Eusebio.

Microchips blunted conscious thought, but certain things escaped them. He remembered Mirasol standing by the window of the dining room and smelling—he was certain of it—a creosote-laden breeze from the desert. She’d responded to his illness by fetching help. She’d wiped his forehead with a damp cloth when he had a fever, and no one had told her to do that. Smell, taste, the sight of pain—all these had gotten through to her.

Mr. Ortega had reached Eusebio with music. The man had been a composer, and music existed on such a deep level with him that nothing could erase it. Matt knew he was the same. “Come with me,” he told Mirasol. They went to his music room, and he played the piano and guitar. He put on recordings, and when he played a recent dance piece, she reached for his hand.

She’d never done that before.

“Do you like that? Can you hear it?” Matt asked. The piece was called “Trick-Track.” He’d recorded it when he learned how much María liked dancing. It involved stamping, clapping, and twirling. Every now and then someone would shout, “Trick-Track!” and you had to change partners. Matt had seen it on TV.

Mirasol trembled as he pulled her to her feet. “I don’t know how to do this, but we’ll play it by ear,” he said. It turned out that Mirasol knew all the steps and didn’t need him. She was dancing with someone only she could see, and when the recording shouted “Trick-Track!” she moved to another unseen partner.

Matt watched. She was very good, but then she’d always been graceful. When the music ended, her head and arms drooped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. And then she fell.

He caught her. He laid her on the carpet and lifted his hand to ring for help before remembering that he would get Dr. Kim. Anxiously, he felt her pulse. It was normal. Her breathing was untroubled. There was none of the jitteriness that went with an eejit about to go rogue. In fact, she seemed to be deeply asleep, and he watched her for a long time.

Finally, he bent down and kissed her. “Wake up, Waitress,” he said. She sat up at once and watched him with incurious eyes, waiting for his next command.

*  *  *

This was a secret Matt intended to keep from everyone. He could imagine what Celia and Sor Artemesia would say. Cienfuegos would tell him Mirasol didn’t understand what she was doing, and Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega would make sly jokes. As for Ton-Ton, his probable reaction made Matt’s blood run cold. You’re d-dancing with an eejit? Way to go, muchacho. You’re s-so hard up for girls you have to take advantage of someone without a brain.

The next day he gave orders that no one was to disturb him when he was at work. He had computers and a desk moved into what had been Felicia’s apartment. He aired out the sickly smell of alcohol and drugs and ordered her supply of laudanum to be taken to the opium factory.