The Lord of Opium

“I felt like that the first time I got on a horse,” Matt said. “It is big, but you can hold on to me. I won’t go fast.” They climbed onto a mounting block to make it easier for her, and Matt swung her onto the saddle behind him. As before, he noticed how light she was.

They went out into the rain, and the horse snorted with annoyance. Matt kept the animal at a walk. They circled the stable and then, since the storm had temporarily ceased, went farther to where he could see the cluster of workshops. All the workers were inside.

“Let’s go on,” Listen urged. “I like swimming in the air.”

Matt could hear the rattle of looms from the cloth-making factory. A kiln puffed smoke from an enclosure near the pottery shed. The English garden around the guitar factory was a wreck. The roses had been stripped by the storm, and a foot-long chuckwalla was munching petunias, oblivious to the rain.

Matt hadn’t intended this visit. It followed naturally from taking Listen for a ride. Matt had noticed that when he was cruel to someone, he often followed it with more cruel things. You got into that mood. But if you were kind, you felt like doing more kind things. He’d started with Mirasol, gone on with Listen, and now it seemed reasonable to finish up with Chacho.

He tethered the horse under a ramada, and he and Listen slopped through the mud to the guitar factory. Child eejits were singing in one of the rooms, not German folk songs this time, but a Christmas carol. El Patrón had liked carols, although, to be honest, the old man hadn’t cared about the holiday except as a chance to get more presents.

Children, go where I send thee

How shall I send thee?

I will send thee one by one

One for the little bitty baby

Born, born, born in Bethlehem.

“That’s nice,” said Listen. “What baby are they talking about?”

“Jesus,” said Matt, racking his brain for information about Jesus. He hadn’t paid much attention to religion because, until recently, he hadn’t had a soul.

“Oh. You mean Jesús Malverde.”

“No, not him. Someone much earlier. He was born on Christmas Day. Didn’t you celebrate Christmas in Paradise?”

“Dr. Rivas says that religious holidays are crap,” declared the little girl.

Matt experienced a new dislike for the man. “We’ll celebrate it this year, and Sor Artemesia can tell you about the Three Kings who bring gifts to good children. Consider it ‘cultural history.’ ” They watched the choir and their elderly music master. The voices were high and sweet like the sandhill cranes over the oasis.

“Their eyes . . .,” Listen said.

“They’re eejits,” said Matt, and pulled her on before she could think about it. Outside, the rain began again. Lightning flashed, and he saw the little girl silently count, One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two. Chacho and Mr. Ortega were sitting by a window, drinking maté. Eusebio was stringing a guitar, pausing to listen as he tightened the tension. One end of the room was filled with guitars. It’s like the opium factory, thought Matt. It’s a machine you can’t turn off.

“Matt,” said Chacho, putting down his cup. “Or should I say mi patrón?”

“He’s come halfway, bug brain. You can do the rest,” said Listen.

Mr. Ortega laughed. “I told you, if anyone can nag the dickens out of someone, it’s Listen. Welcome, mi patrón or Matt or whatever you want to be today. We’ve been enjoying the storm, although I miss hearing thunder. I can feel it through the earth.”

Matt sat across from Chacho. They didn’t speak. It was awkward after all this time, but Mr. Ortega expanded on his appreciation of the monsoon, and Listen wandered over to watch Eusebio. She was very much at ease in this place.

Matt thought his friend looked thinner and more haunted, and no wonder. It had to be tough watching Eusebio day after day. “Maybe you can come to the hacienda for a visit,” said Matt. “I’d like that.”

“Excellent idea!” said Mr. Ortega. “I’ll get the umbrellas.”

“Father . . .” Chacho looked toward Eusebio.

“Will be better for the break,” the piano teacher said. “Por Dios, he must be sick of looking at your long face all the time, Chacho. I know I am.” He hurried the boy into a raincoat and pushed him out the door. Matt collected Listen and went back for the horse. The eejit children were singing:

Children, go where I send thee

How shall I send thee?

I will send thee seven by seven