The Lord of Opium

Matt halted. What, exactly, was marriage for? María said it was important, but he hadn’t paid attention to her reasons. Why would he? At the time he’d been a clone, and they didn’t get married. He knew that Felicia had been handed over to Mr. Alacrán as part of a drug deal. Fani had refused to marry Mr. Alacrán’s son until her father drugged her. María had been promised to Felicia’s son Tom. It didn’t matter that Tom’s idea of a good time was to nail frogs’ feet to the ground.

Nothing about the Alacráns made marriage even slightly attractive.

Before the wedding there was something called dating, for which you needed a girlfriend. Matt had a vague idea of the practice from watching TV, but nothing of the sort existed in Opium. For most of his life he’d had only one friend, who happened to be a girl. Did that qualify? As for having more than one, it hadn’t occurred to him until he met the boys at the plankton factory.

Chacho and Ton-Ton bragged about all the pretty chicas they knew. There weren’t any chicas at the plankton factory, but the boys assured Matt that they’d been muy popular back in their old homes. Girls, according to them, were the most fun you could have. Especially when they were competing with one another to make you happy. Ton-Ton swore he had at least five following him around.

Matt wondered how Ton-Ton managed this, because he had a face that looked like it had been slammed into a wall. He didn’t dare ask. Nor could he ask Chacho why girls were lining up to take him to parties. He didn’t want them to know how ignorant he was. When it came time for him to describe his own adventures, he stole stories from TV shows. He had to be careful, because the only shows El Patrón had allowed were a hundred years old.

One thing had stuck in Matt’s mind, though: Ton-Ton said that good girls were always chaperoned. Matt wasn’t sure what a bad girl was, but María was definitely good. If he invited her, Esperanza would insist on coming along.

Esperanza. Some of the contentment leaked out of the day.

An antique clock struck the hour, and the sun on its face moved forward as the starry night retreated. It was six a.m. Matt had discovered a whole shelf of clocks that did amusing things: An old woman hit an old man over the head with a broom when the hour struck, a rooster spread his wings and crowed, a ballerina turned to the music of Swan Lake. There were music boxes, too. On one, an old-fashioned gentleman and lady danced around a sombrero to the tune of the Mexican Hat Dance. Their tiny metal feet darted in and out, and the lady swirled her long skirts. It pleased Matt to know that the old man had such innocent pleasures.

After breakfast he went in search of Celia but found her together with Major Beltrán. The two had their backs to him, and Matt approached with the stealth that had become second nature to him. Celia was holding a coffeepot while the major sampled the brew. “Disgusting! You should never make coffee with tap water,” the man said. He was dressed in a uniform that was surely meant for a parade ground. His shoulders were broadened with gold epaulets, and a black military hat made him look tall and powerful.

“Throw this swill out and use distilled water,” the major ordered. “Grind the beans just before you brew them. This morning’s offering tasted like floor sweepings.”

“I’m sorry, comandante,” Celia said humbly.

“There was an insect in my bedroom this morning,” Major Beltrán went on. “A dirty, disease-carrying insect such as you would never find in a decent home. I opened the window and it flew in.”

“It must have been one of the bees from the flower beds.”

“I don’t care what it was. I want the apartment sprayed with insecticide and the flower beds, too.”

“Oh, but El Patrón never allowed that—” Celia began.

“El Patrón is dead,” the major said bluntly. “Another thing: I won’t eat food made by those creatures.” He waved his hand at an eejit stirring soup. “They haven’t the faintest idea of hygiene.”

“I tell them to wash their hands,” Celia said.

“Look at this!” Major Beltrán grabbed the soup stirrer’s hand and held it out for her to inspect. The eejit did a little dance like a jittery windup toy trapped behind a piece of furniture. It was an activity Matt had seen before when one of the servants couldn’t fulfill a task. “There’s dirt caked under his fingernails,” cried the major. “From now on you will prepare all my meals.”

“I thought I told you to stay in your apartment,” Matt said. The two spun around.

“He didn’t like the food I sent,” explained Celia. “What was I to do? He’s a representative of the UN. Muy importante.”