The House of the Scorpion (13 page)

“He was kind of strange last time he was here,” said María.

That’s one way to put it
, thought Matt. El Patrón had become so forgetful, he repeated the same sentence over and over again. “Am I dead yet?” he asked. “Am I dead yet?” And he held his hand before his face, studying each finger as though to reassure himself that he was still there.

“Are you ready?” cried Celia, rushing into the room. She made Matt turn and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Remember, you’re sitting next to El Patrón tonight. Pay attention and answer all his questions.”

“What if he’s … weird?” said Matt. He remembered answering the question “Am I dead yet?” over and over the last time the old man visited.

Celia stopped fussing with the shirt and knelt before him. “Listen to me, darling. If anything bad happens tonight, I want you to come straight to me. Come to the pantry behind the kitchen.”

“What do you mean, bad?”

“I can’t say.” Celia looked furtively around the room. “Just promise me you’ll remember.”

Matt thought it was hard to promise something like that—nobody planned to forget—but he nodded.

“Oh,
mi hijo
, I do love you!” Celia flung her arms around him and burst into tears. Matt was both startled and dismayed. What could have upset her so much? He saw María out of the corner of his eye. She was making a face that indicated how totally soppy she found this display. That was María’s favorite word recently:
soppy
. She’d picked it up from Tam Lin.

“I promise,” Matt said.

Celia sat back abruptly and wiped her eyes with her apron. “I’m a fool. What good would it do if you understood? It would only make things worse.” She seemed to be talking to herself, and Matt watched her anxiously. Then she stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in her apron. “Run along,
chicos
, and have fun at the party. I’ll be in the kitchen serving up the best dinner you ever saw. You look wonderful, both of you, like you stepped out of a movie.” The old, confident Celia was back, and Matt was relieved.

“I have to get Furball from my room,” said María after they left.

“Oh, no! You can’t take him to dinner.”

“I can if I want. I’ll hide him on my lap.”

Matt sighed. There was no point arguing with her. María took Furball everywhere. Tam Lin complained that it wasn’t a dog, but a hairy tumor growing out of her arm. He offered to take her to a doctor and have it removed.

Tom was in María’s room, and Furball was nowhere to be seen.

“You didn’t let him out?” cried María as she looked under the bed.

“I never even saw him,” said Tom, glaring at Matt. Matt glared back. Tom’s bristly red hair was slicked down, and his fingernails were neat, white crescents. Tom was always perfectly groomed for these occasions, and it earned him many admiring comments from the women who came to El Patrón’s birthday parties.

“He’s lost!” wailed María. “He gets so scared when he’s lost. Oh, please help me find him!”

Reluctantly, Tom and Matt left off their glaring contest and began looking under pillows, behind curtains, in dresser drawers. María whimpered softly as the hunt dragged on without any results.

“He’s probably running around the house having a great time,” said Matt.

“He hates being outside,” said María, weeping. Matt could believe that. The dog was such a loser that he ran from sparrows, but he probably
was
outside hiding in any of a thousand places. They’d never find him before dinner. Then something odd struck him.

Tom.

Tom was searching, but he didn’t seem to be really
looking
. It was hard to describe. Tom was going through the motions, but all the while his eyes were watching María. Matt stopped what he was doing and listened.

“I hear something!” he cried. He dashed into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, and there was Furball, so waterlogged and exhausted, he’d been able to utter only the faintest whine. Matt pulled the dog out and dropped him hastily on the floor. He grabbed a towel and wrapped up Furball. The dog was so tired, he didn’t even try to bite. He lay perfectly limp as María snatched him up.

“How did he get in there? Who put the top down? Oh, darling, sweet, sweet Furball”—she cuddled the revolting creature next to her face—“you’re okay now. You’re my
good
dog. You’re my honeybunch.”

“He’s always drinking out of the toilet,” Tom said. “He must have fallen in and pulled the lid down on top of him. I’ll call a maid to give him a bath.”

He went out but not before Matt saw a flash of real anger on his face. Tom had wanted something and hadn’t got it. Matt was sure Tom had dumped Furball in the toilet, although he’d never shown dislike for the dog before. That was like Tom, though. He could be courteous and helpful on the surface, but you never knew what was going on underneath.

Matt felt cold. Furball would have drowned if he hadn’t found him. How could anybody be that cruel? And why would anyone want to hurt María, who was so tenderhearted, she rescued black widow spiders? Matt knew no one would believe him if he accused Tom. He was only a clone and his opinion didn’t matter.

Or it didn’t matter most of the time
, Matt thought as a delightful plan occurred to him.

Most of the time the servants ignored Matt and the Alacráns looked past him as though he were a bug on a window. Mr. Ortega, the music teacher, rarely said anything to him except, “No! No! No!” when Matt struck a wrong note. Mr. Ortega didn’t say “No! No! No!” very often now. Matt was an excellent piano player and thought it wouldn’t have hurt the man to say “Good!” now and then. But he never did. When Matt played well, an expression of joy crossed Mr. Ortega’s face that was as good as a compliment, though. And when Matt played really,
really
well, he was too enraptured to care what the music teacher thought.

Everything changed during the annual birthday party. It was really El Patron’s party, but it had developed into a celebration for Matt as well. At least Celia, Tam Lin, María, and El Patrón celebrated for him. Everyone else just gritted their teeth and got through the day.

It was the one time when Matt could ask for anything he wanted. He could force the Alacráns to pay attention to him. He could make Steven and Tom—yes, Tom!—be polite to him in front of their friends. No one dared to make El Patrón angry, and therefore no one dared to ignore Matt.

Tables were set for the party in one of the vast gardens surrounding the Big House. The lawn was flawlessly smooth, with the grass all of the same height. It was cared for by eejits who trimmed the ground with scissors just before the event. It would be trampled into oblivion by tomorrow, but now it glowed like a green jewel in the soft afternoon light.

The tables were covered with spotless, white cloths. The dishes were trimmed with gold, the silver cutlery was freshly polished, and a crystal goblet sat by each plate.

In a corner, under a bougainvillea arbor, sat an enormous stack of presents. Everyone brought gifts to El Patrón, although there was nothing he didn’t already own and not much he could enjoy at the age of 143. There were even a few presents for Matt—small, loving tributes from Celia and María, something useful from Tarn Lin, and a large, expensive gift from El Patrón.

The guests wandered around, choosing delicacies brought to them on trays by the maids. Waiters offered drinks of every description and brought water pipes for those who wished to smoke. There were senators and famous actors, generals and world-renowned doctors, a few ex-presidents, and half a dozen dictators from places Matt had heard about on TV. There was even a faded-looking princess. And of course there were the other Farmers. The Farmers were the real aristocrats here. They ruled the drug empire that formed the border between the United States and Aztlán.

The Farmers stood in a knot around a man Matt hadn’t seen before. He had bristly red hair, a soft, doughy face, and deep circles under his eyes. He looked unwell, but in spite of that, he was in a good mood. He harangued the others in a braying voice and punctuated his statements by poking them in the chest with a finger. By that alone Matt knew he must be a Farmer. No one else would dare to be so rude.

“That’s Mr. MacGregor,” said María. She had come up behind Matt with a fluff-dried Furball draped over her arm.

“Who?”
For an instant Matt was back in the little house in the poppy fields. He was six years old, and he, was reading a tattered book about Pedro el Conejo, who got trapped in Señor MacGregor’s garden. Señor MacGregor had wanted to put Pedro into a pie.

“He has a Farm near San Diego,” said María. “Personally, I think he’s creepy.”

Matt studied the man more closely. He didn’t look like Señor MacGregor in the book, but there was definitely something unpleasant about him.

“They’re signaling everyone to go into the salon,” said María. She hitched Furball into a more comfortable position. “You better not howl,” she told the dog, “no matter how awful the company is.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Matt.

The salon stood at the top of marble steps leading up from the garden. The party guests drifted toward it, dutifully obeying the summons to greet El Patrón. Matt braced himself for a shock. Each time he saw El Patrón, the old man had deteriorated more.

The guests arranged themselves in a semicircle. All around the edge of the salon were giant vases of flowers and the marble statues so dear to El Patrón’s heart. The conversation died down. The sounds of birds and fountains became clearer. A peacock shrieked from a nearby garden. Matt waited tensely for the hum of El Patrón’s motorized wheelchair.

Then, amazingly, the curtains at the far end of the salon parted and El Patrón walked in. He moved slowly, to be sure, but he was actually
walking
. Matt was delighted. Behind the old man came Daft Donald and Tam Lin, both pushing wheelchairs.

A gasp echoed around the salon. Someone—the princess, Matt thought—cried, “Hip hip hooray!” Then everyone cheered and Matt cheered too, filled with relief and joy.

Someone behind Matt muttered, “The old vampire. So he managed to crawl out of the coffin again.” Matt turned quickly to see who it was, but he couldn’t tell which of the party-goers was guilty.

When El Patrón reached the middle of the salon, he signaled for Tam Lin to bring up his wheelchair. He sank down, and Tam Lin stuffed pillows around him. Much to Matt’s surprise, Mr. MacGregor came forward and sat in the other wheelchair.

So they are friends
, Matt thought. Why hadn’t he seen Mr. MacGregor before?

“Welcome,” said El Patrón. His voice wasn’t loud, but it commanded instant attention. “Welcome to my one-hundred-and-forty-third birthday party. All of you are my friends and allies—or family members.” The old man laughed softly. “I imagine
they
hoped to see me in my grave by now, but no such luck. I’ve had the benefit of a marvelous new treatment from the finest doctors in the world, and now my good friend MacGregor is going to be treated by these same people.”

Mr. MacGregor grinned and held up El Patrón’s arm as a referee would hold up a victorious boxer’s arm. What
was
there about the man that was so repulsive? Matt felt his stomach knot, and yet he had no reason to dislike him.

“Come forth, you miracle workers,” said El Patrón. Two men and two women separated themselves from the crowd. They approached the wheelchairs and bowed. “I’m sure you’d be satisfied with only my heartfelt thanks”—El Patrón chuckled as the doctors tried to hide their disappointment—“but you’ll be even more satisfied with these one-million-dollar checks.” The doctors immediately cheered up, although one of the women had the grace to blush. Everyone applauded, and the doctors thanked El Patrón.

Tam Lin caught Matt’s eye and nodded to him. Matt stepped forward.

“Mi Vida,” said El Patrón with real warmth. He beckoned with his gnarled hand. “Come closer and let me look at you. Was I ever that handsome? I must have been.” The old man sighed and fell silent. Tam Lin indicated that Matt was to stand next to the wheelchairs.

“I was a poor boy from a poor village,” El Patrón began, addressing the assembled presidents, dictators, generals, and other famous people. “One year during Cinco de Mayo, the ranchero who owned our land had a parade. I and my five brothers went to watch. Mamá brought my little sisters. She carried one, and the other held on to her skirt and followed behind.”

Matt saw the dusty cornfields and purple mountains of Durango. He saw the streams that roared with water two months of the year and were dry as a bone the rest of the time. He had heard the story from El Patrón so often, he knew it by heart.

“During the parade the mayor rode on a fine white horse and threw money into the crowd. How we scrambled for the coins! How we rolled in the dirt like pigs! But we needed the money. We were so poor, we didn’t have two pesos to rub together. Afterward the ranchero gave a great feast. We could eat all we wanted, and it was a wonderful opportunity for people who had stomachs so shrunken that chili beans had to wait in line to get inside.

“My little sisters caught typhoid at that feast. They died in the same hour. They were so small, they couldn’t look over the windowsill—no, not even if they stood on tiptoe.”

The salon was deathly still. In the distance Matt heard a dove calling from the garden.
No hope
, it said.
No hope. No hope
.

“During the following years each of my five brothers died; two drowned, one had a burst appendix, and we had no money for the doctor. The last two brothers were beaten to death by the police. There were eight of us,” said El Patrón, “and only I lived to grow up.”

Matt thought the audience looked bored, although they tried to conceal it. They had heard the same speech for years.

“I outlived them all as I outlived all my enemies. Of course, I can always make more enemies.” El Patrón looked around the audience, and several people tried to smile. They met El Patrón’s steely eyes and immediately sobered up. “You could say I’m a cat with nine lives. As long as there’s mice to catch, I intend to keep hunting. And thanks to the doctors, I can still enjoy it. You can start clapping now.” He glared at the audience, and they began—first hesitantly and then loudly—to applaud. “They’re just like robots,” El Patrón muttered under his breath. More loudly he said, “I’m going to take a brief rest, and then we shall all have dinner.”