The House of the Scorpion (13 page)

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 Patrón'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 Tam 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.”

M
att wandered around the garden, admiring the ice sculptures and a fountain of wine with orange slices bobbing in a red pool. He dipped his finger in to taste. It wasn't as good as it looked.

He checked the place cards on the tables and saw that he was, as usual, seated next to El Patrón. Mr. MacGregor was on El Patrón's other side. The other favored guests were Mr. Alacrán and Felicia, Benito, back from college—or rather,
expelled
from college—and Steven and Tom. Mr. Alacrán's father rounded out the guests at the head table. Everyone called him El Viejo these days because he seemed even older than El Patrón.

Humming to himself, Matt removed Tom's card and put it at the baby table. A nanny sat at each end to keep order, and high chairs were lined up on either side. Matt located María's card and placed it next to his.

Next Matt explored the edge of the garden, where the bodyguards formed a sullen, dark perimeter. Each of the presidents, dictators, and generals had brought his own protectors, and of course the Alacráns had hired a small army for the party. Matt counted more than two hundred men.

Who were they guarding against? he wondered. Who was likely to come charging across the poppy fields? But Matt was used to bodyguards at all family affairs, and it seemed natural for them to be there.

The sun was setting, and the garden was full of a cool, green light. The Ajo Mountains still glowed purple-brown in the distance, and the poppy fields were tipped with a gold that faded even as Matt watched. Lamps went on in the trees.

“You pig!” cried María, who had Furball ensconced in a bag slung over her shoulder. “Just once you could be nice to Tom. I've moved his card right back.”

“I'm punishing him for trying to drown Furball,” said Matt.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Furball couldn't have fallen into the toilet and pulled the top down. It isn't possible. Tom did it.”

“He couldn't be that evil,” said María.

“Since when? Anyhow, it's my party, and I get to say who sits where.” Matt was beginning to lose patience with María. He was trying to be nice to her, and she was taking it all wrong.

“They eat
mush
at the baby table.”

“Good,” Matt said. He fetched Tom's card and replaced it. María reached for it again, and he grabbed her wrist quite hard.

“Ow! That hurts! I'm going to stay here.”

“No, you aren't,” said Matt.

“I'll do whatever I like!”

Matt ran back to his table with María trying to push past
him and grab her place card. El Patrón had arrived, along with MacGregor and the others.

“What's this? What's this?” said El Patrón. Matt and María skidded to a halt.