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 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 thou
ght. 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.”
11
THE GIVING AND TAKING OF GIFTS
Matt 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.
“I want her to sit next to me,” said Matt.
The old man laughed: a dry, dusty sound. “Is she your little girlfriend, your novia?”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mr. Alacrán.
“Is it?” El Patrón chuckled. “Matt’s no different than I was at that age.”
“Matt’s a clone!”
“He’s my clone. Sit here, girl. Make room for her, Tam Lin.” Tam Lin found a place setting for María. He frowned at Matt.
“Where’s Tom?” Felicia said. Everyone turned to look at her. Felicia was so quiet and so seldom seen, most people seemed to forget she existed.
“Where is Tom?” El Patrón turned to Matt.
“I put him at the baby table,” said Matt.
“You pig!” shouted María.
El Patrón laughed. “That’s the stuff, Mi Vida. Get rid of your enemies when you can. I don’t like Tom either, and dinner will be better without him.”
Felicia balled up her napkin in her fist, but she didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to stay here! I want to be with Tom!” cried María.
“Well, you can’t,” Matt said flatly. Why did she always have to stick up for him? She didn’t even stop to think. There was no way Furball could have pulled the lid down on top of himself. But she didn’t believe Matt because he was only a “disgusting clone.” A d
ull rage at the unfairness of it swept over him.
“Do as you’re told, girl.” El Patrón suddenly lost interest in the drama and turned to Mr. MacGregor on his other side.
María, choking back tears, was pushed up to the table by Tam Lin. “I’ll see he gets the same food as the rest of us,” he whispered.
“No, you won’t,” said Matt.
Tam Lin raised his eyebrows. “Is that a direct order, Master Matt?”
“Yes.” Matt tried to ignore María’s soft whimpers as she strove not to draw attention to herself. If she couldn’t bring herself to punish Tom, he would do it for her. Food was brought and served. María selected bits to feed Furball and continued to stare down at her lap.
“Fetal brain implants—I must try that sometime,” said MacGregor. “It’s done wonders for you.”
“Don’t put it off too long,” El Patrón advised. “You have to give the doctors at least five months’ lead time. Eight is better.”
“I won’t be able to use—?”
“Oh, no. He’s much too old.”
Felicia was staring down at her plate with almost as much dejection as María. She wasn’t even pretending to eat. She drank from a tall glass that was regularly filled by a servant. She looked pleadingly at MacGregor, although Matt couldn’t guess what she could want from him. In any case, he ignored her—and so did her husband and everyone else for that matter.
El Viejo, Mr. Alacrán’s father, spilled his food and made a mess on the tablecloth. No one paid attention to him, either.
“See, there’s an example of someone who didn’t get his implants when he should have,” said El Patrón, pointing at El Viejo.
“Father decided against it,” said Mr. Alacrán.
“He’s a fool, then. Look at him, Matt. Would you believe that’s my grandson?”
Matt hadn’t worked out the exact relationship between El Viejo and El Patrón before. It hadn’t seemed important. El Patrón looked ancient, no doubt about it, but his mind was sharp. At least now it was. After those whatever-they-were implants. El Viejo could hardly string a sentence together, and some of the time he sat in his room and screamed. Celia said that happened to some old people and that Matt mustn’t worry about it.