The House of the Scorpion (8 page)

“You can speak now,
mi vida ,”
said Celia, but Matt wasn’t ready to go that far.

“
Mi vida
. I like that,” the old man said with a chuckle. “I like it so much, in fact, it’s what I’ll call him. Can he talk?”

“I think he’s in shock. In my house he chattered away like a tree full of birds. And he can read both English and Spanish. He’s very intelligent,
mi patrón .”

“Of course. He’s my clone. Tell me, Mi Vida, do you like cookies?”

Matt nodded.

“Then you shall have them. Celia, put his shirt back on and find him a chair. We have much to talk about.”

The next hour passed like a dream. Both the doctor and Celia were sent away. The old man and the boy sat across from each other and dined not only on cookies, but on creamed chicken, mashed potatoes, and applesauce as well. A maid brought them from the kitchen. El Patrón said these foods were his favorites, and Matt decided they were his favorites too.

El Patrón had said they had much to talk about, but in fact, only he did any talking. He rambled on about his youth in Aztlán. It was called Mexico when he was a boy, he said. He came from a place called Durango. “People from Durango are called
alacránes —
scorpions—because there are so many of them scurrying around. When I made my first million, I took that as my name: Matteo Alacrán. It’s your name too.”

Matt smiled, well pleased that he shared something with El Patrón.

As the old man talked, Matt pictured in his mind the dusty cornfields and purple mountains of Durango. He saw the stream that roared with water two months of the year and was dry as a bone the rest of the time. El Patrón swam with his brothers, but, alas, they died of various things before they had a chance to grow up. El Patrón’s sisters were carried off by typhoid when they were so small, they couldn’t look over the windowsill—no, not even if they stood on tiptoe.

Matt thought of María and worried. Those little girls weren’t as old as she when they were carried off by the typhoid. He wondered if that monster resembled the
chupacabras
. Of all those children, only one lived: Matteo Alacrán. He was skinny as a coyote, with not even two pesos to rub together, but he was filled with a burning desire to survive.

At last the voice fell silent. Matt looked up to see that El Patrón had fallen asleep in his chair. Matt was exhausted too. He was so full of food, he had been half asleep for some time. The same men who had taken Rosa now entered, gently lifted El Patrón into a wheelchair, and rolled him away.

Matt worried about what would happen to him now. Would Rosa come back and throw him into the sawdust? Would she make good on her promise to bury him alive?

But it was Celia who triumphantly bore him away. She took him to her new apartment in the Big House. Her possessions had been moved from the old place, so Matt wasn’t too disappointed about not returning home. The Virgin sat, as She always had, on a table by his bed. She had gained a new wreath of plastic roses about her robe and a white lace tablecloth beneath her from Celia, in gratitude for restoring Matt to safety.

All in all, he was pleased with the change, although he missed the doves cooing on the roof and the wind blowing through the poppies.

“Listen up, eejit,” commanded María. “I’m supposed to make you talk.” Matt shrugged. He had no interest in talking, and besides, María did enough for both of them. “I know you can do it. Celia says you’re in shock, but I think you’re just lazy.”

Matt yawned and scratched his armpit.

“El Patrón is going away today.”

Now María had Matt’s interest. He was dismayed that the old man was leaving. He hadn’t seen him since the day he was rescued. Celia said the excitement had been too much for someone who was 140 years old. El Patrón had to stay in bed until he felt well enough to travel to his other house in the Chiricahua Mountains.

“We have to say good-bye to him. Everyone’s coming, and you’d better talk or you’ll be in big trouble.” María squeezed Matt’s mouth as though she could force the words out. He snapped at her. The little girl scrambled away. “You said you didn’t bite!” she screamed. She grabbed a pillow and hit him several times before collapsing on the bed.

“Bad clone!” said María, hugging the pillow to her chest.

Matt considered the idea. Being a clone was bad no matter what you did, so why bother being good at all? He reached over and patted her hand.

“Oh, why won’t you talk?” stormed María. “It’s been over a week. It took Furball only one day to forgive me after the dogcatcher got him.”

Matt wasn’t trying to upset her. He couldn’t talk. When he tried to make the words, he was overcome with terror. To speak was to open a door into his carefully built fortress, and anything might rush inside.

“Matt was locked up a lot longer than your dog,” said Celia as she entered the room. She knelt down and stroked Matt’s face. “Furball was gone only two days. Matt was trapped for six months. It takes time to recover.”

“Is that how it works?” the little girl asked. “The longer you’re sick, the longer it takes to get better?”

Celia nodded. She kept stroking Matt’s face, his hair, his arms. It was as though she were trying to bring feeling back into his body.

“Then I guess,” María said, slowly, “it’s going to take years for El Patrón to get well.”

“Don’t talk about that!” cried Celia so sharply that María hugged the pillow and stared goggle-eyed at the woman. “Don’t say anything about El Patrón! Shoo! I don’t have time to entertain you.” Celia flapped her apron at the girl, who fled without another word.

Matt felt sorry for María. He purposely made his body go stiff to make it hard for Celia to dress him, but Celia didn’t get angry. She hugged him and sang him her favorite lullaby:
“Buenos días paloma blanca. Hoy te vengo a saludar.”
Matt shivered. It was the song to the Virgin, who loved all gentle things and who had watched over him in prison. Then he knew it was wrong to be mean to Celia and let himself go limp again.

“That’s my good boy,” murmured the woman. “You’re a good boy and I love you.”

Matt suffered a moment of panic when she tried to lead him outside. He felt safe in his old bed, with the stuffed animals and the tattered copy of
Pedro el Conejo
. He kept the blinds closed, even though the windows looked out onto a beautiful walled garden. He didn’t want anything new in his life, no matter how beautiful.

“It’s all right. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” said Celia, lifting him in her arms.

Matt had not seen the front of the Big House yet. He was enchanted by the marble-walled entranceway and statues of fat babies with stubby wings. In the center was a dark pond covered with water lilies. Matt clutched Celia when he saw a large fish rise casually from the depths to look at him with a round, yellow eye.

They passed between fluted, white pillars to a porch with wide stairs leading down to a driveway. Everyone was lined up on the porch, servants to one side and family on the other. He saw Steven, Emilia, and María standing at attention. When María tried to sit down, Emilia yanked her up again. Matt saw Tom holding María’s hand and felt an almost uncontrollable surge of anger. How dare he be friends with her! How dare
she
be friends with
him
. If Matt had another wormy orange, he’d hurl it again, no matter what.

El Patrón sat in a wheelchair with a blanket over his legs. The burly men Matt had seen before guarded him. Willum stood nearby, dressed in a gray suit too warm for the day. His face was shiny with sweat. Of Rosa, there was no sign.

“Come here, Mi Vida,” said El Patrón. The old man’s voice was clearly audible over the sounds of birds and fountains. It had a quality that commanded attention in spite of its weakness. Celia put Matt down.

Matt walked to the wheelchair eagerly. He liked everything about El Patrón—his voice, the shape of his face, and his eyes, which were the color of the dark pond with the fish lurking in its depths.

“Show him to the family, Willum,” the old man said.

The doctor’s hand was damp. Matt felt a revulsion to him, but he allowed himself to be led around the porch. He was introduced to Mr. Alacrán, the fierce man who had thrown Matt out that first night and who was Benito’s, Stevens, and Tom’s father. Benito, it was explained, was away at college and Matt would meet him another day. Mr. Alacrán looked at Matt with undisguised loathing.

Felicia, Mr. Alacrán’s wife, was a frail woman with long, nervous fingers. She had been a great concert pianist, the doctor said, until illness forced her to retire. Felicia flashed Willum a quick smile that disappeared when she looked at Matt. With her was Mr. Alacrán father, an old man with white hair who seemed unsure of why he was on the porch.

Then Matt met—again—Steven, Emilia, María, and Tom. Tom gave Matt a scowl, which Matt returned. No one, except María, seemed pleased to meet him, but they all pretended to be friendly.

It’s because they’re afraid of El Patrón
, Matt realized. He didn’t know why, but it was very good that they were.

“Has
el gato —
the cat—still got your tongue?” inquired the old man when Matt was at last brought back to the wheelchair. Matt nodded. “Celia will have to work on that. Listen, all of you,” El Patrón said in a slightly louder voice. “This is my clone. He’s the most important person in my life. If you thought it was any of you sorry, misbegotten swine, think again.” The old man chuckled softly.

“Matt is to be treated with respect, just as though I were here in his place. He is to be educated, well fed, and entertained. He is not to be mistreated.” El Patrón looked directly at Tom, who flushed red. “Anyone—
anyone—
who harms Matt will be dealt with severely. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,
mi patrón ,”
murmured several voices.

“And to be absolutely sure, I’m leaving one of my bodyguards behind. Which of you louts volunteers for the duty?”

The bodyguards shuffled their feet and looked down.

“Overcome with shyness, I see,” El Patrón said. “I picked up this lot in Scotland, breaking heads outside a soccer field. Always choose your bodyguards from another country, Matt. They find it harder to make alliances and betray you. Well, Matt, you make the choice. Which of these shrinking violets do you want for a playmate?”

Appalled, Matt looked at the men. Anyone less playful could hardly be imagined. They were thick-necked and brutal, with flattened noses and scars wandering across their arms and faces. They both had curling, brown hair that grew low upon their foreheads, ruddy faces, and bright blue eyes.

“That one’s Daft Donald—he likes to juggle bowling balls. Tam Lin is the one with the interesting ears.”

Matt shifted his gaze from one to the other. Daft Donald was younger and less battered. He seemed a safer person to have around. Tarn Lin’s ears appeared chewed, they were so misshapen. But when Matt looked into Tarn Lin’s eyes, he was surprised to see a glint of friendliness.

Friendliness was so rare in Matt’s life, he instantly pointed to the man.

“Good decision,” whispered El Patrón. With the introductions disposed of, energy seemed to desert him. He sank back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. “Good-bye, MiVida … until next time,” he murmured.

The Alacráns crowded around and assured El Patrón of their fond regards. He ignored them. Then Daft Donald lifted him, chair and all, and carried him down the stairs to a waiting limousine. Everyone followed, calling out their good wishes. When the car drove off, the family members hurried away. The servants parted around Matt as though he were a rock in a stream and vanished into the house.

He was ignored. Not mistreated, just ignored. Only María had to be dragged off, complaining loudly.

Celia waited patiently for the crowd to clear. And Tarn Lin.

“Well, laddie, let’s see what you’re made of,” said Tam Lin, scooping up Matt in one beefy arm and slinging him over his shoulder.

7
TEACHER

M
att avoided leaving the safe haven of Celia’s apartment for as long as possible. But gradually, Celia and María lured him into the walled garden and, from there, to other parts of the Big House.

Matt didn’t like these excursions. The servants drew away from him as though he were something unclean, and Steven and Emilia turned the other way if they saw him coming. And there was always the danger of running into Tom.

Tom insisted on playing with María. He made her cry, but she always forgave him. He followed her to Celia’s apartment in spite of—or perhaps because of—Matt’s hostility. He seemed to like being where he wasn’t wanted.

“It’s nice here,” Tom said, picking up Matt’s treasured teddy bear. “Catch, María.” He swung the bear viciously by one of its ragged ears and smacked her in the face. The ear tore off. He tossed it to the floor.

“Ow!” she squealed. Matt scrambled for the ear, but Tom put his foot on it. Matt flew at him, and soon they were both down on the floor, kicking and punching. María ran to get Tam Lin.