“You look tired, sir. Would you like to meditate in our chapel?” said the foreman.
Matt looked up, pleased by the word sir. “I thought the chapel was in the church.”
“This isn’t official.” The man seemed slightly embarrassed. “It’s just a place to rest for the foremen and Farm Patrol. No one else is allowed in, but as you’re the new patrón . . . ”
Matt followed him, intrigued. The foreman unlocked a small room, hardly bigger than a pantry. It was decorated with flowers and holy candles, and sitting in a chair was a life-size statue of a man. Matt flinched. It was El Patrón. Or at least what he had looked like at age thirty. The statue was made of plaster and was slightly chipped, as saints’ images tended to be. Its eyes were jet-black. It was dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and wore a black bandanna around its neck.
On a small altar were offerings: plastic flowers, silver charms, pictures. A drawing of a little girl with braids caught Matt’s attention. It was hardly more than a stick figure, and the artist had written the name Alicia with an arrow, to identify the portrait. “What’s this for?” Matt asked.
The foreman hesitated. “Some of the men left family behind when they came here. They don’t have photographs, so they draw pictures.”
“Why?”
“To ask the saint for help. That one, if you look on the back, wants his wife to have enough money to raise his daughter. A silver charm means that someone wants a cure—an eye for blindness, an arm for a broken bone. The ear was left by Mr. Ortega.”
A cone-shaped lump of copal incense filled the little chapel with fumes. Matt felt for his inhaler, just in case. “What’s the saint’s name?” he asked, and braced for the answer. But it wasn’t El Patrón. The old man hadn’t made it that far into heaven.
“That is Jesús Malverde, the guardian of drug dealers,” said the foreman. “He was a bandit from Culiacán, with the difference that he didn’t keep what he stole. He took from the rich and gave to the poor. They say he was betrayed by a friend, who cut off his feet and dragged his body for miles to get a reward. Malverde’s body was hung from a mesquite tree by the local governor, but the poor people cut it down and buried him in a secret place. He has done many miracles.”
“Have you ever seen a picture of El Patrón as a young man?” asked Matt, looking at the statue.
The foreman laughed. “No, but I know what you’re talking about. You see, there was never a photograph of the original Malverde. When the artist wanted a model for the saint, he asked El Patrón to sit for him. The old man was young then and was flattered to be compared with a saint. In later years no one could see the resemblance, but some of the men have noticed the likeness between Malverde and you.”
Matt remembered that first day when Cienfuegos had introduced him to a Farm Patrolman called Angus. Angus had bent down and said, Begging your pardon, sir, but doesn’t he look like—
And Cienfuegos had replied, It’s hardly surprising. El Patrón was the original model.
Matt was delighted. Wait till he told María! Brother Wolf had not only become human, he’d turned into a saint. “I’d like to sit here alone for a while, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“You don’t need to ask my permission,” the foreman said, almost reprovingly. “You’re the patrón.”
After the man had gone, Matt looked through the offerings. There were various body parts crafted out of silver, even a stomach. Perhaps someone had ulcers. The drawings were mostly of children. Some appeared several times, as though the artist wanted to be sure that the saint noticed them. One was of an old woman. As Matt looked, he felt the ghostly presence of family members who would never know the fate of their men. He assumed that the drawings were by men because women, except for Celia, were turned into eejits.
He read the pleas for help. Most wanted money. Some asked for a dream telling them how their relatives were doing. Some wrote messages that they hoped the saint would pass on.
Toward the bottom of the heap, Matt came across a real photograph. It was of a little girl with black hair cut in the same style as María. She had a serious face, and her hands lay loosely in her lap as though she had been waiting for a long time. He turned it over.
Dear holy and miraculous Malverde, the note said. My daughter begged me to stay, but I did not listen. I left her with her mother. She was so good. She was so young. I can never see her again, and now my heart is frozen. Please! Please! Please! Out of your mercy, take care of her. I will do anything for you, if only you tell me what it is. Eligio Cienfuegos.
14
MADNESS
Matt was in an irritable mood that evening, and he had a persistent, dull headache. He ordered Celia to serve him dinner in the kitchen. “I’m a drug lord. I do what I like,” he snapped when she tried to argue. Everyone eyed him nervously. Cienfuegos arrived late, slinking into a chair in his usual noiseless way.
“I distributed the eejit pellets,” he announced. “There’s enough for three months with our current population. Of course, we’ll need more eejits as the workers die off.” He helped himself to potato salad and turkey. Celia poured him a mug of pulque, and he settled back with a satisfied sigh. “How was the convent?” he asked Matt.
“Don’t ask,” the boy said.
“Ah! The visit went badly. Did Esperanza throw sand in your eyes?” asked Cienfuegos.
“She wasn’t there. She’d taken María to New York for dancing lessons. I talked to my friends from the plankton factory.”
The jefe raised his eyebrows, and Celia shrugged. “He didn’t tell me what happened,” she said.
“I had a picnic, okay? I ate on one side of the portal and the boys ate on the other.”
“So far, so good,” said Cienfuegos. “What went wrong?”
“Fidelito let María’s bird out of a cage. It flew through the portal and shattered like a piece of glass.”
The jefe nodded and took another drink of pulque. “The holoport is a wormhole connecting one place to another. Inside, I’m told, it’s as cold as outer space. I don’t understand the science and neither did El Patrón, but he always had brainy people working for him. It’s no great loss. There are lots of birds.”
“You don’t understand!” cried Matt. “The holoport made me feel like I was really in the same room with my friends. I was happy. Then the bird died, and I knew it was all a big lie. I don’t want the boys on the other side of a wormhole. I want them here, and I want María, too. I am owed those lives!”
Celia and Cienfuegos looked at each other sharply. “What an odd turn of phrase,” murmured Celia.
“It’s only a coincidence,” said Cienfuegos.
“Another thing,” Matt said, close to tears and trying to control it. His head was pounding. “I’m tired of people talking in riddles. Say what you mean or shut up! I’m going to my apartment, and I want my food sent there along with Mirasol.” He got up, intending to stride out like a tough guy, but instead he knocked the chair over and almost fell himself. No one tried to help him.