“I was going to give you a tour, but I see you’ve already found the lab,” said Dr. Rivas. He was standing in the open doorway, and behind him was the fountain of children. “You really should rest for a while, mi patrón. You aren’t well yet.”
“I want all the tissue samples destroyed,” said Matt.
“That would destroy a hundred years of work. To a scientist, that is a mortal sin.”
“I don’t understand about sin, but I know evil when I see it,” the boy said passionately.
“Cloning isn’t the only thing that goes on here.” The doctor pulled out a chair and sat down. “The scientists made many discoveries about congenital diseases. Do you know about sickle-cell anemia? They learned to grow healthy bone marrow in this lab to replace the diseased marrow of a victim.”
“By using clones, I suppose,” Matt said.
“At first. But by sacrificing a few, they saved thousands. They regenerated spinal tissue to heal paralysis. You see, this was the premier research lab in the world, because we could experiment on humans. Well, almost humans.”
Matt struggled with the idea. The longer he was in Opium, the more the line between good and evil blurred. Of course it was good to save people who, through no fault of their own, were suffering. You cut corners, made compromises, and soon you were in the same position as El Patrón, shooting down a passenger plane to avert a war.
“Where are those scientists now?”
Dr. Rivas smiled sadly. “With El Patrón.”
“That’s what I would call a mortal sin,” said Matt. He looked at the freezers lining the wall. They extended from floor to ceiling, with a ladder on wheels to allow access to the top levels. There must be thousands of bottles in there, he thought. “What if we only destroyed the drug lord samples?”
“Surely you want El Patrón’s,” said Dr. Rivas. “What if you should fall ill and need a transplant? You’re the first clone who has lived beyond his thirteenth year, and we don’t know whether there are hidden weaknesses in you. Forgive me for using that word, mi patrón. I’m a scientist, not a diplomat. But please consider: When you were young, we tried to protect you against everything, and yet you still developed asthma and caught scarlet fever.”
“I’ll take my chances. There will be no more clones.”
“Mi patrón—”
“No more clones!” shouted Matt. He almost walked out before realizing that he didn’t know where he was. “Which way is my room? I’d like to lie down.”
“Of course! You can rest in the nursery. It’s much closer.”
The doctor led Matt back along the path by the fountain, and the boy paused to let a breeze blow a fine spray over his face. “This is so beautiful,” he said. “Why is it here?”
“El Patrón wanted statues of his brothers and sisters who had died, but of course there were no pictures of them. He selected Illegals for models from what he could remember.”
“He used real children?” Matt stepped out of the spray.
The seven statues faced the center of the fountain. The girls were so small, they could not look over a windowsill, not even if they stood on tiptoe. The five boys were larger, and two of them, the ones who had been beaten to death by the police, were almost adults. They were filled with joy by the water that pattered over their faces. Their hands were outstretched to hold this miracle that fell all year long, not just for two months in dry, dusty Durango.
And the models? What had happened to them?
18
THE AFRICAN CHILD
The nursery, fortunately, had normal-size beds. Matt didn’t think he could stand a row of empty cribs. It was a brightly lit room with pictures of baby animals on the walls. Stuffed dolls, building blocks, and simple puzzles were strewn over the floor. Matt lay down. He really was tired, and depressed for so many reasons that he had trouble sorting them all out: the fight with María, Esperanza’s scorn, the child who had fled from him in the garden, the clone lab, and last of all, the fountain full of El Patrón’s embalmed memories.
He fell into a deep sleep and only stirred when he heard a strange noise: Bub-bub-bub-bub-bub. A sharp voice said, “You take that out of your mouth, Mbongeni.” Matt heard a scuffle and an outraged squawk. He was so tired he didn’t want to open his eyes, but the thought occurred to him that the room was littered with toys. Recently used toys.
He opened his eyes. Someone had raised bars around one of the beds, creating a cage. Inside sat a chubby black boy in diapers. He was too old for diapers, being at least six, and he was rocking back and forth. Bub-bub-bub-bub-bub, he said, blowing air through his lips. Outside the bars sat the little girl Matt had seen in the garden. The place where the bite had been was covered by a bandage.
“Do you want a bottle, Mbongeni?” asked the girl. “Nice, warm milk? Nummy-nummy-nums?”
Mbongeni smiled, and a line of drool fell from his lips. The girl got up and went to a small fridge. She removed a bottle and put it into a microwave for a few seconds. She was so tiny and businesslike that Matt was charmed. She had clearly not seen him yet.
The microwave chimed, and the girl expertly tested the temperature of the milk on her skinny wrist before handing it to the boy. “Muh! Muh!” he cried, cramming the nipple into his mouth and sucking lustily.
“That’s very good,” said Dr. Rivas. He was sitting on the far side of the bed, and the little girl watched him intently. “If you were bigger, I’d let you take Mbongeni for a crawl. I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to stop him if he got into trouble.”
“I wish he could talk,” said the girl.
“He’ll always be a baby, but he doesn’t seem to mind.” The doctor looked up and saw Matt. “There’s someone I want you to meet—no seas timida. Don’t be shy, little one.”
“No,” moaned the girl, but Dr. Rivas picked her up and carried her to Matt’s bed.
“Mi patrón, this is Listen, a very bright girl.”
“I saw her in the garden,” said Matt. “She was crying because something had bitten her.” He held out his hand, but the girl flinched away.
The doctor grimaced. “That, I’m afraid, is an ongoing problem.”
“Someone should protect her.”
At this, Listen looked up and met Matt’s eyes for the first time.
“I want to be your friend,” the boy said, extending his hand again. She touched it briefly and retreated. “What kind of name is Listen?” he asked Dr. Rivas.
“African. It may sound odd, but all names have meanings in their original languages. Matteo means ‘gift of God,’ and Mirasol means ‘look at the sun.’ ”
“ ‘Look at the sun.’ Yes, that suits her,” said Matt, thinking of Waitress’s habit of following him around like a small planet. “Do you listen a lot?” he asked the little girl. She hung her head.
“She does. That’s why I’m glad we didn’t have to blunt her intelligence when she was harvested,” the doctor said.