The House of the Scorpion (42 page)

T
he walk downhill was easy, but Matt found he had to stop and rest frequently. He ached all over from his ordeal the night before, and some of his scratches were infected. He looked back to see Ton-Ton watching gravely from shadows at the top of the pass. The snout of the shrimp harvester was just visible.

Fidelito bounced up and down, waving the flashlight. “Do you think he can see me?”

“I'm sure he can,” said Matt. Sometimes Fidelito's energy made him feel tired.

They went on, with Fidelito asking questions about who they were going to see. Matt told him about María and the Convent of Santa Clara. He didn't know what the convent looked like, but he made up a description to entertain the little boy. “It's a castle on a hill,” he said. “It has a tower with a red roof on each corner. Every morning the girls raise a flag in the garden.”

“Like the Keepers,” said Fidelito.

“Yes,” said Matt. Every morning the Keepers lined up the boys and raised a flag with the emblem of a beehive over the factory. The boys recited the Five Principles of Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-Mindfulness before trooping into the cafeteria for plankton gruel. “This flag has a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe. The girls sing ‘Buenos Días, Paloma Blanca,' her favorite song, and then they have toast and honey for breakfast.”

Fidelito sighed.

Matt wondered whether the Keepers had managed to wake up from their drugged sleep. Were they all lying dead like poor Furball? And would Ton-Ton be arrested for murder? “Can the Keepers get water in their compound?” he asked.

“Flaco said they could drink out of the toilet,” said Fidelito.

It's hard but it's fair
, Matt thought with a grim smile.

“That smell is making me sick,” said Fidelito.

Matt lifted his head. The stench had been growing so gradually, he hadn't registered it. “We must be close to the river,” he said. He scratched the skin of a lemon and held it to Fidelito's nose. “This won't kill the smell, but it should keep you from throwing up.”

Matt heard a gurgling, thrashing noise somewhere to the left and shone the flashlight at it. A wide, black ribbon of water disappeared into a giant drain. It glistened with oil, and here and there shapes struggled to the surface and were pulled down again.

“Is that a fish?” whispered Fidelito.

“I don't think so,” Matt said, shining the light on a long, greasy-looking tentacle that whipped out of the flood and struggled wildly to hang on to the shore. “I think that's the reason
Ton-Ton told you to stay away from the river.” The tentacle lost the battle and disappeared down the drain with a horrible sucking sound.

“Let's run,” begged the little boy.

The ground trembled as the vast river plunged underneath the road. The smell almost made Matt faint.
Bad air. Bad air
, he thought wildly. If they passed out here, no one would rescue them. “Faster!” Matt gasped, but in fact it was he who was slow. Fidelito bounded ahead like a monkey.

They went up a rise. A slight breeze blew the nauseous stench of the river away, and Matt collapsed with his chest heaving. He began to cough. He felt like he was being strangled.
Oh, no
, he thought.
I can't have an asthma attack now.
He'd been free of the illness since he'd left Opium, but the smell of the river had brought it back. He bent over, trying to fill his lungs.

Fidelito frantically scratched his lemon and held it to Matt's nose. “Smell! Smell!” he cried. But it didn't help. Matt was drenched in sweat from his efforts to get air. “I'll go for help,” shouted Fidelito into his ear, as though Matt were deaf as well.
Stop, it's dangerous
, Matt wanted to say. But maybe it was just as well the little boy went on. There was nothing Matt could do to protect him.

How much time passed, Matt couldn't say. The world had shrunk to a tiny patch of road, where he struggled to stay alive. But all at once he felt hands lift him and an inhaler—
an inhaler!
—held to his face. Matt grabbed it and breathed for all he was worth. The attack faded. The world began to expand again.

He saw a brown, weathered face etched by deep wrinkles. “Look what the river coughed up, Guapo,” said the woman.

Guapo—a name meaning “handsome”—hunkered by the
side of the road and gave Matt a big, almost toothless grin. He was at least eighty years old. “The kid picked a lousy place to swim,” he said.

“I was joking,” said the woman. “Nobody swims in that river and survives. Can you walk?” she asked Matt.

Matt got to his feet. He took a few unsteady steps and nodded.

“Stay with us,” the woman said. “I don't suppose your mother's expecting you home tonight.”

“He's a runaway orphan. Look at his uniform,” said Guapo.

“You call those rags a uniform?” The woman laughed. “Don't worry,
niño.
We won't tell anyone. We hate the Keepers as much as you do.”

“Chacho,” Matt gasped out.

“The little one told us about him,” said Guapo. “Look. The ambulance is already on its way.” He pointed up, and Matt saw a hovercraft pass overhead. The antigravity stirred the hair on his arms.

With Guapo on one side and the woman, who identified herself as his sister Consuela, on the other, Matt made his way along the road. He felt light-headed. Everything seemed unreal: the dark road, the starry sky, and the old man and woman who guided his steps.

Presently they came to a high wall. Consuela pressed a button, and a door slid open to show a scene so unexpected, Matt wondered whether he was dreaming after all.

Inside, flanked by graceful paloverde trees, were graves as far as Matt could see. Each one was decorated with palm fronds, flowers, photographs, statues, and hundreds of glittering candles. The candles sat in red, blue, green, yellow, and purple glasses and looked like fragments of rainbow dancing over the ground.

Some of the graves had offerings of food as well: tortillas, bowls of chili, bottles of soda, fruit, and whole herds of tiny donkeys, horses, and pigs made out of pastry or sugar. On one grave was a beautiful little cat with a pink sugar nose and a tail curled around its feet.

Matt saw people sitting in the shadows and speaking to one another in quiet voices. “Where are we?” he murmured.

“A cemetery,
chico
,” said Consuela. “Don't tell me you've never seen one?”

Not like this
, Matt thought. The Alacráns were buried in a marble mausoleum not far from the hospital. It was the size of a house and decorated with so many angels, it looked like a convention of them. You could see through the front door to what appeared to be chests of drawers on either side. The name of a departed Alacrán was inscribed on each long drawer. Matt guessed you could slide them out like the ones in his room, where Celia packed his shirts and socks.

The eejits, of course, were buried in mass graves out in the desert. Tam Lin said their resting places were impossible to distinguish from landfill.

“This looks like a—a party,” Matt faltered.

“It
is
,” cried Fidelito, suddenly appearing from amid a group of women who were unpacking picnic baskets. “We're so lucky! Of all the days we could've come, we picked
El Día de los Muertos
, the Day of the Dead. It's my favorite holiday in the whole year!” He munched on a sandwich.

Matt couldn't understand it. Celia had celebrated every holiday on the calendar, but never had she mentioned this one. She put out shoes for the Wise Men to leave gifts at Christmas. She colored eggs for Easter. She served roast turkey on Thanksgiving and heart-shaped cakes on Saint Valentine's Day. She
had special ceremonies for San Mateo, Matt's patron saint, and for her own Santa Cecilia. And of course there was El Patrón's birthday party. But never, never, never had anyone dreamed of throwing a party for Death!

Yet here Matt saw, on grave after grave, statues of skeletons playing guitars or dancing or driving around in little plastic hovercars. Skeleton mothers took skeleton children for walks. Skeleton brides married skeleton grooms. Skeletons dogs sniffed lampposts, and skeleton horses galloped with Death riding on their backs.

And now Matt became aware of an odor. The foul stench of the river was kept away by the wall, but the air was full of another scent that made every nerve in Matt's body tighten with alarm. It smelled like Felicia! It was as though her ghost hovered before him, breathing the heavy fumes of whiskey into his face. He sat down, suddenly dizzy.

“Are you sick?” asked Fidelito.

“Guapo, find another inhaler in my bag,” said Consuela.

“No . . . no . . . I'm all right,” said Matt. “The smell here reminded me of something.”

“It's only the copal incense we burn for the dead,” Consuela said. “Maybe it reminds you of your
mamá
or
papá
, but you mustn't be unhappy. Tonight is when we welcome them back, to let them see how we're doing and to offer them their favorite foods.”

“They . . . eat?” Matt looked at the tamales, bowls of chili, and loaves of bread decorated with pink sugar.

“Not as we do, darling. They like to smell things,” said Consuela. “That's why we serve so many foods with a good odor.”

“
Mi abuelita
said they come back as doves or mice. She said I mustn't chase anything away if it wants to eat,” said Fidelito.

“That's also true,” said Consuela, putting her arm around the little boy.

Matt thought about the Alacráns in their marble mausoleum. Perhaps El Patrón was there—in the top drawer, of course. Then Matt remembered Celia saying El Patrón wanted to be buried in an underground storeroom with all his birthday presents. Was anyone putting out food for him tonight? Had Celia prepared tamales and bowls of
menudo?
But Celia was hiding in the stables. And Mr. Alacrán wouldn't put out so much as a single chili bean because he hated El Patrón.

Matt blinked away tears. “How can anyone celebrate death?”

“Because it's part of us,” Consuela said softly.

“
Mi abuelita
said I mustn't be afraid of skeletons because I carry my own around inside,” said Fidelito. “She told me to feel my ribs and make friends with them.”

“Your grandmother was very wise,” said Consuela.

“I'm off to town now for the fiesta,” said Guapo, who had put on a handsome black sombrero and slung a guitar over his shoulder. “Do you kids want me to drop you off anywhere?”

Consuela laughed. “You old rogue! You only want to chase women.”

“I don't have to
chase
anyone,” the old man replied haughtily.

“Come home in one piece, Guapito. I worry about you.” She kissed him and straightened the sombrero on his head.

“What about it, kids? Shall I take you to see Chacho? He's in the hospital at the Convent of Santa Clara.”

“That's where we were going!” Fidelito cried.

“What about the Keepers?” Matt said.

“They stay off the streets when there's a party. Too much fun,” said Consuela. “But just in case . . . ” She fished around in her large bag and brought out a pair of masks. “I was saving
these for my grandchildren, but I'll get them something else.” She fitted a mask over Fidelito's face.

Matt felt a strange tightening in his chest when he saw the skull staring back at him from Fidelito's skinny body. “Put yours on too,” urged the little boy. Matt couldn't move. He couldn't take his eyes off Fidelito's face.

“I've got one of my own,” said Guapo, slipping on his mask.

“That's an improvement, believe me,” said Consuela. Guapo capered around, his black sombrero bobbing over his skullface. Matt knew they were trying to cheer him up, but he felt only horror.

“Listen,
mi vida
,” said Consuela. Matt flinched at the sound of his old name. “I don't know what bad things happened to you, but it's a matter of safety to wear the mask now. The Keepers won't bother you if you're wearing a costume.”

Matt saw the wisdom of her suggestion. Very reluctantly, he pulled the mask over his head. It fitted him like a second skin, with holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth. It felt like being buried alive, and he had to struggle against panic. He took a deep breath and willed the horror away.

“Muchas gracias,”
he said.

“De nada,”
Consuela replied.

A
s he followed Guapo, Matt noticed that all the graves were dotted with golden flowers. When they reached the road, he saw a trail of their bright petals leading from the cemetery.