The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(11)
Naturally, her father didn’t approve of them using nicknames—it was lowly, he complained—but there wasn’t much he could do about it and even he had grown accustomed to their monikers. Ramona told them stories, taught them words, and they lived by the doctor’s rules but also Ramona’s habits. That, Ramona said, was as it should be, for the world is a constant compromise, a greeting of the other and of yourself.
“Hello, Mr. Laughton,” Cachito and Lupe said in unison.
“Give him your hand.”
Laughton extended his hand and shook the hands of both of the children, nodding. He looked dazzled. His wry grin had vanished.
“Witness here, the ears,” her father said, pulling Cachito forward. He had pointed ears, covered with a fine brown fur, which her father now gently poked at. “But with Lupe, they’re somewhat smaller and the fingers are better developed. See here, too, the jaw. It protrudes, but it’s not as bad as with the boy’s.”
As he spoke her father cupped Lupe’s face, tilting her head up. “They’re still young and their features haven’t settled. But you can see how well formed they are. Can you say something else to Mr. Laughton?”
“We’re pleased to meet you,” Cachito said.
“Did you bring candy?” Lupe asked.
“I…yes. I’m pleased to meet you,” Laughton said. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring candy.”
Laughton pressed a hand against his mouth and simply stared at Cachito and Lupe for a moment before turning his face away and looking at her father.
“Sir, I need to sit down and I need a glass of water.”
“Yes, not a problem. Ramona, brew a pot of tea and bring it to the sitting room. We’ll chat there. Carlota, please take the key to the laboratory back to my room, will you?” her father asked, his palm settling on her shoulder and patting it twice. “Later we will have supper.”
“Yes, father. It was a pleasure seeing you, gentlemen,” she said, remembering her courtesies. She was good when it came to minding such details, her voice soft, her head lowered to indicate her agreement.
Chapter 4
Montgomery
The doctor opened a box and offered them cigars. Montgomery shook his head. He watched Moreau light his cigar with dexterous fingers, watched him sit on the couch and smile as Ramona walked in with the tea.
He reached for a dainty cup, felt the porcelain beneath his fingers. Yet he still wondered whether he had hallucinated. Perhaps the drink had finally rotted his brain. Sometimes he dreamed of Elizabeth—he could swear she was whispering in his ear. But he had never seen things.
No, what he’d witnessed had been real, and now they were sitting in this room, calmly drinking tea. As if nothing were amiss. As if they had not gazed at a miracle or a curse made flesh.
The hybrid called Livia was taller than her male counterpart, slender, and had a shorter snout and rounded ears, resembling in coloration and features the jaguarundi. The boy, Cesare, had the black spots and streaks of an ocelot. His fur was a tawny color, his face rounder. Though looking at them one could immediately link them to wild cats, they also possessed human form, and he was left thinking of an Egyptologist who had once shown him drawings of gods with animal heads. Or else the carvings in ancient Maya temples where one could spy the face of an ancient god conjoined with a beast from the jungle. Montgomery could not begin to imagine how Moreau had managed to fashion such creatures. In fact, he could hardly form a sentence.
“Feeling any better, Mr. Laughton?”
“I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling,” he said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Doctor, what you’ve shown me is…there are hardly words to describe it.”
“It’s a leap, is what it is,” Moreau said.
“Yes, I suppose so. But what is the purpose? I can understand attempting to heal your daughter’s illness, but how could the creation of the hybrids benefit you?”
“It doesn’t benefit him. It benefits me,” Lizalde said. He sat in a high-backed mahogany armchair which didn’t look the least bit comfortable, but upon which he had perched in a kingly manner, an unlit cigar in his right hand. “The hybrids might address our worker issues.”
“Worker issues?”
“The Indians of the region have always worked the fields. They have been traditionally laborious and orderly, when the right pressure is applied. But then came trash like Jacinto Pat to stoke violence. Sugar is valuable. And henequen might be, too, but if and only if we have enough hands to work the land, which can’t be done when half the damn peninsula is in revolt and the other half cannot be trusted. I view every Indian with distrust these days, Mr. Laughton. They have a conspirator’s streak in them.
“Now, it’s true that in the old days we could import black workers from the Caribbean, but now that is no longer possible. It was, in any case, always too expensive. In Mérida I’ve heard gentlemen say we ought to bring men from China or Korea. I can’t tell you what the expense might be to do that,” Lizalde said, pausing to light the cigar he’d been toying with.
“Besides, even if we were able to bring these Chinese folk, it might be for naught. I have a friend who tried importing a crew of Italians. They died of yellow fever. Not everyone can acclimate to our land,” Lizalde said, his thin lips twisting with displeasure. “Local workers, workers reared in the peninsula. That is the trick.”