The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(48)

“It’s better, I guess. How’s the cut on your forehead?”

“It won’t spoil my looks.”

Montgomery retrieved his battered cigarette case from his pocket and offered one to Cachito, who declined with a twist of his head. Not far from them, two snowy ibises stood by the shore, contrasting with the green of the trees behind them. Slowly, very slowly, one of them turned an inch and looked in their direction.

“He never hit me before. Melquíades hit me, and one time I bit him and he hit me even more, but the doctor never did. I always thought he was better. He talks about obedience and he talks about meekness and he says he loves us and then he…then he—”

“Then he’s a hypocrite?” Montgomery replied. “I was in a village once where the priest preached fire and brimstone. He asked the young women to help him clean up the church after mass. And wouldn’t you know it, for all his preaching those girls ended with bastards in their bellies who looked a lot like that priest.”

He’d heard worse, too. He’d heard and seen a veritable litany of horrors. That was the world. Satan made it, he had thought when he was younger and on his way to becoming a budding heretic. Now he simply thought that it was the work of a cruel and wicked god.

“In the newspaper, sometimes, I’ve read ads from hacendados. They write that a worker has run away and they are giving a reward for whoever brings him back,” Cachito said. “But they’re not able to find all of them. Some hide away and they become bandits, or they slip away somewhere safe. If they can, who is to say we couldn’t get away?”

Montgomery nodded, but he didn’t want to offer a full answer. What could he say? If Cachito ran off he’d be dead within a few days without his medication, and if he made it longer perhaps Hernando Lizalde might send a bounty hunter after him. That’s what they did with the laborers who dared to abandon their haciendas. Then the fee incurred on the bounty hunter was added to the debts the laborer owed the hacendado. This was also why Montgomery remained at his post. He owed money, and Lizalde might collect with blood if he dared to run off.

“Was it the same in Cuba?”

“People running away? They have indentured laborers there, too. They’ve been shipping Chinese people to work on the plantations for decades. They call it the yellow trade. Eight years, that’s what Chinese people sign up for. Now they’re sending rebel Maya Indians to the island. Instead of being dragged to jail you get put on a ship and dragged to Cuba. It’s all the same,” he said, waving his cigarette in the air. “Everyone is damned, and if they ban the trade of Indians, they’ll find a way to circumvent it. The slave trade supposedly ceased sixty years ago, but they found ways around the laws.”

“The rebels fight back. I always thought you were brave for fighting a jaguar, Montgomery. But I don’t think you’re so brave after all. You don’t fight for anything. You just want to die,” Cachito said gravely.

Montgomery shook his head and took a long drag from his cigarette. He didn’t bother denying it. Yes, he was dead and dying, a fish flopping around and gasping for air, and for some damn reason the universe hadn’t seen fit to completely cut off his supply of oxygen. That cruel, unflinching god enjoyed his suffering. Perhaps it feasted on it. That might be the ultimate face of god: the face of implacable horror.

The white ibises were flying away, and Cachito spoke again.

“Lupe said she saw Juan Cumux one time. It was near the cenote.”

“How did she know it was him?”

“She knew. He didn’t have his men, it was him alone. She says he’s old, but not like Moreau. Moreau is old like he’s made of stone, but Cumux is old like the mangrove. He stands against the storm.”

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Don’t be afraid, Cachito.”

“I’m not afraid,” the boy said sharply.

Montgomery thought to tell him that there was nothing wrong with being afraid, that he’d been afraid many times in his life. That when his father beat him he closed his eyes and prayed he might fly away. But it was no use because he knew by the hardness of his stare such words would offend Cachito even more. So he let it be, and Cachito stretched out his hand and Montgomery gave him the cigarette.

He felt terribly old as they walked back together, and by the time he stopped in front of the doorway to the library he was exhausted. Then he saw Carlota, curled on the only couch in the room. She held a book in one hand and a fan with the other. She was biting her lower lip, deep in thought. It must be one of those books she liked about a pirate or a filibuster, soaked with heady adventure and romance.

“Where is Eduardo?” he asked.

The day before she’d been around and around the courtyard with him. Montgomery had expected the young man to stick by her side, like a barnacle. It was a rare pleasure to find her like this, alone, and for a moment he wished he hadn’t spoken up and simply admired her from afar. She’d looked peaceful.

Carlota marked the page of her book with a ribbon before looking up at him. Behind her were tall bookcases crammed with many volumes, but the library was threadbare compared to the sitting room, with an old desk in a corner to serve as ornament.

“He’s taking a nap. Where were you? My father was looking for you.”

“Out for a walk with Cachito. Was it anything important?”