The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(12)

“You hope the hybrids will cultivate sugar instead of employing the macehuales?”

“You’ve seen Moreau’s work. Hybrids walking upright on two legs, with hands to handle tools. It can be done, if the good doctor can fix a few minor issues.”

“What minor issues?”

“As my daughter noted, some hybrids die. The maturation is a challenge,” the doctor said. “Accelerating their growth is necessary, but sometimes the process can cause defects. All hybrids have shorter life spans, which makes perfect sense. Think of a cat. At twelve years of age, it is already an old cat. That is not so for a human.”

“How old are the hybrids we saw?”

“They were born some seven years ago but would now be comparable to a twelve-or thirteen-year-old child in terms of their faculties and physical development. They have proven to be my greatest success. Their maturation has slowed down, and if it proceeds at this rate they should be able to live, oh, thirty or thirty-five years without any issues. More than that and they might develop severe bone problems.”

“Thirty years still does not strike me as a particularly long life span.”

“It’s longer than a year,” Lizalde said.

“Is that how long they used to live?”

“In the beginning it wasn’t long, no. When I extended the life span there were setbacks. Skin issues, muscle and nerve twitches,” the doctor said.

“And yet these two might develop bone problems, too.”

“At thirty, perhaps. Which is a good deal better than at eight. But that is not the only complication. Just as Carlota must receive injections to maintain her good health, in turn the hybrids must receive medication to ensure they remain stable. They’d sicken without it. As you can imagine, this makes it implausible for us to send our current set of workers over to Mr. Lizalde’s haciendas, but that is the ultimate goal.”

“How many hybrids do you have now?”

“Over two dozen. You can see them later, if you’d like. I do wonder if it’s true, what Mr. Lizalde said about you.”

“What did he say?”

“We have conducted an exhaustive search, trying to find a man of the right caliber to work as the mayordomo at Yaxaktun. I require someone who can procure animal specimens for me. There are supplies that must be brought over, there is business in Mérida you might have to attend to. There are a thousand things you need to do. But the most important thing you must do is look after the hybrids. You’ve worked at a logging camp and in other arduous conditions, dealing with a variety of people. I think that is useful experience. However, the reason why you stand before me today is because Mr. Lizalde assured me you are not afraid of wild animals.”

Montgomery’s porcelain cup was decorated with yellow flowers, edged with gold. He ran his thumb around the rim and smirked. “Mr. Lizalde lied. I am afraid of wild animals. Only a fool wouldn’t be.”

“Yet, the jaguar,” Moreau said. “Mr. Lizalde wrote me about the jaguar.”

“The jaguar,” Montgomery said.

That story. The story that had given him whatever renown he had. Mad Montgomery Laughton. El Inglés Loco. He realized he’d have to tell it, for Moreau was looking at him with interest.

“I was in a small town, south of Belize City. Jaguars are opportunistic killers and they tend to stay clear of humans. I don’t know why this one came close to the town, but the people there had seen it twice before. But it had done nothing on those occasions, and they’d chased it off. There were a few women doing their washing by the river. One of the women had taken her daughter with her that day. She was a little girl, about four years of age. The girl was milling around, not too far from her mother, when a jaguar pounced on her from the bushes. It clamped its jaws on her head and dragged her away.

“I went after it. I didn’t have my pistol with me, so I had to use what I did have, which was a knife. I managed to kill the jaguar.”

He didn’t mention that the reason he didn’t have his pistol was that he’d been drinking the previous night and he’d been washing his shirt by the river, since he’d soiled it with vomit. He didn’t mention the hideous quantities of blood staining his fingers. Nor his tears, nor the fact he tried to retch after it was all over and could not. His stomach had already been emptied. But maybe Moreau could discern the totality of the story. There was something knowing in his eyes.

“And you were not hurt?”

“I have scars on my arm from it.” He paused, his fingertips tingling, as if his nerves were remembering the struggle. Sometimes his arm ached, echoes of the battle embedded in his flesh. “The child died. It was useless in the end,” he concluded.

“Nevertheless, it was brave.”

Montgomery grunted and drank his tea. It was not brave to come upon a jaguar as it was chewing on a child and stab it while it was distracted. The people of the village had known better. The mad Englishman.

After it happened he had written to Fanny. He didn’t know what he expected. Perhaps for her to say that, yes, it had been a heroic act. Perhaps to pity him and return to his side, to nurse him back to health. But she had not cared, and she’d sent him a single, brief, cold letter.

“The work at Yaxaktun requires you to be surrounded by animals at all times. It’s a difficult skill set,” Lizalde said.