Hungry Ghosts (22 page)

44

Shortly after Inspector Ramirez entered his
office, Manuel Flores knocked on his door. “I hope you don't mind me dropping by, Ramirez. I thought I'd check on your welfare. I know these are particularly difficult cases. Detective Espinoza mentioned your family is out of town. I thought it might help if you had someone to talk to.” Flores put his hand on the door frame to steady himself. “If that's what you want, of course. Are you going to invite me to sit down?”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Flores,” Ramirez said, taking to his feet until the older man had lowered himself onto one of the hard wooden chairs. Ramirez thought he looked even more tired and drawn, his breathing laboured. “It's nice of you to be concerned about my welfare when you're . . .”

“When I'm what, Inspector? Dying?” Flores smiled. “I'm not dead yet. The Americans have some amazing new treatments for cancer, ways of targeting tumours without killing the healthy cells
around them. Once my work is done here, I'll be heading right back to New York to start an experimental therapy. But let's talk about you. I thought you seemed stressed the other day. How can I help?”

Ramirez sat back in his chair. He did feel burdened by his secrets. He had never found a way to tell Francesca about his ghosts; he was afraid she would think he was losing his mind. And he had never been able to broach the topic with Apiro either. He didn't want it to affect their friendship.

Adding to his unease was the fact that the attractive female ghost who had showed up this week had him thinking about what it would be like to sleep with another woman. After twelve years, his relationship with Francesca was not as passionate as it once was, although she was always responsive. He loved his wife, but his marriage was showing cracks. Francesca knew something was wrong, but not what, and he didn't know how to tell her. The ghosts were bad enough, but that he had blackmailed the Minister of the Interior? She'd be frightened that he'd put their family at risk. And he worried that he had.

“Things are a little complicated at home,” Ramirez said.

Flores nodded. “They often are for policemen. Divorce rates have always been high in our business. With the shift work and the terrible things we see, it's amazing that any of us manage to have healthy relationships. I worry about you in particular, because I know you try to see things from the perspective of the murderers you're investigating. That makes you vulnerable to all kinds of psychological reactions. Post-traumatic stress is one, but there are others. Are you managing?”

Ramirez took a deep breath and exhaled. He had to tell someone; his secrets were making him crazy. “Sometimes I think I can see the murder victims from my investigations. My grandmother was Yoruba. She believed the dead come to life in our dreams.”

“Ah, yes, the Yoruba. Fascinating, their belief systems.
Okan
, they call it.
Okan re ti lo.
Buried in thought.” The psychiatrist shrugged.
“I've become far more tolerant of other people's beliefs as I deal with my own mortality. The world is far too complex to ever fully comprehend. I still find it incredible that light travels faster than sound. How vivid are these visions?”

“Very vivid,” Ramirez said. “I see them when I'm awake and sometimes when I'm falling asleep. Or waking up.”

“Ah,” said Flores. “We call those lucid dreams. They're quite common. So, what is it that you see, exactly?”

Ramirez sighed. “It's as if I can see their ghosts. But they're not transparent; they're solid and real. They never speak; they just gesture. And I feel helpless, because I can't understand what it is they're trying to tell me.”

“Interesting,” said Flores. “It sounds as if you're having what psychiatrists call an apparitional experience. It's not a mental illness. It simply refers to a situation where someone who's perfectly sane sees someone who isn't really there, and most often a stranger.”

“That's what it's like with me,” Ramirez exclaimed.

“Well, it's not paranormal or even supernatural, if that makes you feel better, unless of course you believe in ghosts.” Flores smiled.

“I'm not even sure I believe in God, Dr. Flores.”

“Well, I don't think you have to believe in God to believe in ghosts, or in ghosts to believe in God, but this condition, for lack of a better word, is nothing to be worried about. In the 1970s, two American scientists—I think one was named McCreery—examined hundreds of reported cases. They weren't able to determine a cause, but they did find certain commonalities. The people who saw the apparitions weren't frightened by them but usually found them reassuring and supportive. They tended to see the visions at rather ordinary places, as opposed to somewhere that might typically be considered haunted, like a graveyard. And the visions could often be so real, so substantial, that patients realized only later that they weren't.”

“Did they ever speak to them? The ghosts?”

“The researchers don't like to call them ghosts, because that implies something paranormal, and that's not what this is. No, the patients rarely communicated with these visions; verbal interaction would be considered unusual. And scientifically, the researchers couldn't find any difference between their perceptions and normal ones. The people who had an apparitional experience were lucid and not drugged. They were completely, utterly, sane.”

“Why does it happen?” Ramirez asked.

“I think probably some portion of your brain is processing symbolic information, subconsciously trying to help you with your investigations. It's a way we have of adapting to stressful conditions, making it easier to cope without being overwhelmed.”

“So I'm not crazy?”

“Not at all.” Manuel Flores smiled. He took to his feet. “It's been a long day; I need to get back to work. I wish my problems were as easy to solve as yours. But I hope that helps you feel better.”

“It does,” Ramirez said gratefully. He felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. “
Gracias.
It really does.”

As soon as Manuel Flores left Ramirez's office, the inspector's telephone rang. His sense of being unburdened was short-lived. “I've been trying to reach you all day,” said Dominique Gatti, the Italian curator's assistant, impatiently. “Our government intends to file a formal complaint if our paintings are not released tomorrow. We have a small window of opportunity to make the necessary repairs, and we're running out of time. We are far more concerned with that than with you making an arrest. I sincerely hope you are close to completing your investigation.”

“We're making progress,” Ramirez lied.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Gatti said. “Because if we don't have those paintings back tomorrow, this will become an international incident. I'm sure you don't want that.”

“I'll call you as soon as I have some information. Please be patient, Señora.”

As soon as Ramirez hung up, the phone rang again. He picked it up and immediately recognized the voice of the minister's clerk.

“The minister is being harassed by an Italian curator named Lorenzo Testa,” she said crisply. She sounded confident, her authority restored. “He said to tell you, he wants no more calls. The paintings will be released to the Italians tomorrow. You have until tomorrow noon to close this file, or else.”

Ramirez wasn't sure what the “or else” might be. But the fact that it was the minister's clerk and not the minister issuing the threat was not a good sign.

“Tell him I'm working on it,” he said.

He sighed, not knowing where to start, and put the phone down.

45

Ramirez found Detective Espinoza seated at
his desk, flipping through a sheaf of papers. He told Espinoza about the impending deadline.

“I've been working on it,” said Espinoza. “I checked with Customs yesterday. They said they stopped several
extranjeros
with aerosol paint cans in their suitcases, as well as microphones. But they didn't seize them.”

In Cuba, a microphone was a dangerous weapon, capable of inciting dissent. The penalties for possessing one were harsh. But rules were relaxed during the hip-hop festival. Fidel Castro had even ordered that microphones and sound systems be supplied to the rappers. It allowed the security forces to shut down any performer whose message was counter-revolutionary simply by shutting down the feed.

Castro's approach to capitalist technology reminded Ramirez of the Ayatollah Khomeini. He too had used a microphone to denounce Western science on television.

“I really have no idea how to track down a political dissident,” said Ramirez. Most of them were in jail already. “But I'm going to head over to la Moña. I know someone who might.”

La Moña, the site of the hip-hop festival, was east of Alamar. The roads in the area were choked with parked taxis, coco-taxis, scooters, bicycles, and tourist buses, but Ramirez finally found a spot for his small car.

He got out and slammed the door. His shirt was wet and sticky because of the humidity. When he reached the venue, he could see thousands of people clustered around a dozen or more plywood stages. A reggae band played on one. The sound of
guaguancó—
Afro-­Cuban percussion music—drifted from another.

Ramirez pushed his way through the throngs, looking for Nassara Nobiko. Another policeman might call her his
chivato
—his snitch—but she preferred to think of herself as an elder stateswoman. She had brought the first African-American rappers to the island, and it was mostly because of her that the government created the Agencia Cubana de Rap, as well as a rap record label.

Thousands of young foreigners and Cubans were enjoying the music. The occasional whiff of marijuana hung in the air. Men and women held their arms high, waving pieces of cloth to the music.

Young Cubans were intrigued by rap and hip-hop. In the beginning, they had used the music to send political and social messages, even if the lyrics were less politically charged than those in the United States. But all that had changed. The sound of
reggaeton
drifted from another stage. Ramirez walked up to the intelligence officer who was monitoring the music and asked if he'd seen Nassara.

“She's at the main stage,” the officer said, pointing. After searching through the crowd for a few minutes, Ramirez finally saw her standing at the side of the platform.

She frowned as he walked over. “
Reggaeton
is crap, Ramirez.
Rappers used to be the voice of protest,” she said. “Now they just sing about getting drunk and getting laid. They don't want to get put in jail because they sang something nasty about some badass politician.”

“All legitimate desires, Nassara,” said Ramirez. He took her soft dark hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Getting laid, getting drunk,
and
avoiding arrest. Those are not so easy to accomplish these days.”

She smiled. “I hear you're working with Manuel Flores.”

“He called you?”

“He dropped by for tea. I have to tell you; the man looks like hell. So Fidel is going to let him go back to New York for medical treatment? No idea how he worked that one out; that stuff is expensive. I knew him in the sixties, you know, back home in the U.S. Even then, he was the only shrink I ever met who wasn't completely crazy.”

Ramirez laughed. “You're looking well, Nassara.”

“I'm getting older and I don't like it. Youth is wasted on these kids.” She smiled at him warmly. “You know, Ramirez, I'm the only one left. Rationing, the embargo, all that shit drove the others out. They'd rather spend time in an American jail than live here and starve.”

Nassara Nobiko had been a Black Panther—an American revolutionary—­charged with shooting a policeman in the 1960s. She hijacked a plane to Cuba, where she was granted asylum, along with other leaders of the movement. The rest fled back to the United States, appalled by the poor living conditions.

“Hard to blame them,” said Ramirez. He looked around at the crowd. “How many rappers do you think are here today?”

“Oh, I don't know. Five hundred? There are going to be dozens of street kids performing tonight as well as the established artists—Las Krudas, Amenaza, Primera Base. Must be a few thousand followers here already. It gets bigger every year.”

“Have rappers really stopped protesting?”

“Of course not. Only the smart ones. They don't want to lose their government funding.”

Ramirez smiled. He took Nassara by the arm and led her to a quiet spot behind the stage. “Nassara, I could use your help in an investigation.”

“Now that's funny,” the black woman said, laughing. “In my day, you were The Man. You want me to help you arrest someone? My, how the world does turn. Here, buy me an ice cream cone and tell me all about it.” She slid her arm through his. “It's hot today, Ramirez. You'd think by now I'd be used to it.”

They walked together to an ice cream stand and joined a long line of
habaneros
. It was the one thing that even the embargo couldn't destroy: the fresh taste of vanilla bean mixed with milk and ice.

Ramirez paid for two cones, handing one to Nassara. He described the damage to the paintings in the museum. Nassara doubled over and laughed until she cried.

“Oh, man, that's a good one. Spitting in the face of rich white people. No money in it, but lots of street cred. Oh, my, I wish I'd thought of it, back in the day. We used to take down banks, but any fool can do that. This is
creative
.”

“Who would do this, Nassara? You say the
raperos
are the voice of protest. Do you think it might have been one of them?”

“One of those deadbeats? I doubt it.” The corners of her eyes wrinkled with humour. “They wouldn't know how to get hold of a police uniform. You need to know someone on the inside for that. They'd probably be looking for one that had a crotch hanging down around their knees. So they be cool.” She laughed.

“No, this is
big
, Ramirez. The only thing I don't get is who'd do all that work to pull off a stunt like that. No newspapers to fuss over it; no media attention. That's the main reason why you do this kind of shit—publicity. Usually, when you want to make a political statement, you want people to know about it. Like Eldridge used to say: use the right gun, you can hear a shot around the world. Have you spoken to Cuban Intelligence about this? Hell, I talk to them even when I don't want to.” She grinned at him and made a face. “They bug the hell out of me.”

Ramirez finished eating his cone and wiped his hands. “What do you mean when you say this was probably done to spit in the face of rich white people? The protester used the number 75. That has to be a reference to the Black Spring.”

“But he could have painted that number on the wall without ruining all those paintings. Why hit a visiting exhibition? It wasn't Cuban art that was destroyed, was it? Just whitey's. You know, Lenin was right when he said that the good thing about capitalists was that communists could buy their ropes from them before they hanged them. We used to hit banks because they represented what we hated. And because we needed the cash. What do those paintings represent, and to who? Way I see it, somebody just lost a fortune. Maybe you should follow the money, my friend. Find that out, maybe you can answer your questions.”