Hungry Ghosts (4 page)

7

It was almost ten o'clock when
Inspector Ramirez finally made his way home. He parked the blue mini-car across the street from his apartment and wandered over to the food stall on the corner. He looked up at the charcoal sky as he crossed the street. It was filled with dazzling pinpoint stars. The moon was lush, streaked with violet, rimmed with gold. It hung heavily in the night sky.

Ramirez bought a slice of pizza and a sugar-coated
churro
. He hoped the rumours that street vendors were melting condoms to look like cheese were no more than that. He chewed slowly on the hot pizza as he walked home, ignoring the dank smell of urine that rose from the gutter.

He climbed carefully up the rickety stairs of his apartment building to the second floor, demolishing the pastry and wiping the sugar from his lips with his fingers. Once inside, he threw his jacket on a wooden chair.

He picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed his in-laws' number. He almost dreaded his wife's reaction to him calling so late.

“Ricardo, it's good to hear your voice,” exclaimed Francesca. She sounded happy; he was surprised. “The telephone lines have been down all day. We were hoping you'd eventually get through.”

Ramirez sighed with relief. “I tried a few times,” he lied. “But no luck.”

“How are you? Do you miss us yet?”

“Of course. I can't wait for you to come home. How was the journey?”

“Well, you know the trains. They were hot and slow, and needless to say we were late. But we got here.”

With the exception of the
Trens Francés
, most Cuban trains had been built to transport sugar, although there were some newer ones from Russia that were only thirty or forty years old. Even those lacked air conditioning and washrooms. Even so, tickets were expensive. Cubans called the trains
casas de guano
, houses made of money.

“How was the game? Did Edel play well?”

“His team won,” said Francesca. “Edel stole base three times. My father was so proud of him. It was fun, but then they always are, with all the music and the cowbells. There was a band and conga drummers this evening. People were dancing and singing in the stands. And how are things at home? Did you have to work again tonight?”

“It was quiet today,
cariño
,” he lied again, having heard the note of exasperation in her question. “Nothing much going on.” It was best she not know about the bomb scare or the man's body that had washed up on the beach. If all went well, the paintings would be back in Rome and the murder investigation over by the time she returned. “You're still coming home on Monday?”

“God willing. And of course, the trains. Here, Estella wants to
say hello. I'll go get Edel; he's outside with his grandfather playing catch. I let the children stay up late; we were hoping you'd call.”

“
Papi,
” his little girl said moments later. “I miss you. Grandpa scares me a little. He keeps pinching my face and laughing.”

Ramirez smiled broadly, careful not to laugh. “I miss you too, sweetheart.”

“When can we come home?”

8

After a lengthy search for a
bed suitable for a tall woman and a short man, Maria Vasquez had finally moved into Hector Apiro's apartment. They quickly eased into old routines: Apiro did the cooking, Maria cleaned.

Unlike in other Cuban homes, the green-tinged black-and-white television was rarely on. Instead, most evenings, before Maria went out to meet clients, Apiro retaught her chess moves she'd almost forgotten in the nine years that had passed since she'd lived with him during her treatment.

Sometimes they read to each other from Russian literature, so that Apiro could tutor Maria in the language he'd learned in Moscow and still loved. But after they shared their precious time together, Maria always went off to work, and Apiro tried not to think too much about what she was doing or who she was with. “I've discovered that sex relieves tension,” Apiro told Ramirez after Maria moved in. “But love causes it.”

“Now look at this,” Apiro said to Maria, placing the worn chess pieces on the board carefully. “Although it's more often used as a defence, the King's Indian can also be an attack.”

Apiro arranged the pieces until he was satisfied. “The Sämisch variation involves players attacking each other's kings,” he explained. “What do you think?”

Maria wrinkled her forehead as she concentrated on the sequence. “It's hard to imagine that you can defeat your opponent with only a pawn, and without even a rook, until you see it.”

“Rooks are powerful, but so are pawns,” Apiro smiled. “You know, a rook means a crow in English. That's the only bird I know of that has learned how to use tools. Imagine!”

After that evening's chess lesson, Maria brought out a surprise. It was a chunk of dark chocolate and a bowl of thick cream she had whipped into peaks and tucked into the small refrigerator before Apiro got home.

“Maria, this is incredible,” Apiro exclaimed. He hadn't tasted chocolate in years. It was as uncommon in Havana as a cell phone, a thing so rare that Cubans had nicknamed them “chocolates.” There was no chocolate to be found on the black market, but even if there had been, he couldn't afford it on his monthly salary of twenty pesos.

And as for milk, except for the frozen cones at the Coppolia and other
kioskos
, it was nearly impossible to find any. Only very young children and the elderly were entitled to a few ounces in their monthly rations.

Apiro pushed away any thought of how Maria had acquired the money to purchase these delicacies. He was all too aware that, if not for Maria's earnings, they wouldn't have been able to afford the used queen-size bed that had replaced Apiro's small one.

“Please, Maria, sit. I'll get the bowls and the cutlery.”

Apiro began to get up, but she pushed him back on the sofa. Her
eyes sparkled with mischief. “You misunderstand how we will eat this, Hector,” Maria grinned. “No bowls. No spoons. Trust me, after this, you will never want dessert any other way.”

He looked at her, confused. As she unbuttoned his shirt, he was still trying to imagine what she meant. It wasn't long, however, before he figured it out.

Later on, the metal tub in the bathroom turned out to be just big enough for two people to wash each other off. Or perhaps one and a half, given his size and the contortions required.

While they snuggled in bed, Apiro told Maria about the vandalism at the museum. “Ricardo says there are political slogans popping up on buildings throughout the city. I have to say, Maria, that I've never really paid much attention to such things.”

“No, you wouldn't,” said Maria fondly. Apiro usually kept his eyes on the ground when he walked, alert for obstacles that a normal-size person might not notice, like high curbs and steep steps. She stroked his damp hair. “I've seen them too. But it's festival week; there are
rap
eros
everywhere. And he's right; there's a lot more graffiti.”

Apiro turned his head to look at her. He marvelled at her face, at how well she'd healed after the surgery. “Are
raperos
involved with graffiti?”

“Rap and graffiti are part of the same culture, Hector,” said Maria. “And ‘bombing' is what graffiti artists call it when they go out tagging.”

“Tagging?” Apiro suddenly felt old and out of touch.

“That's what they call the signatures they leave behind on walls and underpasses. Maybe the image the vandal left on the wall at the museum was his tag.”

Apiro nodded thoughtfully. He didn't really understand rap music. He loved classical music and the opera—the original basis of his friendship with Ramirez.

The two men had been seated next to each other a decade before in the Gran Teatro during an afternoon performance of Meyerbeer's
L'Africaine
. Although strangers, they chatted at the end of the opera about whether Selika could really commit suicide by lying under a
manzanilla
tree and breathing in the toxic perfume of its leaves as she sang her operatic farewell.

“Highly unlikely,” Apiro scoffed. “She might get blisters from the sap, but only if it was raining. I wouldn't recommend eating the fruit, but I doubt very much that someone could die simply by inhaling near it.”

“I always thought it was the
failure
to inhale that caused death,” said Ramirez. “With the possible exception of tobacco.”

Apiro laughed like a creaky door. “Have you heard? Castro has quit smoking. He's decided that tobacco is a poison. One can't blame him, really, after all the times his Montecristos were poisoned by the CIA. And yet he signed hundreds of humidors full of cigars to sell at the
Habanos
festival this week.”

Every year, Castro autographed humidors filled with cigars for sale at a fundraising auction attended by foreigners with deep pockets.

Ramirez smiled. “I've heard that he's hoping our enemies will bid on them.”

Apiro roared with laughter. “He's said the proceeds will go to cancer research. Perhaps that will be our next major industry.” The smile left his face. “These days, with the lack of supplies, we can only research the disease, but not treat it. And now we're running short of medical specialists too. Castro has exported thousands of doctors all over the world in exchange for oil.” He lowered his voice. “He won't let them take their children with them, though. To make sure they'll come back.”

“You're a physician?”

“A plastic surgeon. I was trained to deal primarily with those
who are deformed because of congenital defect or injury. I did my post-doctoral studies in Russia. El Comandante asked me to cut my studies short, to help develop a tourist industry in cosmetic surgery.”

“You know Fidel Castro personally?”

Apiro smiled. “We've met a few times, yes.”

It was only when the two stood up to shake hands and say goodbye that Ramirez realized his seatmate was a dwarf. But after that, the only size that mattered was heart, and Apiro had a big one.

Apiro turned his head to look at Maria. From what Ramirez had said, the vandalism was well thought out. But then, with so much security in the museum, it had to be. “What I don't understand is how a political protest can be effective if no one sees it.”

“But people did see it, Hector,” said Maria. “Museum officials, the police, the Italian curator and his staff, the firemen who went to the scene. And of course, the vandal himself. Word will get around quickly.”

“Poor Ricardo. It's the last thing he needs right now. He's under a lot of pressure at work.”

Apiro hadn't told Maria that with his help Ramirez had blackmailed the Minister of the Interior in order to get charges laid against a priest for child abuse without political interference. From the moment Apiro and Ramirez had hatched the plot, Apiro was afraid the minister would retaliate against his friend. He hoped nothing would happen, but he could see how Ramirez's stress levels had gone up.

“I think he may be having problems at home as well,” Apiro said. “Francesca packed up the children and left for a week without any warning. He says Edel has some kind of baseball tournament, but I know it caught him off-guard.”

“Is there anything you can do to help?”

“I've thought about suggesting he talk to someone, perhaps a family counsellor, but I don't really know how to approach it.”

Maria nodded thoughtfully. “I've only met him that one time,” she said. “In your office. But I thought he seemed preoccupied. He kept looking behind me as if there was someone else in the room. He seemed almost haunted.”

9

FRIDAY, MARCH 2, 2007

Inspector Ramirez opened his eyes slowly,
letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The phone rang again. Groaning at how much
añejo
he'd consumed, Ramirez kicked off the worn sheet and crawled out of bed. As he passed by the tiny bathroom, he reached for a thin towel and wrapped it around his waist.

After hearing the joy in his son's voice about a baseball game he couldn't attend, Ramirez had felt unbearably lonely. He'd tucked a bottle of rum from the exhibit room under his arm and driven his small car to la Moña, the site of the hip-hop festival.

The festival was one of the few public venues open to ordinary
habaneros
. The
raperos
and their followers,
moñeros
, were mostly black. Young women swayed their bodies to the sexually suggestive lyrics, holding their arms high above their heads. Ramirez enjoyed their energy more than the music, and drank too much rum. It reminded him of what life was like when he was single. He joined in the clapping and cheering at the end of the last performance. It was
exhilarating and fun, but more exhausting than he'd remembered. He'd walked back to his car reluctantly, not looking forward to sleeping alone.

He stumbled to the kitchen to answer the insistent phone. He was careful to step around scattered children's shoes, and in doing so almost collided with a dead woman. The ghost leaned lazily against the wall, a black scarf tied around her neck.

Ramirez grabbed for the telephone and knocked it from its cradle. As he scrambled to pick it up, his towel fell to the ground. He retrieved the receiver and shook it gently. Luckily, nothing rattled. Relieved, he tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear and rewrapped the faded towel tightly around his waist. A towel he could replace, but not a telephone. The dead woman's eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Good morning, Inspector Ramirez,” said Sophia, the night dispatcher. “I am sorry to wake you up, but there is a woman's body.”

“I thought there might be,” said Ramirez. His mouth was dry and full of grit. He swallowed and took a closer look at the apparition.

She wore high heels and an extremely low-cut top. Her short white skirt was embellished with yellow flowers. One bare-skinned leg was braced against the wall. She held a cigarette loosely in her fingers.

Ramirez tried to concentrate on the call, but it wasn't easy. He wondered where his pants were and how long it would be before he could comfortably zip them up. He pulled the towel even more tightly around his waist.

“Dr. Apiro is already at the crime scene,” said Sophia. “He said to tell you it looks like the Verrier murder. From last year.”

Ramirez nodded slowly. If Apiro thought the two cases looked similar, they were undoubtedly related. A serial killer in Havana? The only serial murderers Ramirez knew of worked for the government.

The dead woman held the cigarette to her lips and waited for him
to light it. She'll be waiting forever, he thought. It was one of the implicit rules of the spirit world, from what he'd gleaned through his experience—no physical contact. She ran her tongue around her lips, removing bits of loose tobacco that clung to her bright red lipstick.

“Where was she found?”

“In the woods beside the Calzada de Bejucal,” said Sophia. “Three kilometres north of the airport.”

“I'm on my way. Get hold of Detective Espinoza, will you? Tell him I'll pick him up in half an hour.”

Ramirez walked around the small apartment looking for his pants. He found them hanging on the wrought iron balcony where Francesca had left them to dry. Seeing how carefully she'd arranged them made him feel ashamed of himself for looking at another woman, even a dead one. He glanced at the ghost to let her know things would go faster if he dressed alone. She shrugged and swayed languidly back to the kitchen.

Ramirez buttoned up his shirt and snapped on his belt and shoulder holster. He unlocked the drawer to the side table that held his gun. He picked up his hat and tucked his notebook in his shirt pocket, then opened the door to the hallway.

The dead woman swiveled her hips as she meandered down the sagging stairs. Ramirez put on his hat and straightened the brim. He followed her down towards the morning light, admiring her ass.