by Blair Peggy
Neither of them could legally enter a Havana nightclub, not even Espinoza, unless he was on duty. Those were for the turistas, who flooded the streets at night looking for echoes of Hemingway. But a nice bottle of rum and the cool breeze along the Malecón had started more than a few romances on a hot Havana night.
“Join the cola,” she said, teasing. “I’ll think about it.” She tossed her thick brown hair, and he knew right then that he liked her.
“Hey, you,” he said as she walked away, swaying her hips. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rita,” she said. “Rita Martinez, Detective Espinoza.”
She already knew who he was. This is very good, thought Espinoza, leaning back in his chair. Very, very good.
“Cuidate, Rita Martinez.” You take care. “I’ll see you later.”
TWENTY
Ricardo Ramirez was colder than he believed possible. The pilot had apologized; there was a problem connecting the passenger boarding bridge to the terminal building of the Ottawa International Airport. Passengers needed to step outside to walk the short distance from the plane.
Ramirez stumbled forward across the tarmac on cramped geisha feet. He grasped the front of his black wool overcoat, trying to keep it closed where it lacked buttons. But this cold knew no boundaries. In just a few minutes, he was shivering uncontrollably. He had been unable to find gloves, and his fingers stung.
Ramirez could actually feel the frozen soles of his light leather shoes slapping the ground. His first impression of North America was one of acute discomfort.
Minus twenty-five degrees Celsius, the pilot had said. Fifty degrees’ difference between Ottawa and Havana. Nothing could have prepared Ramirez for that.
The bitter cold slapped his face like the back of a hand. It was crisp, clean, invisible. But menacing, like the ocean. Air and water. He had never thought of them as similar in kind. He had not realized, until this minute, that air could be deadly too.
Ramirez blew on his rapidly swelling fingers. Somehow, he managed to pull open the heavy glass door to the terminal building. Following the other passengers, he limped up the stairs and down carpeted hallways, past large murals of tulips and the Canadian Parliament Buildings.
He identified himself at the foreign arrivals section as a Cuban police officer, in Ottawa to assist with an investigation.
In the warmth of the terminal, his fingers and feet began to thaw with a thousand tiny pinpricks. He stamped his feet, trying to get his circulation flowing. He was surprised at how much his extremities hurt, as if stung by angry bees. He hoped his limbs would soon start working properly again. It was as if his body had been appropriated by an orisha at a tambour; it had the clumsy, lurching movements of the possessed. Padrons, Cubans called them derisively. Those who danced badly.
Ramirez was surprised when the Customs officer, not much more than a teenager, asked only how long he would be in the country. At home, it took hours to go through Customs, to have every bag checked for illegal substances, for weapons, for propaganda. Here, he was cleared in minutes.
The Customs officer flipped through the pages of Ramirez’s passport and thumped on one of them with a rubber stamp. “Have a nice visit,” he said, handing it back with a broad smile. “Welcome to Canada. Have a good New Year.”
“Gracias,” said Ramirez, surprised to be so quickly determined non-threatening. “And to you.”
Ramirez looked for exit signs as he walked down a wide carpeted corridor rimmed with stores and car rental agencies. He passed an elderly security guard dressed in the same white shirt, dark pants, and navy-blue tie as the others. His shoulder flash read “Commissionaire.”
Not really any security at all, thought Ramirez. The man was in his sixties at least and had no gun. Not a single machine gun in evidence, no sniffing dogs. Ramirez could take this whole airport hostage, if he wanted to. Break this old man’s neck like a twig.
In exchange for what? he wondered. What would he ask for? How much money would he get for a Canadian airport?
Members of the Front de libération du Québec had demanded flights to Cuba after they murdered a Canadian labour minister. That had always amused Ramirez, that political prisoners from Canada thought for some reason his country would treat them better than their own. The dissidents in Cuban jails would kill to get to Canada.
The elderly commissionaire smiled at Ramirez, oblivious to his near-death experience. He pointed to the escalators.
Ramirez arranged his frozen face into what he hoped passed as a smile and took the stairs. An extraordinary waterfall ran down the entire wall from the second floor to the main level of the terminal. A giant flat-screen television on the adjacent wall flashed weather updates, news, and advertising in two languages: English and French.
He had not seen real news in years, only community programming. Most of it was stories about the Communist Party, beekeeping, and nutritional advice.
He was mesmerized by the continuous line of script that ran across the bottom of the screen, updating news by the second. A magical board rotated advertisements beside it, marketing banks, lawyers, real estate.
So this is Canada, he thought, looking around. Canadians were responsible for many of the crimes the Major Crimes Unit investigated. Not because of anything they did themselves, but because they were so easily victimized. He was starting to understand why.
The newness of everything was as shocking as the cold. It was a far cry from the worn-down, crumbling city that Havana had become in its decades of isolation from the trading world. A row of clean and shiny taxis waited outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. He wondered how expensive they were and whether a driver would accept his American dollars.
Ramirez was almost at the exit when a tall woman with an enormous head of hair approached him tentatively. “Inspector Ramirez?”
“Yes?”
He was surprised that she knew who he was. It hadn’t occurred to him that Canada had its own cederistas, citizen spies. The KGB had come up with the concept of the Committees for the Defence of the Revolution, but Castro had perfected it.
“You look like a Cuban police officer, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’m Jennifer White. Would you be able to answer a few questions about the charges against Father Rey Callendes, please? I have a cameraman outside. Is it true that children in your country were also sexually abused by this priest?”
A reporter, then. Most reporters in Cuba were in jail. Those that weren’t would never dare ask a Cuban detective about an investigation. Ramirez wasn’t sure how to respond, but guessed that less was more. “I am sorry, Señora, I missed your name.”
“Jennifer White, Inspector.” She rooted through her purse and handed him a business card.
He looked around cautiously as he slid it into the pocket of the wool coat. No one was paying the least attention to their discussion. In Havana, a reporter would instantly have been under the eyes of a dozen policemen. There would have been a foot race to see who would apprehend her first.
“Señora White, I am in town for only a few days.” He smiled at her, trying to charm her. “At this point, all I can tell you is that I am very cold.”
“Of course,” the woman said, writing furiously in a notebook. “So, you don’t actually deny that the charges involve the sexual abuse of children in Cuba, then?”
“I’m sorry?”
“We understand that some of the photographs on the laptop that was seized were of Cuban children. Is that correct?”
Ramirez hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t really comment on an investigation.”
“Well, thank you, Inspector Ramirez, for confirming that there is one under way.”
As she sped away through the revolving glass doors, Ramirez heard her say into a cell phone, “There’s our headline story, Victor. Get a long shot of his head.”
Ramirez walked slowly towards the revolving doors, confused as to what had transpired, and wary. A long shot to the head? He kept his eyes open for a
rifle.
He was startled when a rough-looking man with tattoos and a long ponytail blocked his way. A gun, not a rifle, poked through the opening in the man’s jacket. Ramirez’s heart jumped. He had not brought his own firearm, uncertain if it would be returned to him if seized by Canadian airport security. Guns were hard to find in Cuba; if he lost the one issued to him, there were no coupons to replace it.
“Excuse me,” Ramirez said, and tried to walk around the stranger. He had no knife, no means of protecting himself. Only his useless, frozen hands.
The man stepped in front of him again. Ramirez looked around for a policeman but saw no one who could assist him. My God, he thought frantically. I am about to be robbed in a foreign country that has no armed security. In Cuba, there were fianas on every corner. Here, not a single one. Only old men with clip-on ties and plastic pens.
“Rick Ramirez? My name is Charlie Pike. Chief O’Malley asked me to give you a ride.”
TWENTY - ONE
“Detective Pike. Of course. A pleasure to meet you,” Ramirez said, as he tried to get his heartbeat down to normal. For some reason, he had thought Charlie Pike would be wearing a feathered headdress and carrying a small hatchet. Silly ideas that Hector Apiro had planted in his head.
Still, Detective Pike looked more like a prisoner than a police detective, with ink-blue tattoos on the backs of his fingers. He wasn’t wearing a suit, only jeans and running shoes, a light jacket, no hat or gloves. Unlike Ramirez, he wasn’t shivering at all.
Ramirez started to walk towards the glass revolving doors. Detective Pike blocked him once more. Ramirez realized that Pike was trying to prevent the cluster of men with television cameras on the sidewalk outside from shooting his picture. He breathed out, relieved. So irrational, he thought. But I am new to this country. It will take me a while before I understand how things work.
“Not that way,” said Pike. “There are reporters out there, waiting for you. They aren’t allowed to bring their cameras inside the airport for security reasons, unless they have airport approval. I made sure they didn’t get it. We’ll take the skywalk to the parking lot. My truck is parked up there. Is that all the baggage you have?”
“Yes.” Ramirez had only the single carry-on bag, packed with his few warm things. Mostly borrowed—some, like the coat, pilfered. He had worn his heaviest suit jacket under the coat but already knew it would not be enough. He owned no suitcase and couldn’t borrow one; no one he knew possessed one either.
They walked up a flight of stairs to the second level of the terminal. It was filled with shops. One was named Virgin, which startled Ramirez, until he realized it sold books and CDs, not women. Another was stocked with enough perfumes and body lotions to make Francesca swoon.
A shop called Relay held even more goods: candies, chips, soda pop, and bottled water. At least thirty different newspapers were stacked in neat rows on white metal shelves.
“Do you mind? I so rarely see foreign newspapers.”
Ramirez stopped to look at the names of the papers, greedy for outside information. He scanned the headlines. An ice storm in Nebraska. Two female Komodo dragons had laid fertile eggs without a male. An Elvis sighting. A baby with two heads.
“I expected there would be more international news,” the inspector remarked, disappointed. “About politics and economic matters.”
“Those are just the tabloids,” Pike frowned. “They make things up to be sensational. All the papers do these days. Don’t worry, this is Ottawa. You’ll get more than enough news while you’re here. Probably too much.”
Ramirez inclined his head towards the newsstand. “Do people actually read such stories here?”
Pike nodded. “You’d be surprised. And this is nothing compared to what’s on the internet. Most of it’s pornography; the rest is garbage.”
“Ah, yes, of course, the internet.” Ramirez followed the long-haired detective towards the signs for the parkade. “In Cuba, it is available only to tourists, although some of my staff have access for investigative purposes.”
All computer searches were kept under surveillance by Cuban Intelligence as well as the Major Crimes Unit. That had been Sanchez’s assignment, monitoring the internet, looking for jineteras with web pages and child pornography.
They walked past a store with maple-sugar candy; a display of bright art painted on canvas. Another store sold purses, briefcases, scarves, and ties. Ramirez already felt overwhelmed. He wondered how Canadians could pick out what to wear each day with so many choices. In Cuba, most stores had only a rack or two of wares; the other shelves were empty. Even in Havana, the bodegas generally had only one brand of canned goods. If they had anything to sell at all.
A blast of freezing air assaulted them as automatic doors opened to the parkade. Charlie Pike led Ramirez to a red pickup truck with giant tires. Ramirez had never seen tires so large except on military trucks and tanks.
“You know what the Ojibway say, Inspector. No tires are too big for an Indian.”
Ramirez laughed. He hoped it was meant as a joke and was relieved when Pike chuckled.
There were large piles of a grey substance pushed to the sides of the parking lot. It took a moment before Ramirez recognized it as snow.
“You can expect the media to be all over you about the Callendes matter,” he cautioned, as he pointed something at the passenger door. The truck’s horn sounded and its lights flashed, startling Ramirez. He realized Pike had some kind of electronic key. It was a new truck, American. Ramirez hadn’t seen one in decades. Pike loaded Ramirez’s bag into the back seat.
“There was a reporter waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs in the arrivals section,” said Ramirez. He pulled out the business card and looked at it more closely. “A woman. Jennifer White.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth,” said Ramirez. “I told her I was cold.”
TWENTY - TWO
Fernando Espinoza walked into the men’s washroom. It was only minutes before midnight. He admired his reflection in the mirror, slicked down his hair with water. He imagined dancing with Rita Martinez. Touching that firm body, kissing those full lips.
He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He leaned into the rusty mirror, checking his teeth, adjusting his shirt collar.
Yes, Fernando, you are a fine-looking man, he thought.
And that Rita Martinez. Esta heba estaba para comérsela con ropa y todo. She was hot enough to eat with her clothes on.
Espinoza was washing his hands in the cracked sink when a woman screamed.
He ran out of the toilet, reaching for his gun. He and several police officers scrambled towards the stairwell. Others huddled in a circle at the top of the stairs. He caught a glimpse of a man on the floor wrestling with a woman.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
Then he realized the policía wasn’t trying to subdue the woman at all.
Rita Martinez lay on the floor, gasping for breath like a fish flopping inside a boat. He shoved the gun back in his shoulder holster. “Is something stuck in her throat?”
He pushed his way through. As he leaned over Rita, her panicked eyes fixed on his. The edges of those full lips around the red lipstick were already blue from lack of oxygen.
“She can’t breathe,” a large Afro-Cuban woman from the cafeteria said frantically. “Oh my God, someone do something. I don’t know what happened. I brought up some coffee an hour ago and she seemed fine. And then, when I came back to get the empty mugs, she started to stagger, and then she fell down, right there on the floor.”
“Rita, you’re going to be fine. Is she choking?” Espinoza asked the man kneeling beside her.
“Her mouth and throat are clear, no obstructions.”
“Maybe it’s an insect bite,” said one of the detectives. “An allergic reaction.”
“Rita,” Espinoza said, “look at me.” He squatted and took her hand. He held her wrist between his index finger and thumb. He took
her pulse as he watched the second hand tick by on his watch. Over two hundred beats a minute. “Can you speak to me?”
She shook her head and gripped his hand tightly. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she convulsed. Her hand went limp in his fingers. The rapid pulse under his fingertips suddenly stopped. She was no longer breathing.
“Call a doctor,” Espinoza said firmly. “Get Dr. Apiro here, now.”
TWENTY - THREE
Just after Christmas, Maria Vasquez had agreed to move into Hector Apiro’s cramped flat. But when she saw it, for the first time in almost a decade, she expressed second thoughts.
“I can’t live here, Hector,” she exclaimed. “Look, your bed is much too small for both of us. And I am far too old now to sleep on the couch in your spare room the way I did before.”
“What do you mean?” Apiro asked, crestfallen. “Have you changed your mind?”
He tried to conceal the overwhelming sense of loss that crept through him. The broken heart that Maria had so recently repaired began to rip apart like torn fabric.
“Don’t be silly,” said Maria, patting his arm. “You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily. It simply means we have to wait until we can find a proper bed. After all, it has to be at least queensize.” She laughed. “Living with someone isn’t all about making love, you know. It’s about sleeping together, too.”
Apiro breathed a sigh of relief. But he didn’t know. He had never made love to a woman before Maria. And he had never shared a bed with anyone in his entire life. Not even at the orphanage.
“Where will we find one?” Beds are expensive, thought Apiro, and difficult to acquire. How can I possibly afford one on my salary?
“Leave that to me, lover,” she winked. “Remember my favourite saying: Life is a struggle, but eventually you find shoes that fit.”
Apiro had to admit that when it came to finding a suitable bed, a Cuban prostitute had significantly better resources than he did.
Apiro and Maria sat at the tiny wooden table between Apiro’s kitchen and living space, the chessboard between them, the window open. The grey smoke from Maria’s first attempt at cooking rice was almost gone. Their eyes only watered occasionally.