was working again. It had been out of service for more than a week. The smell of decaying flesh permeated the space. Cigar smoke, like pipe smoke, helped to mask it. The petroleum jelly product they once put under their noses to block the smell of decomposition was no longer available.
He reached for a cigar in his pocket and cupped his hand around Apiro’s match, drawing deeply until it lit.
They sat comfortably together in the haze, smoking. Apiro was seated on the second rung of his wooden stepladder. Ramirez sat beside him on a round wooden stool. This arrangement allowed them to discuss matters face-to-face despite the difference in their size. Ramirez often thought these moments in the morgue,even with dead bodies resting in the drawers and on the gurneys, were among his happiest.
For one thing, there were no distractions—his ghosts always stayed on the other side of the metal doors. And for another, he always felt completely at ease with Apiro, to whom abnormalities were normal, to whom life itself was the anomaly. Maybe Francesca was right. Maybe he was having an affair with Hector Apiro.
“Well, you know what they say, Ricardo. Once one eliminates the impossible, whatever is left, however unlikely, is usually the truth. Do you know anything about her symptoms?”
“High blood pressure, deep-pink skin. She fell into a coma on the airplane.”
“I suppose it could be food poisoning,” said the surgeon. “There have been issues with flight kitchens before. Insufficient disinfection; food not cooked long enough. Although that is more often associated with rather unpleasant gastrointestinal disorders. But there are some very dangerous chemicals that turn up occasionally in the food chain that can turn skin that colour. Cyanide, for example.” Apiro drew on his pipe. “Do you remember the early 1990s, when tens of thousands of Cubans suddenly went blind? They stumbled around the streets of Havana like something from a horror movie.”
“I remember it well. I was a young police officer at the time, working foot patrol. It was complete chaos. The houngans claimed they were zombies.”
Thirty-four thousand Cubans were afflicted. There was near panic in the city until the epidemic passed. Most recovered, although some never regained their sight.
“I had forgotten all about that, Ricardo,” Apiro chuckled, shaking his head. “The voodoo doctors spout such nonsense. The foreign epidemiologists thought it was a virus. But no touristsbecame sick, which made that unlikely. Personally, I always suspected cyanide.”
Ramirez formed a circle with his lips as he exhaled. His smoke ring floated to the stained ceiling and hung below the flickering fluorescent lights. An entire day without a power outage. Water running again. Maybe it would be a Happy New Year after all.
“Cyanide? What from?”
“Bootleg rum, probably. I said as much to Castro. He attended all the medical briefings. If our folate levels are normal, most people can handle a little cyanide without serious physical harm. But we’ve been affected by rationing. The fact that tobacco often contains traces of cyanide could well have pushed the victims’ overall exposure to toxic levels. To his credit, Castro assured me he would act.”
“Those extra beans in our rations were probably your fault, then,” said Ramirez. “I’m not sure if I should thank you. Do you think Señor Ellis could have somehow poisoned his wife’s food before she left Havana?”
“Perhaps,” Apiro nodded, puffing on his pipe, “but I don’t know how. It’s virtually impossible to obtain that form of cyanide here.”
Ramirez nodded slowly. “Come to think of it, the sniffing dogs at the airport picked up nothing in his baggage when he arrived here. Would they have detected it?”
“Of course, if they were trained to,” Apiro said. “Their noses are thousands of times more sensitive than our own. The beagle there is the best of the bunch. A remarkable animal,
He reached for a cigar in his pocket and cupped his hand around Apiro’s match, drawing deeply until it lit.
They sat comfortably together in the haze, smoking. Apiro was seated on the second rung of his wooden stepladder. Ramirez sat beside him on a round wooden stool. This arrangement allowed them to discuss matters face-to-face despite the difference in their size. Ramirez often thought these moments in the morgue,even with dead bodies resting in the drawers and on the gurneys, were among his happiest.
For one thing, there were no distractions—his ghosts always stayed on the other side of the metal doors. And for another, he always felt completely at ease with Apiro, to whom abnormalities were normal, to whom life itself was the anomaly. Maybe Francesca was right. Maybe he was having an affair with Hector Apiro.
“Well, you know what they say, Ricardo. Once one eliminates the impossible, whatever is left, however unlikely, is usually the truth. Do you know anything about her symptoms?”
“High blood pressure, deep-pink skin. She fell into a coma on the airplane.”
“I suppose it could be food poisoning,” said the surgeon. “There have been issues with flight kitchens before. Insufficient disinfection; food not cooked long enough. Although that is more often associated with rather unpleasant gastrointestinal disorders. But there are some very dangerous chemicals that turn up occasionally in the food chain that can turn skin that colour. Cyanide, for example.” Apiro drew on his pipe. “Do you remember the early 1990s, when tens of thousands of Cubans suddenly went blind? They stumbled around the streets of Havana like something from a horror movie.”
“I remember it well. I was a young police officer at the time, working foot patrol. It was complete chaos. The houngans claimed they were zombies.”
Thirty-four thousand Cubans were afflicted. There was near panic in the city until the epidemic passed. Most recovered, although some never regained their sight.
“I had forgotten all about that, Ricardo,” Apiro chuckled, shaking his head. “The voodoo doctors spout such nonsense. The foreign epidemiologists thought it was a virus. But no touristsbecame sick, which made that unlikely. Personally, I always suspected cyanide.”
Ramirez formed a circle with his lips as he exhaled. His smoke ring floated to the stained ceiling and hung below the flickering fluorescent lights. An entire day without a power outage. Water running again. Maybe it would be a Happy New Year after all.
“Cyanide? What from?”
“Bootleg rum, probably. I said as much to Castro. He attended all the medical briefings. If our folate levels are normal, most people can handle a little cyanide without serious physical harm. But we’ve been affected by rationing. The fact that tobacco often contains traces of cyanide could well have pushed the victims’ overall exposure to toxic levels. To his credit, Castro assured me he would act.”
“Those extra beans in our rations were probably your fault, then,” said Ramirez. “I’m not sure if I should thank you. Do you think Señor Ellis could have somehow poisoned his wife’s food before she left Havana?”
“Perhaps,” Apiro nodded, puffing on his pipe, “but I don’t know how. It’s virtually impossible to obtain that form of cyanide here.”
Ramirez nodded slowly. “Come to think of it, the sniffing dogs at the airport picked up nothing in his baggage when he arrived here. Would they have detected it?”
“Of course, if they were trained to,” Apiro said. “Their noses are thousands of times more sensitive than our own. The beagle there is the best of the bunch. A remarkable animal,
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