The Poisoned Pawn Page 10

  Apiro had started to teach Maria chess when she was fifteen, when she first stayed with him during her treatment. They resumed their lessons as if only a few hours, rather than nine years, separated them.

  “I want to show you the moves in a famous match between Martin Ortueta and José Sanz Aguado that took place in Madrid in the 1930s,” said Apiro. “Petrosian told me he devoted his entire life to chess after he was shown this series of moves. He was only ten years old.”

  Tigran Petrosian was the Soviet Armenian grandmaster. He taught Apiro chess when Apiro was studying reconstructive surgery in Moscow. Petrosian had emphasized the need to wait for one’s opponent to make a mistake and then pounce quickly.

  Apiro arranged the pieces until he was satisfied. “What do you think, Maria?”

  Maria wrinkled her forehead as she concentrated on the sequence. “It’s simple,” she said, “but brilliant.”

  Apiro smiled. He was pleased that Maria so easily grasped the strategy behind the moves. She had an agile mind. Like many brilliant men, Apiro had spent much of his life struggling to fit in, but being with her was effortless.

  Perhaps, Apiro thought, it is because she is so beautiful that she wants to be with me. Knowing it’s not her appearance that’s important but that I accept her for what she is. And in return, she accepts me.

  “Sometimes chess can be that simple,” said Apiro. “But remember the Kotov syndrome. Under pressure, a player can make extremely unwise decisions. The Poisoned Pawn variation is a good example. A player places a pawn where it can be easily captured. If the other player takes the bait, his own men are exposed to attack. But the ploy is risky, because it can reveal both sides’ weaknesses.”

  “I love chess. It’s so much like life.”

  Apiro nodded. “It brings out the best but also the worst in us, because there is nowhere to hide behind one’s choices. The author Vladimir Nabokov created one of my favourite characters, a brilliant chess player named Luzhin who began to confuse reality with chess. But few chess games are ever perfect. One can replay one’s moves over and over again in one’s mind until it becomes self-destructive. Luzhin eventually committed suicide. Perhaps this urge towards endless self-examination is why H.G. Wells called the passion for chess the least satisfying of men’s desires.”

  “I think I prefer Boris Spassky’s thoughts when it comes to understanding men’s passions,” said Maria. “Particularly when you know how much such matters interest me.” She grinned wickedly, her eyes sparkling. “When he was asked if he preferred sex or chess, he answered that it depended on his position.”

  Apiro almost fell off the faded couch, laughing. And then someone pounded on the door.

  TWENTY - FOUR

  “She’s not getting any air. Get me a knife. A sharp one.” Fernando Espinoza was going to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and if that didn’t work, he’d cut open Rita Martinez’s trachea. Like half the taxi drivers in Havana, he’d spent a year in medical school before he realized there were other occupations that paid better.

  “Dr. Apiro will be here in a few minutes,” a detective called out. “Patrol is bringing him; they’re on the way. So are the paramedics.”

  Espinoza turned to the police officer who had checked Rita’s throat. “We need to do compressions. Fifteen for every two breaths. We have to breathe for her until they get here.”

  Espinoza tilted back Rita Martinez’s head and checked with his finger to make sure her airway was clear. Then he put his lips over hers. Her ample chest rose and fell as the two men administered CPR.

  Another man produced a knife. “It’s okay,” said Espinoza. “The air is going in; it’s not a blockage. Maybe she had a heart attack.” He lowered his mouth again on the count of fifteen.

  Sirens shrieked in the distance.

  “Stand back, please,” said Apiro, materializing through the crowd. “Everyone, please, move aside. Let me see the patient.” The crowd moved aside. “You’re doing CPR? Good. Keep it up while I check her vital signs.”

  Apiro might be short, but he had an unmistakable air of competence. His stethoscope was already out, ear tips inserted. He kneeled on the other side of Rita Martinez, speaking soothingly to her. A man who knew his business.

  As soon as Espinoza removed his mouth from Rita’s, Apiro checked her pulse and pulled back her eyelids. He looked at the palms of her hands. The small doctor gently parted her lips and examined her gums. “Please,” he implored the people standing over them. “If you can give us a little room. She needs air.”

  The crowd moved back.

  Apiro wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Rita’s arm and squeezed the black bulb. As he let it deflate, he frowned.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Espinoza asked between breaths. “I know this woman. We were going for a drink after work.”

  “I’m afraid she won’t be joining you.” Apiro turned to the man doing the compressions. “Are you getting tired?” The man nodded wearily. “Here, let me take over for a while. And what about you, Detective Espinoza? Will you be able to continue a while longer?”

  “Yes,” Espinoza said, and put his mouth to Rita’s again. He was worried: she was getting worse.

  The sirens stopped. Although it was mere seconds, it seemed to Espinoza that hours passed before he heard the heavy thump of footsteps running from the elevator. This is not at all what I expected to happen tonight, he thought. Hang on, Rita, he urged silently. They’re almost here.

  Two paramedics with a collapsible stretcher ran towards them.

  Apiro stopped pushing. “Someone else take over, please, so I can brief them.”

  A detective dropped to his knees and made the sign of the cross. He began pushing on the woman’s chest. “Not quite so hard,” Apiro said. “We don’t want any broken ribs.”

  The pathologist stood up. The paramedics towered over him. “She needs oxygen,” Espinoza heard Apiro say quietly to one of them. “Do you have any?”

  “Enough to get her to the hospital, doctor,” the shorter of the two responded, as he placed an oxygen mask over the young woman’s mouth. The two paramedics moved efficiently together, readying the patient for transport. They looked like a good team—partners that worked together often, able to anticipate each other’s moves.

  “Her lungs have filled with fluid,” said Apiro. “I can hear them crackling under the stethoscope. She has petechial hemorrhaging in her gums and eyes. Tell the emergency doctors to administer intravenous fluids and activated charcoal. They need to keep her as quiet as possible, monitor her fluid and electrolytes, and do an urgent toxicology screen. And administer calcium chloride parenterally if she displays hypocalcemia. Tell them to order gas chromatography. I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Put my name down as the attending physician.”

  “What is it, doctor?” the taller paramedic asked as they slipped the woman onto the stretcher. “She seems young for cardiac arrest. Bee sting?”

  Espinoza stood back and wiped his mouth. Red lipstick stained the back of his hand.

  “No,” said Apiro, shaking his large head. He looked perplexed. “I think she’s been poisoned.”

  TWENTY - FIVE

  The hotel phone rang. For a moment, Inspector Ramirez wasn’t sure where he was. The blue light of the digital clock on the bedside table flickered not quite five in the morning. The phone rang again. He untangled himself from the sheets.

  He fumbled around in the dark for the light switch. Finally, he managed to find the telephone and pick it up. It was Hector Apiro. He sounded exhausted.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, my friend. How are things in Canada? You know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important. I didn’t want to wait and perhaps miss you altogether.”

  “Imagine a country as cold as the inside of your freezer, Hector. I feel like one of your cadavers.”

  Apiro laughed, but Ramirez could hear the tension in his voice.

  “I hope the people are warmer.”

  “Yes, they are. But I kn
ow you’re not calling me at this time of day to inquire about the weather.”

  “No …” Apiro hesitated. “I am afraid I have bad news, Ricardo.”

  “What is it?” Ramirez asked anxiously. “My family? Is there something wrong?”

  “No, they’re fine. But Rita Martinez collapsed last night at headquarters. I have been at the hospital for hours, working with the emergency physicians. Trying to keep her alive. I’m sorry to say we were unsuccessful. She’s dead.”

  Rita Martinez was a young woman. She liked to go to the clubs with foreigners whenever she could get in. Ramirez admired her spirit, and her sense of humour. He was shocked. “Whatever from?”

  “Pulmonary edema. Essentially, she suffocated as fluids built up in her lungs. If we had better life-support equipment, she might have survived a little longer, but I doubt she would have lived. The hospital is running tests. I should have some results by early afternoon; they can take eight or nine hours. But some will take longer. Maybe days.”

  “And what is the significance of this, Hector?” Ramirez tried to make his tired brain work more efficiently, given the urgency in Apiro’s voice.

  “Her symptoms were similar to those of Señora Ellis. And she was poisoned, Ricardo, I’m sure of it. If two unrelated women have died from the same toxin, there could be something seriously wrong with our food or water supply. I need to know whether this death is connected. If you can find a way to obtain copies of the laboratory reports from Señora Ellis’s autopsy, that will help us here enormously.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Ramirez, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not quite sure who to contact. Maybe Celia Jones can help. I will be seeing her first thing in the morning.” He glanced at the clock. “In a few hours. But I’m afraid it may be impossible to get you everything you need. Señora Ellis’s body was cremated.”

  “Coño,” exclaimed Apiro. It was one of the few times Ramirez had heard him swear. “Who would do such a thing under those circumstances? Unbelievable. Well, try to get whatever you can, Ricardo. I will be here for hours, if not in the morgue, in my laboratory. And my fax machine, for the moment, has enough toner to receive at least a few pages. After that, I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

  When he hung up, Ramirez was worried. He wanted to call his wife, to warn her to be careful, to exercise caution when cooking.

  He looked at the digital clock. It was not quite 5:30 A.M. His wife was probably deeply asleep. At least he hoped she was, and that she’d only been joking about finding a lover.

  He decided to wait until seven, when she would be making the children breakfast. It took him a few minutes to figure out how to set the alarm. Then he fell asleep but slept fitfully.

  When the alarm rang, Ramirez opened one eye slowly, then the other, and leaned over to turn it off. Sometimes the dead cigar lady stood beside his bed in the morning, silently urging him to get to work. But he’d seen no sign of her since he left Cuba. Perhaps she was confined to the island, like almost everyone else.

  He stared at the high ceiling, the ornate gilded crown moulding. Confused, he wasn’t sure where he was for a moment. Then he remembered Apiro’s call.

  He hastily dialed his home number, following the instructions for making long-distance calls on a card by the phone. He sighed with relief when Francesca answered. The telephone lines in their part of Havana didn’t always work; the service was often out.

  “I wanted to let you know I arrived safely. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “Ricky!” she exclaimed. “Edel, Estella, it’s your father,” she called out. “Come! He is calling us all the way from Canada. No, of course not. I couldn’t sleep well last night anyway, with you away, and the heat. I was about to make rice and beans; we’re almost out of both. I can’t wait until Saturday when the new libreta comes out.”

  The January rations book was always issued on January 6. Día de Reyes. The day the Magi brought gifts to the baby Jesus.

  “Tell me what it’s like. Is Canada what you expected?”

  “I’m not sure what I expected,” said Ramirez. “It’s unbelievably cold. I can see someone from my hotel window right now, walking a small dog on a leash, with little shoes and a jacket. Not the person, the dog.”

  “Oh, that sounds so funny. Until you think about it. Then it’s rather sad.”

  “I have, if you can believe this, a refrigerator in my hotel room stuffed full of food and drinks.”

  “You must be teasing. Does it work?”

  “The frigo? It even has chocolate bars in it. I am going to bring them home for the children.”

  “And for me too, I hope,” she said. “My goodness, I haven’t tasted chocolate in years.”

  At one time, ration books had contained coupons for chocolate after Castro’s personal doctor prescribed it to him to treat an injury. But these days, chocolate was as hard to find as cell phones. Because of this, Cubans nicknamed cell phones chocolates.

  “Here, say hello to your father.” He heard the phone being passed to a small hand, and his daughter’s voice.

  “Papi, when are you coming home? I miss you.” She was only five, and had the lisp of missing teeth.

  “I miss you too, sweetheart. I’ll be home soon, I promise. And I will bring something special for you.”

  “Edel is here, Daddy. Will you bring something special for him too?”

  “Yes, of course, sweetheart.”

  “Do you want to talk to him now?”

  “In a minute, love. Kisses.” His little girl made smacking noises in reply. “Estella, make sure you give lots of those to Edel and Mama. Make Edel squirm. Make sure to kiss him until he runs away.”

  “I will,” she said in her little voice. His heart broke when she gave up the phone.

  “Hello, Papi,” said Edel. He was a shy boy, an athlete. One who enjoyed baseball and soccer and played both well. But he was uncomfortable expressing emotions.

  Of his two children, Ramirez was closer to his son. He already missed the warm evenings with Edel in the park across the street from their apartment, kicking around the soccer ball he found for him for Christmas. His daughter he adored, but it was his son he longed to touch. To ruffle his hair, to see him wriggle with delight.

  “What is it like in Canada, Daddy?”

  “Well, I have a television in my room. There is an entire channel devoted to sports. Maybe more; I haven’t had time to check all of them.”

  Not to mention the XXX movies, as they were advertised on a cardboard display sitting on top of the television set. Ramirez had flipped through a few minutes of free previews when he arrived but found the adult movies clumsy, with wretched music.

  “Really?” his son asked. “I would love to see that.”

  “You are good enough, Edel, that some day, when people watch sports on television, they will be watching you.” He knew his son’s face had creased into a smile, felt the boy’s joy at the idea of a future as a professional athlete.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course I do. Now, make sure to practice kicking your soccer ball while I am away. And don’t forget, you are the man of the house now. One of my most important jobs is making sure that everyone has enough hugs. That job is yours until I return home on Friday night. Agreed?”

  “Yes, Papi. Come home soon.” Ramirez heard the phone being passed to his wife.

  “You know, I was thinking that you were right. When you come back, we should have Hector and his new girlfriend over for dinner. Let them be the first company we invite through the door.”

  Cubans believed that the first visitor in the New Year would set the tone for the year ahead. That would make for an interesting twelve months, thought Ramirez. A jinetera and a genius. So long as they ate nothing that killed them.

  “Francesca, please listen to me. There is another reason I called. I want you to be very careful about what you and the children eat until I get home. There may be something in the food that’s dangerous. See if you
can buy some bottled water for cooking. Por izquierda.” Through the left hand, on the black market. “Borrow money from my parents if you have to. This could be serious.”

  “Oh my,” Francesca said, worried. “It will be difficult to find bottled water. Perhaps we can stretch Estella’s milk a little while longer. What do you mean, serious? What kind of food should we avoid? You’re frightening me.”

  Ramirez realized the impossibility of what he was asking. He had no idea what was responsible for the deaths. And his family had to eat something.

  “A woman at headquarters died a few hours ago. A Canadian tourist has died as well. The deaths look similar. Hector thinks it could be a virulent type of food poisoning. I don’t know what to tell you. Just wash everything well. And make sure you cook everything at high temperatures.”

  “How awful,” Francesca said. “What if something happens while you’re gone? Oh, Ricky, I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I will be home soon, Francesca. I promise. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I’m sorry I was angry before. You know how much I love you.”

  “You were right; we need more money. I’ll think of something when I get home.”

  TWENTY - SIX

  The Chateau Laurier reminded Ramirez of Havana the way it was before the revolution. Gilt ceilings and plush upholstery. Luxurious bedding, plump pillows. Ostentatious, but tasteful, wealth.

  The only hotels that resembled it in Havana were the Hotel Nacional and some in Old Havana that had been restored with foreign money. All the others had crumbled into dust.

  Ramirez showered. He wondered if the tap water was safe for brushing his teeth. Several bottles of sparkling agua sat on top of the mini-bar. He opened one, wincing at the price. Another week’s wages.

  He shaved, dressed, and ordered room service.

  The waiter rapped on the door. He put the round silver tray and its domed cover on a desk, then waited patiently. Ramirez looked at the tab and realized gratuities were expected. He put an additional amount on the bill and charged it to his room. He’d spent a small fortune already, almost his departmental budget for the entire month.