The Poisoned Pawn Read online

  Pike gripped the steering wheel more tightly, but his voice remained calm. Ramirez was impressed by the man’s composure.

  “Were all the staff like this?”

  “No. We had some teachers that were okay, but plenty who weren’t. And any staff member who complained disappeared pretty quickly. And the living conditions were always terrible, right from the beginning. At the Duck Lake Agency, where my grandfather was sent to school, twenty-five percent of the children died from TB his first year. The infirmary was overcrowded. They were starving, Rick. They didn’t have a chance.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine this,” Ramirez said.

  The magnitude of it was overwhelming. He tried to think of the grief that would overcome any small village in Cuba if every fourth child forced to go to boarding school never returned. He couldn’t fathom it. The depth of loss was beyond comprehension. These were more like war crimes, cultural genocide. Like a natural disaster, with the power of a tornado that destroyed everything in its path. But entirely unnatural. Perhaps this was how the Tainos felt as they fled into the mountains, leaving the bodies of their dead children behind.

  “Did the parents know what was happening to their children?”

  Pike shook his head. “Not often. In Ojibway and Cree cultures, children are raised to be respectful. If they told anyone about the abuse, they would have been disrespectful to their abusers. But even when they tried to tell, most of the time no one believed them. Their parents had been taught to respect the Church. They couldn’t imagine that nuns and priests could do that to their children. Children weren’t even spanked on my reserve. We learned how we were supposed to behave from the elders. They told us stories, legends. It was up to us to interpret those stories to understand how we were supposed to act.”

  How heartbreaking, thought Ramirez. Children raised to be kind to the people who brutalized them. Children who sought help, only to see it denied by the adults they trusted to protect them.

  “And what about this claims process that Corporal Tremblay told me about? Is it going to resolve these matters?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not automatic: the claims are adjudicated. Some victims go to these hearings and struggle to tell an adjudicator what happened. It’s usually the first time in their lives that they’ve had the courage to talk about it. Then they find out they’re only going to get a part of the compensation awarded to them, because there’s nothing coming from the Catholic Church. But it took dozens of years to get things this far, Rick. So I guess you could say this is progress.”

  Pike didn’t sound like he saw it that way.

  “You don’t support this settlement process, then?”

  “Not really,” said Pike. “It opens up a lot of old wounds.” He pulled his red truck over to the side of the road and put on his hazard lights. “Give me a second, will you?”

  Pike got out of the truck and walked over to an old man sitting on the sidewalk. The man looked aboriginal to Ramirez. He leaned against a stone wall, a garbage bag full of clothes beside him. There was a blanket wrapped around his legs, but he seemed indifferent to the cold. Ramirez saw Pike put something in the old man’s lap and pat him on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Pike said, when he climbed back into the truck. “I try to keep an eye on him. He’s Anishnabe, from somewhere up north. He’s homeless, but too proud to live in a shelter. He was abused at Indian residential school, too. I can’t find out what his name is; he won’t tell me. But he’s finally starting to talk to me about what happened. Do I support the claims process? Well, I think people who sexually abuse children should go to jail and see how it feels to be raped by someone bigger. But our courts don’t like to sentence old men. Most of the people who did this are elderly. A lot of them are already dead.”

  “What do you think should happen to the perpetrators, then, Charlie? Jail? Capital punishment?”

  “We don’t have capital punishment in Canada.” Pike turned his head to look at Ramirez and smiled. “Although some people think living in Ottawa is capital punishment.”

  “But seriously, what do you think should be done?”

  Pike sighed. “The Anishnabe would have banished them. Made them live somewhere on their own, away from the community, to think about what they’d done. I guess if they thought they were really dangerous,” he shrugged, “the people would have got together to decide who would kill them. The way they used to kill windagos.”

  “Windagos? What are they?” asked Ramirez.

  “Monsters that killed people in the winter and ate their hearts. Every time they possessed another person’s body, they got stronger, more powerful. You had to kill a windago twice or it would come back, and their hearts were made of ice, so you had to cut them out. The windagos always took over the bodies of the best hunters and fishermen. If the community didn’t do something about them, it couldn’t survive the winter.”

  Ramirez shuddered. “They really existed?”

  “Our people believe so. Isn’t that the same thing? My dad’s great uncle, Jack Fiddler, was a shaman and a famous windago hunter. He hung himself after he was arrested for killing fourteen of them. The police let him go outside for a walk. He kept going until he found a tree he liked better than jail.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  Pike thought for a moment.“Early 1900s, I guess. Once he was arrested, it wasn’t long before the white men came and took away our land.”

  “What are shamans?”

  “Spiritual leaders. But the Victorians thought they were witch doctors. The Indian Act made most of their ceremonies illegal. A lot of them went to jail.”

  “That’s a fascinating history,” said Ramirez. “But very sad.” Apiro would want to hear the details. He was enamoured with the romance of the American Wild West. But the information Charlie Pike was sharing was far from romantic.

  “We had the same kind of thing happen in Cuba with the brujos, around the same time you mention,” said Ramirez. “There were many former slaves in the early 1900s who were born in Africa. The ones who believed in brujería, like my grandmother, were often prosecuted as witch doctors, too.”

  “Well, that’s the difference, I guess,” Pike said. “We didn’t come from anywhere. We were already here when the white people came. There’s a grand chief in British Columbia who says we should have killed every European who got off the boat instead of offering to trade with them. Sometimes I think he was right.”

  “The indigenous people in my country were slaughtered by the Spanish when they came to trade with them, too. None of the Tainos survived.”

  “I don’t know how we did,” said Pike, pulling his truck in front of the Chateau Laurier. “The Europeans put smallpox in the blankets they traded with us. Wiped out thousands of Anishnabe. Sometimes I try to imagine what this country would be like if we’d just been left alone.”

  Ramirez picked up the RCMP file and put his hand on the door handle to get out. “That man you gave money to, what do you think he would want done to the priest who hurt him?”

  “The old man?” Pike smiled sadly, thinking of the story. “He believes in the traditional ways. He wants to know that spring will come again, even if he doesn’t live long enough to see it. If the priest would just apologize, he’d forgive him, I think. Sometimes that’s the worst punishment of all.”

  THIRTY - SEVEN

  Celia Jones was seated in a red wingback chair in the hotel lobby when Ramirez walked through the glass doors. He had entirely forgotten that they were supposed to go out for dinner.

  “With everything going on, are you sure you still want to come with us?” she asked, standing up. “You must be terribly worried about events at home in Havana. We won’t be offended if you want to stay close to the phone.”

  “I admit, I’m concerned about the situation. But I have to trust Hector to find the answers. I’ve already warned my family to be careful. All I can do now is wait. Perhaps going out with you this evening will help take my mind
off the situation.”

  After Ramirez checked for messages, Celia Jones drove him to a polished, wood-panelled restaurant where her husband, Alex Gonsalves, was waiting for them at the bar. They moved to a table and ordered a bottle of wine to go with their entrées.

  People spoke in hushed tones. A pianist played quietly in the background. The service was so unobtrusive, so smooth, Ramirez hardly noticed they had a waiter.

  “How is your steak and salad?” asked Jones.

  The meat was tender enough to be cut with the side of a spoon, but Ramirez was too tense to enjoy it. Each bite was like a mouthful of sawdust.

  “Fantastic,” he lied. “We don’t see beef in Cuba these days. Or any meat, for that matter. Or even many vegetables other than beans. Lucky for us, few Cubans eat vegetables anyway. I think there’s a law requiring it, but we try not to enforce it.”

  Gonsalves chuckled. “Where does the food for the restaurants and hotels come from, Inspector Ramirez? Still from state farms?”

  “Please, both of you, call me Ricardo. Yes. These days the farms are worked by oxen and mules, since we have no fuel for tractors. Our harvests are smaller, because we no longer have ready access to pesticides, either. It’s actually resulted in fewer homicides.” He smiled. “Once the bottles were empty, they were sometimes used as bludgeons.”

  Alex, Ramirez had discovered, was Cuban. Alejandro. One of the wave of migrants who fled the island in the 1990s. “I finally decided,” Gonsalves said, reaching for a dinner roll, “that democracy is essential. Without it, nothing else matters.”

  Ramirez looked around the restaurant to see if anyone was listening. Discussions about democracy in Cuba were dangerous. But here no one paid the slightest attention.

  “Well, I think that democracy is overrated,” said Jones. “George Bush got elected with less than twenty-five percent of the votes. And a lot of those were rigged. It’s the economic taps being turned off that has crippled Cuba, not its politics.”

  “You sound like a Cuban politician, Celia,” said Ramirez, smiling. “Fidel Castro offered to send observers to monitor the last American election, but President Bush declined his offer. I don’t think Señor Bush appreciates Castro’s sense of humour.”

  Jones laughed, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “The offer alone must have made Bush apoplectic. But if he’s the poster child for democracy, maybe you’re better off without it.”

  Gonsalves shook his head. “Until the dictatorship is replaced with democratic elections, the United States will never remove the embargo. And nothing is going to change as long as the US can point to things like the way Las Damas de Blanco have been treated by Castro’s government.”

  “Who are Las Damas de Blanco?” asked Jones.

  “I mentioned them to you before Christmas,” Gonsalves said. “Remember? The Ladies in White. It’s a protest group.”

  “They march every Sunday, after mass,” said Ramirez.

  “Some of them were beaten up on December 10. International Human Rights Day,” Gonsalves explained.

  Ramirez remembered it well. Hundreds of mostly middle-aged women marched in silence, carrying pink gladioli, until they were pushed off the sidewalk by pro-Castro demonstrators. The revolutionaries tore the women’s flowers into pieces and threw garbage and bottles at them before the protesters were dragged away by militia and security officers and loaded on buses.

  All this happened as foreign reporters watched. Castro had fumed. Not at the arrests, of which he approved, but at the reports of them that hit the international news.

  “Their sons and husbands are dissidents,” Ramirez explained. “Most were arrested during a crackdown a few years ago for desacato—that’s contempt for the government—for criticizing programs. I remember one was jailed because he claimed the organ donation program donated too many organs to extranjeros.”

  After dinner, they walked to the National Arts Centre. Jones assured Ramirez that it was only a few blocks away. Ramirez wore the clothing Alex Gonsalves had loaned him. These included heavy canvas boots with a thick rubber sole that looked like it was made from the tires on Charlie Pike’s truck. The boots had liners of dense grey felt.

  His head and feet and hands were quite warm, and as a result, the walk was not altogether unpleasant. Although after a block or two, he could no longer feel his cheeks and his nose was so dry that it felt like it was made of straw.

  The National Arts Centre was another Soviet-style, flatroofed, brown building that hugged the side of the Rideau Canal. Ramirez was surprised at how plain the architecture was in a country that had the resources to build whatever it chose. There were none of the pinks, yellows, or turquoises of Havana. All the buildings in downtown Ottawa seemed to be brown or grey, or clad with mirrors that reflected other brown and grey buildings.

  Hundreds of people skated on the frozen surface of the Rideau Canal. “They’re going to designate the canal a World Heritage Site soon. Just like Old Havana,” said Jones. “It’s the longest man-made skating rink in the world.”

  Gonsalves explained that the canal was built by Irish stonemasons in the 1800s, during the struggle for control of North America.

  “Che Guevara was part Irish, did you know?” said Ramirez. “His father once said that his son had the blood of Irish rebels in his veins. But his mother was Basque.”

  “Really?” said Jones. “I have to say, Cuba must be one of the most interesting countries on the planet. Tell me more about the houngans you mentioned earlier today, Ricardo.”

  They were approaching the front doors of the NAC. Inside, a line had formed. Seeing a queue made Ramirez a little homesick.

  “Here,” Gonsalves said. “Give me your coats. I’ll take them to the cloakroom.”

  He walked away briskly. A nice man, Ramirez thought. Principled, and intense, but also kind and good-humoured. A good match to the Canadian lawyer, who Ramirez had come to like greatly.

  “Houngans? They’re witch doctors. They practice a form of voodoo.”

  “I thought voodoo only existed in Haiti.”

  “Vodun came to us from Africa, too, Celia, with the slaves brought to work in the tobacco and sugar plantations. My grandmother was one of them. But she was Yoruba, from Nigeria, so she followed Santería as well.”

  “I remember being told about Santería when I went to Blind Alley. I didn’t really understand the beliefs. I remember thinking it was odd that people could believe in it and in Catholic saints at the same time.”

  “They did that so they could protect their own religion. They gave each orisha the name of a saint. For example, Chango, the god of thunder, is also Santa Barbara. She is a good fit for Chango because she was murdered by her father for worshipping the Catholic god.

  “Right after her father killed her, he was struck dead by lightning. Because of this, Santa Barbara is invoked against sudden death. Those who pray to her, or to Chango, believe that they will never die without first receiving the sacraments.”

  “Did your grandmother believe in the Catholic god, too?”

  Alex Gonsalves returned and handed them each a stub from the coat check. “It won’t be long. They’re going to open the doors in a few minutes.”

  “Gracias. No. She preferred to worship many gods,” said Ramirez. “She thought it best to keep all channels open. She was often possessed by orishas.”

  “You’re kidding. Really?”

  “The Santería believe that drumming opens the gateway to the orishas. If the drummers are good enough, the loas, or spirits, of the orishas take over the dancers. My grandmother loved to dance.”

  “I thought I saw something like that in Blind Alley when I was there,” said Jones. “A woman was screaming while people sang and drummed. When I left, I saw something on the ground. I thought it was red paint. Well, actually, at first I thought it was blood. The whole thing was pretty scary.”

  “The babalaos draw those pictures on the ground long before the dances, to persuade the gullible that the orish
as have visited,” said Gonsalves. “When they point them out later, people forget they’ve walked over those same drawings all day. It’s like the doctors in the Philippines—the faith healers—who pretend that bloody chicken livers are tumours they’ve extracted from people’s bodies. People desperate to believe in something will believe in anything.”

  “I don’t suppose Cuban voodoo is the same as it is in the movies, is it, Ricardo? With those little dolls that witch doctors stick pins into?” Jones asked as they joined the lineup.

  “I don’t know about movies,” said Ramirez. “We so rarely see any new ones.”

  The last movie Ramirez and Francesca had gone to was at a theatre across the street from the Gran Teatro. Ironically enough, it was called Brujas. A movie starring Penélope Cruz, so old and out of date that Cruz was only seventeen.

  “But, yes, sometimes they’ll use voodoo dolls to change someone’s behaviour. To get them to quit smoking, for example. Or to give up a mistress. Some voodoo masters claim they can lure someone’s spirit into water and kill them by stabbing the reflection. The water turns red and the person becomes a zombie.”

  “But of course that doesn’t really happen. It’s all a trick,” said Gonsalves. “There is no such thing as zombies. That’s as silly as believing in ghosts.”

  Ramirez smiled. “I can see you are a scientist, Alejandro, like my friend Hector Apiro. But religion is about faith. Hector says that chess is the only endeavour based on pure science.”

  “Do you play chess, Ricardo?” said Jones. “I tried to take it up, but I wasn’t that good at it. Alex, on the other hand, is a whiz at it, and crosswords. He can figure out all kinds of complicated clues. I’m just not that good at games that require strategy. I’m more sort of ‘in the moment,’ if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t play well, sadly. But I find its theory useful on occasion. As Hector once explained to me, in chess, tactics is knowing what to do when there is something that can be done. Strategy is what you develop when you lack tactics. And if you have no time to develop strategy, if you do something unexpected it can sometimes confuse your opponent and allow you to win.”