The Beggar's Opera Read Free Page A

pathologist asked. He pivoted his large head and cocked a bright eye at Ramirez. “You know what I think of organized religion. You can imagine what I think of any God who would make me in his image.”
    “But what if someone told you they’d seen a ghost? Someone credible,” Ramirez pressed. “Unlikely to make things up.”
    “Ah, now, Ricardo, believing in ghosts is one thing. Seeing them is another. I would suspect that person had developed a medical problem. There are certain illnesses — tumours, toxicities like lead poisoning, for example — that can cause hallucinations. As well as some mental illnesses like schizophrenia and senile dementia. Even a stroke can sometimes have that effect.”
    “What about the santeros ?” asked Ramirez. He pulled a stool over and sat down to steady his legs. “They claim to communicate with the dead. My grandmother was Vodun. On my father’s side.”
    Slave traders brought Ramirez’s Yoruba ancestors from West Africa in the 1800s to harvest Cuban tobacco and sugar. The Yoruba followed their own religion, Vodun, as well as the Catholicism forced upon them by their owners.
    Or at least they pretended to. They cloaked their religion with Catholic rites, but never gave up their own practices. The resulting mix of Catholicism and Vodun — Santería, or Lukumi — included a belief in multiple gods, and regular and animated interaction with the spirit world.
    Apiro nodded doubtfully. “Superstition, I think. In that sense, Santería is no different than other religions. I agree with Castro on that point. We were both trained by Jesuits, and we both became atheists. Perhaps there is a connection.”
    Ramirez cringed as Apiro probed the neck wound with his gloved fingers, but the body didn’t twitch. Definitely dead, thought Ramirez. No doubt about it.
    “Your grandmother believed in ghosts?” asked Apiro. He leaned against the top rung of his ladder as he waited for Ramirez’s response.
    Ramirez inclined his head slightly, remembering his promise of secrecy. His grandmother had spoken to him of a gift acrossgenerations, of messengers from the other side. A gift that waited for him outside the door, the bright slash of his wound coiled around his neck like a red bandana.
    “My parents said she died from an unusual form of dementia. But she knew where she was, and who we were, right up to the end. I was there when she passed away.”
    “She probably had a disease called DLB, then,” said Apiro. “Dementia with Lewy bodies. It can cause extremely compelling hallucinations. Quite often those who have it know their visions are not real; they may even find them amusing. Socks that turn into kittens, for example. Although in Cuba, kittens that turned into socks would be more useful. I personally think it’s more difficult to deal with than Alzheimer’s because of that self-awareness. It’s a terrible illness, Ricardo. I’m sorry to hear she suffered from it.”
    “Is that the only symptom of the disease, Hector?” asked Ramirez, his hands shaking as he lit the cigar. “Delusions?”
    “Hallucinations and delusions are not quite the same, Ricardo. Hallucinations occur when one sees things that don’t exist. A delusion is when one believes them. But no, there are certainly others as the illness progresses,” said Apiro, turning back to the corpse. “Insomnia is quite common in the early stages. Then tremors in the extremities. The cognitive deterioration comes much later on. Unfortunately, it is impossible to diagnose the illness with certainty until one autopsies the brain, although CT scans and MRIs can be useful if there is a reason to suspect it. She did well to live so long, your grandmother. The disease can be of quite early onset. It often strikes people in their forties and fifties.”
    “My God,” said Ramirez. His heart sank. He had suffered from insomnia for months, ever since his promotion. And now apparently from hallucinations, too. “What’s the