Ghost Radio (20 page)

“Sir, you're going to have to talk louder.”

Joaquin started to laugh uncontrollably.

“About two years ago, I was admitted to St. Michael's Hospital in Houston. I needed an operation because I have a renal deficiency.”

He suppressed another fit of giggles.

“My surgery was scheduled for the next day, but I couldn't sleep because of anxiety, so I took a ride around the hospital in my wheelchair. Then I heard a noise that caught my attention. I looked into an office with its lights on, and I saw some doctors and nurses devouring a bunch of raw, bloody entrails. The director of the institution himself, a Dr. Friedman, was at the head of the table. But it was Dr. Scott who was in charge of carving the human flesh and distributing it to the diners. The patient who had been operated on that day, my hospital roommate, who was there for a prostate operation, was lying motionless on the floor. The next day I told them that they couldn't operate on me because I felt dizzy and had been throwing up all night. Dr. Scott reluctantly postponed my surgery, and instead, they operated on a young woman with a huge tumor in her back. That night, I went out for a ride again. This time, I wanted to prove to myself that I had been hallucinating the night before. When I arrived at the office where I had seen the cannibals, I saw Scott and Friedman again, feasting on the young woman's still-pulsating organs. I've tried to escape but this hospital is like a fortress, so every day I have to make up new pretexts, hiding lab results, changing my bed, or blackmailing the staff so that they won't take me to the operating room.”

Joaquin couldn't contain himself anymore. Finally, Gabriel hung up. They laughed until they fell off their wheelchairs. Then they borrowed some of the director's belongings and left with the same care as when they arrived. They were no longer two simple
Ghost Radio
listeners; they had become callers, and were very proud of themselves.

“If for some reason, I don't end up being a musician, I know what I want to be.”

“A cannibal doctor?”

“A radio-show host.”

They couldn't stop laughing.

Finally, the day came when Joaquin's grandmother was able to visit him. Joaquin was with Gabriel, reading in the garden, as the two did every afternoon. When he saw his grandmother, he tried to stand up. When he realized he couldn't, he wheeled toward her. Feeling awkward, Gabriel left. Joaquin and his grandmother talked endlessly, without any coherence and without saying anything specific.

Afterward, Joaquin returned to the room where Gabriel was waiting.

“I'm going to live with my grandmother when I get out of here. I'm not going back to Mexico.”

Joaquin went for a drive.
He thought he might buy some CDs, maybe go to the supermarket and kill some time. His nerves were getting to him; he was starting to talk to himself. Then his cell phone rang, his new phone, which he still couldn't get used to. It was Prew, the
Newsweek
journalist; he sounded rushed and anxious.

“Sorry for bothering you, but I have a question. I was just talking with the fact-checker at the magazine; he's found a problem with the interview.”

“What's wrong? I thought you canceled that article months ago when I refused to talk about Gabriel,” asked Joaquin.

“Well, we did. But given your recent success, and some extra space in our next issue, we decided to run it. But, like I said, there's a problem.”

“What is it?”

Joaquin was annoyed by the thought of this old interview being unearthed, and of a battalion of
Newsweek
employees methodically searching articles for errors, contradictions, or statements that could have legal consequences for the magazine.

“It's something minor, but he thinks you were confused when you said that you listened to a call-in program similar to yours when you were in the hospital with Gabriel.”

“So what's the confusion?”

“Well, the program didn't exist.”

His voice was worried.

“Of course it existed. Your fact-checkers are wrong.”

“Joaquin, these are professionals. They've been working at the maga
zine for years and we've never had any problems with them. Could the accident have affected your memory?”

“No, I'm completely sure about what I said.”

“That's impossible. There hasn't been a program like that in the Houston area for the last three decades—the records there were no shows about ghosts, ghouls, or monsters at all. I've reviewed the archives myself.”

“Prew, there's been a mistake. It's not the first time that I've had to look for documents that have disappeared from libraries or archives. Give me a chance and I'll find it.”

“Joaquin, you do not understand me. We really did search. We consulted many historic volumes and interviewed several experts. Nobody knew what I was talking about.”

Joaquin stopped the car, feeling dizzy. He didn't need this kind of news right now; his grasp on reality was shaky enough.

“I know I might be confused about a lot of things from the past. But in this case, there's no doubt. That program saved my life; it inspired me to do what I do now.”

“Could it be that you heard it in Mexico?”

“I'm sure I heard it at the hospital. There's no other possibility.”

“Do you know of anybody else who might have heard the program at that time?”

Joaquin tried to remember, but he and Gabriel hadn't shared the experience with anybody else. Nobody was supposed to be awake at that time; it was against the rules to listen to the radio after nine o'clock at night; moreover, they didn't think that anybody else in the hospital would be interested in it.

“As far as I know, only Gabriel and I listened to it.”

“Only you and your dead friend,” said Prew, the disbelief in his voice palpable.

“I'm sure many people listened to it. It's just that I don't know who.”

“Memories are just chemical reactions, simple electrical discharges. There's nothing more fragile.”

“That could be, but this was a major part of my life at the time.”

“Forget it. It's not a big deal; I'll just delete this part.”

“No, don't, Prew. Give me some time…” said Joaquin, and hung up.

Joaquin accelerated and made an aggressive U-turn, oblivious to the traffic around him. Surrounded by honking horns and insults, he drove at full speed in the opposite direction. His first thought was that he should go home to rest; he still hadn't recovered from the pseudoshaman's death, which he wasn't even sure had really happened. On the one hand, he wanted to forget about it, to assume that it had only been a hallucination or a nightmare or a blackout. Yet he remembered, vividly, everything that had happened. And at that moment he had another, more pressing matter to sort out. He had to prove that that radio show really existed. If he couldn't, absolutely everything that he was certain of would collapse; that program was the cornerstone of his memories and recollections.

But where should he start looking? The solution was obvious. He must settle this now. He called Alondra. “I have to go to Houston, right now. I have to check on something or I'm going to go crazy.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, he told her about the emergency. Alondra didn't understand at all.

“What difference does it make?”

“Right now it's the most important thing in the world.”

“Calm down, Joaquin. Leave it to me. I'll check into it and in a couple of days at the most we'll know if it ever existed or if it's a figment of your imagination.”

“I can't. I have to go now.”

“You're being dramatic. Relax. Take a deep breath. Traveling right now isn't going to accomplish anything.”

“Alondra, there's nothing you can say that will convince me not to go.”

She sighed. “All right, but let me start checking into it and see who can help you. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Probably, unless I find something really important.”

“Take care. Okay?”

Joaquin drove too fast. He felt a persistent heaviness in his chest, and
a thick, abstract fog filled his mind. He arrived at the airport, bought a round-trip ticket, and walked toward his gate. His cell rang. The new one. The stranger in his pocket.

“I found out something for you. Max Stevens is the expert on radio broadcasting in Houston and all of Texas,” said Alondra.

“Perfect. Give me his information.”

“I spoke with him. Joaquin, you don't need to go there. He has a telephone. You can call him”

“Alondra, I have to.”

“Do whatever you want. I'll text the number to you. Do you know how to use your new phone?”

“Yes, don't worry. Send it to me. I have to make an appointment.”

“I did already. Stevens will see you today. I explained to him that it was an emergency. He was very accommodating.”

As Joaquin boarded the plane, he realized that he hadn't been to Houston in a very long time. He didn't remember much about the city. This worried him. How could he forget a place where he had lived for so long? Then he remembered his return to Mexico City so many years ago. It had appeared unfamiliar as well. This calmed him. The memories returned then and they would today.

But this wasn't like that time in Mexico City. This was different. From the moment he arrived, he felt like he'd landed on an unknown planet. Initially, he thought that he'd be able to find his way with only a few directions; as soon as he started the rented 2007 Ford Taurus, though, he realized that he needed a map just to get downtown, which should have been relatively simple. He stared at the sunlight reflecting off the car's metallic green hood.

“My religion is the computer chip,” he muttered to himself, reading the MapQuest directions to Stevens's place off the screen of his new phone.

The drive was uneventful. As he turned down Monroe headed for the freeway, he passed a café. At sidewalk tables sat a cluster of people huddled around a radio. Their eyes were vacant. They held cups inches
from their lips, but didn't drink. He knew they couldn't possibly be listening to
Ghost Radio
at this time of day, but he couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly what they were doing. He considered pulling over, rolling down his window, trying to listen, but he thought better of it and drove on.

The office was located in one of the luxury corporate skyscrapers downtown. Stevens had a secretary and a team of assistants who paced back and forth carrying files, boxes, and stacks of documents. In an anteroom there were posters advertising his books, photos of Stevens shaking hands with celebrities, and an oil painting of a sailboat on the ocean. Joaquin didn't have to wait long.

“Joaquin. It's a pleasure meeting you. As it happens, I'm very interested in you, because I'm including you in my next book. Your program has enjoyed a remarkable success.”

Joaquin listened to a few more compliments, and tried to reciprocate by saying something positive about Stevens's books, which he had never read. Unsurprisingly, nothing came to mind. He said that it was a pleasure and an honor to meet him, and then added, “I flew here to see you, since no one knows this business better.”

Stevens, a tall, thin man with sharp features and an impeccable appearance, looked pleased.

“I'll get straight to the crux of the matter. Sixteen years ago, I had a serious accident in this city. I was hospitalized for six weeks, and during that time I spent my nights listening to a radio program about ghosts and the supernatural, a program very similar to the one I host now. It was broadcast very late, maybe all night, and the public called in to tell horror and mystery stories, and talk about anything related to ghosts. Can you tell me anything about a show like that?”

“Nothing springs to mind,” said Stevens.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. Frankly, I think you may be in error. But I can double check. I have the most extensive and significant archive of radio broadcasting in the state, perhaps the country; allow me.”

Stevens sat at his computer and keyed in something. Joaquin waited silently. As time passed, he sank deeper and deeper into his chair. He sensed that he wasn't going to get anything; it was as bad as a doctor breaking the news that he was suffering from an incurable disease.

Finally, Stevens spoke. “Joaquin, there must be a mistake. I have records here of overnight broadcasting, year by year, for the past three decades and I don't see any program like the one you describe, or even anything that deals with the subjects you mentioned.”

“Mr. Stevens, I knew you were going to tell me that. That's why I came in person. I believe this show has been lost, so to speak.”

“What do you mean by…lost?”

“For some reason, it hasn't been registered in the official archives.”

“Why would that happen?”

“I don't know. But I can guarantee that it existed.”

Stevens's eyes narrowed. Joaquin sensed this wasn't a man who liked being contradicted.

“Joaquin, I have a complete archive. It's impeccable. I won't tolerate any omission, and I don't understand what you mean by an unregistered program.”

“I only want to know if it's possible.”

“That's ridiculous. No. I have meticulous and exhaustive records”—Stevens emphasized the last words, verbalizing them slowly—“of
everything
that has been on the radio waves in the Houston area in the past thirty years.”

“I have no doubt. But I'm completely sure that the program existed.”

“Do you remember any other details about the program? The name of the host, the station, the days it aired?”

“No, I don't remember any of that. There were several people, both men and women, I think. It aired three or four nights a week, but I can't remember the station.”

“Maybe the telephone number?”

“I don't have it, but I can probably get it,” he said, remembering that when Gabriel and he had called, he'd written the number down in a note
book that might still be with the other mementos he had been dragging from place to place for decades. “Isn't it possible that there were underground broadcasts? Clandestine programs?”

“I suppose, that definitely wouldn't be included in my archive.”

“Is there any way to research those types of programs?”

“I don't know.”

“There has to be someone who's documented it.”

Stevens was losing his patience.

“I'm sorry, but I can't help you,” he said, standing up.

“I don't want to take more of your time, but this matter is tremendously important to me.”

Stevens's irritation was obvious. He rotated his wrists mechanically, avoiding Joaquin's gaze. Joaquin wasn't willing to leave empty-handed. He needed something, anything.

“There's the Theo Winkler collection…” Stevens said reluctantly.

“Whose?”

“Winkler is a dilettante who over the years has compiled college, underground, and clandestine radio-broadcast materials. He's an ignoramus and a fraud, but he might have some idea of what you're looking for.”

“I would be grateful if you would give me his information.”

“My secretary will give it to you. Have a good afternoon, sir,” Stevens said, directing Joaquin out of his office. It was obvious that he was offended by the fact that Joaquin had come to see him with an interest that wasn't related to him. Joaquin was most likely condemned to excision from his next book.

Joaquin thanked him and received a piece of paper from the secretary with a telephone number that he dialed as soon as he stepped outside.

Winkler answered. Apparently he didn't have a secretary. Joaquin explained where he'd gotten the number.

“Stevens? That supercilious despot told you to see me? Unbelievable, man.”

Joaquin explained what he was looking for, and Winkler told him to drop by someday.

“It has to be today.”

“It's late. I can't see you today.”

“Please, Winkler, this is an emergency. I'm running out of time and I need to see you today. It won't take long.”

Winkler accepted unenthusiastically; Joaquin downloaded a new set of MapQuest directions and started on his way. It turned out his destination was a dilapidated warehouse in a middle-class, residential neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Joaquin before Winkler could open his mouth.

Winkler's “archive” was a dining-room table surrounded by stacks of soundtracks, old tape recorders, and piles of ancient radio equipment. Inches of dust covered every surface; the whole place reeked of mold and marijuana. Winkler was a huge man dressed in overalls.