The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [118]
In Uppsala he should get off the train, buy a map, and mingle with people downtown, not check into a hotel, buy food in a large grocery store and thereafter try to find some place where he could spend the night.
“Buy a blanket or sleeping bag. If anyone asks where you come from, tell them you are a Spanish tourist. Okay?”
Patricio nodded.
“You can’t get in touch with your friend right away, understand? The cops might be keeping an eye out.”
“I don’t think so,” Patricio said, who only now started to think about his brother, who had told him he was going to Uppsala to look up the tall one and the fat one. Where was Manuel?
“You won’t change your mind?”
“No,” Patricio said, but he wasn’t convinced it had been right to escape from prison.
“If you get caught then never tell them how we did it, that you came with me in this car, and where I let you off.”
“I’ll keep quiet,” Patricio said.
José gave a chuckle. Patricio looked at him and smiled. It felt good to hear a laugh in freedom, to have found a friend.
“We live a while longer,” José said.
Dark clouds were pulling in from the south as Patricio stepped off the Upp-train at the central station in Uppsala. The rain came down with an almost tropical force and for several moments he stood absolutely still and let himself be struck by the strong, hammering drops before he ran over the platform, crossed the tracks, and hurried into the station.
There was a convivial atmosphere in there, with laughter and a cacophony of voices. A damp heat rose from the travelers’ clothes and a metallic voice issued from the loudspeakers. People poured effortlessly through the station like lava streams down a mountainside, curving around groups of stationary people, continuing on out the doors that reluctantly slid open and let in the smell of rain and car exhaust.
Patricio stopped for a moment, shivered from the dampness that had soaked through the T-shirt, listened and was amazed at this throng of colors, voices, and movements. Then he followed one of the streams and ended up on some stairs by a small square. A patrol car was parked on the street.
“Manuel, where are you?” he muttered and looked around. To the left there was a parking lot and beyond that, a bus terminal. To the right there was a disorganized army of a thousand bikes. It was in this direction that most people walked and Patricio followed the river of people in toward the city center. The rain had stopped as quickly as it had started. The clouds in the sky were torn apart, a pale sun peeked out and spread a warm, indolent light over Uppsala.
Patricio was gradually overcoming his shock at having escaped the prison and no longer being imprisoned by closed doors and walls topped with barbed wire. Nothing prevented him from walking in any direction he chose. He could sit on a park bench, rest for fifteen minutes, an hour, or half a day, and then saunter on to wherever he wished.
Nonetheless it still seemed as if others determined his steps. During his walk he became a helpless victim of other peoples’ desires and directions and found himself standing outside a hamburger joint. He walked in, and once he had satisfied his thirst and hunger, he tried to come to his own decision.
His brother was somewhere in this city, but at his visit to the prison he had not mentioned where he was planning to stay. Patricio could not imagine him checking into a hotel, but he must have spent his nights somewhere. He could not simply sleep outside as they did in Mexico, resting on a petate and rolled up in a blanket.
And where should he himself spend the night? He sank down onto a bench, suddenly exhausted. The scent of coffee from an outdoor cafe brought back memories of the village. Should he call Gerardo back in the village so he could get word to his mother? No, she would be beside herself with worry. He could see Maria, the shriveled body that