The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [119]
Patricio stood up. The wet T-shirt was still cold. The pants he had put on in the van were too short and the large shoes from prison looked clumsy. He looked around and spotted a clothing store nearby. He could spend some of the money José had given him on some new duds.
He came back out onto the street sixteen hundred kronor poorer. He had not realized how expensive it was going to be, but he had not wanted to protest or haggle at the register. Now he was wearing yet another pair of blue jeans, a red T-shirt, and a short jacket. In the bag he had an extra T-shirt, a pair of underpants, and three pairs of socks.
He put on the sunglasses and cap that he had bought and immediately felt better. He looked down at his shoes, but decided that they would have to do for now.
The sales clerk had been friendly and had not seemed surprised that Patricio only knew a few words of Swedish. On the street he saw many dark-hued people and realized that Swedes were used to foreigners.
He walked toward the central square that he had seen earlier. It was an old habit. In the village and even in Oaxaca, the zócalon, the square, was the meeting place where you strolled around, sat on a bench, bumped into people you knew and exchanged a few words. He was hoping that Manuel would think along similar lines and find his way to the square. What else was he to do in a strange city?
He heard music coming from a pedestrian zone, and he paused. A group of musicians were giving a concert. He immediately saw that they were South Americans. He had encountered similar groups of usually Peruvians and Bolivians in California. He gave them some of the change he had received from the clothing store and lingered there. During a pause in the music he mustered some courage and walked up to one of the men.
“Hi, companero, do you know where the restaurant Dakar is?” he asked in Spanish.
The flute player gave him an interested look. Patricio almost regretted asking. What did he know about Dakar, perhaps it was an infamous hangout for bad people.
“It’s not far from here,” the musician said and pointed with his flute. “Take the first street to the right and then you will see Dakar about fifty meters away.”
“You play well,” Patricio said.
The man nodded curtly as if he did not care for compliments.
“Where do come from?”
“California,” Patricio said.
There was nothing unfriendly about the man, but his expression what somewhat sullen and forbidding. Patricio had the feeling he was on his guard.
He walked in the direction the man had pointed at. The tension in his body made him want to run, but he controlled himself and tried to match the rhythm of those around him on the street, without looking back.
He turned to the right and saw the restaurant sign at once. It had the name of the place and three blinking stars in red and green. I’ve finally arrived, he thought, and had the unpleasant feeling of having been on this sidewalk, looking at this sign before.
The next thought that struck him was just as unpleasant. If I had not gone along with the fat one’s talk of innocent letters that needed transporting to Europe, or rather, if I had admitted to myself what I deep down believed about the package, where would I have been then? Who would I have been? Who am I today?
His life was wasted. He had, against his better judgment, allowed himself to be tricked, had been seduced by the power of money and dreams of a better life. What he and his family had gained was not a fortune but dishonor. Why not complete this thread by walking into Dakar and killing the fat one and the tall one? For his own part, nothing could get worse. They would not judge