The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [12]
“Yes,” his brother said. “They promised me ten thousand dollars, even if I got caught. They would make sure Mama got the money.”
When he mentioned their mother, Manuel lowered his gaze.
“Ten thousand dollars,” he repeated quietly, as if to test the amount of money, and he immediately translated it into pesos: one hundred and ten thousand.
“That is over seven thousand hours of work,” he said and tried to calculate how many years that represented.
“How did you get caught?”
“At the airport. They had a dog.”
“You haven’t told the police anything?”
Patricio shook his head.
“Why not? You would get out sooner.”
Up to this point they had not mentioned Patricio’s severe sentence.
“I don’t think it works like that here,” he said sadly.
“It works like that everywhere,” Manuel said vehemently. He was becoming more and more upset by his brother’s passive attitude.
“Not in Sweden.”
Manuel tried a different approach.
“Maybe they would give you a better, bigger cell and better food?”
His brother smiled, but still looked sad.
“I have never eaten as well in my life as I do here,” he said, but Manuel did not believe him.
“I go to the chapel as often as I can. There is a priest who comes here. We pray together. It is a remarkable church,” he added, then stopped abruptly.
“What do you mean?”
“Here there are all religions. We are over two hundred inmates and everyone prays to his own God. It doesn’t bother me. I usually talk to an Iranian in the chapel. He has lived in the USA. There is a clock on the wall, and it comes from Jerusalem, and when I look at it I think about the suffering of Christ and that my problems are nothing compared to what God’s son had to go through. Being in the chapel makes me calm.”
Manuel stared at his brother. He had never talked so much about religion before.
“But what about the money?” he asked, in order to change the topic. “You can do a lot with ten thousand.”
“You don’t know how it works,” Patricio said. “The greenbacks would do me no good in here. It is better if they send the money home. How are things back there?”
“They’re fine,” Manuel said.
Patricio studied him in silence.
“I will never see the village again,” he said. “I will die in here.”
Manuel stood up quickly. What could he say to prevent his brother from sinking more deeply into a depression? In his letters he had talked about taking his life, that only his faith prevented him from doing so. As Manuel looked at Patricio, at his altered gaze and posture, he sensed that the day when his faith weakened, when doubt crept into his brother’s body, yes, then he would also waste away, perhaps end his life.
Manuel believed his brother’s words were an unconscious way of preparing him, and perhaps himself, for such a development.
“Of course the money could help you,” he resumed.
“To buy drugs, or what?”
“No, I didn’t say that!”
“Tell me one thing …”
“Patricio, you are twenty-five years old and …”
“Twenty-six. It was my birthday yesterday.”
Manuel fell silent before his brother’s gaze.
“Patricio, Patricio, my brother,” Manuel mumbled when he was back in the parking lot, next to his rental car. He could not make himself leave. He stared at the building, trying to imagine how his brother was escorted through endless corridors back to his cell and how the massive oak door was shut behind him.
It was as if his brother did not exist, he was hidden behind walls of concrete, forgotten by everyone except the guards and Manuel.
Patricio had changed, and his despondence had shocked Manuel. He did not seem to want to do anything to improve his situation. Manuel did not for one moment believe the talk of how he was fine. Ten thousand dollars could improve his living conditions, Manuel was sure of that. That was how it worked in Mexico, and human beings were alike all over the world, but Patricio had not done anything to try to recover the money.
Manuel looked at the piece of paper on which Patricio had written the name of the restaurant. He unlocked the car door, took a map out of the glove compartment,