The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [148]
“The bed is made,” he said and threw himself down.
They carried in their few belongings and installed themselves. Manuel hid the bag of money behind the stack of firewood. It felt unpleasant to force oneself into a stranger’s house, but on the other hand it had been open and they were not causing any damage. The most important thing was that they were no longer visible from the air if any more helicopters appeared.
Patricio stretched out on the bed with his hands under his head. Manuel sat down on a rickety wooden chair.
“What if we were to tell our whole story,” Patricio said after a long period of silence.
Manuel looked quizzically at him. He was too exhausted to think. This fatigue was of a different order from at home. In the mountains he could wander for hours, even carrying a load, without tiring.
“I don’t think Swedes know what it is like in Mexico,” Patricio said.
“That is not so strange. How many people in our village know what it is like here? And how would you make this happen? Are you going to be on TV?”
Patricio shut his eyes. A spider walked across his closely cropped hair. Manuel studied his face. I have to get him home again, he thought, bending forward and brushing the spider away. Patricio smiled, but he did not open his eyes. After a minute or so he slept heavily.
If we could tell our whole story, Manuel thought, where would we begin? How many would listen? Maybe Eva, but how many others?
He got up from his seat and walked as quietly as possible back out into the yard. He walked up to the main house, forcing his way through some bushes to a window, and peered inside. It was a kitchen. There was a wood-burning fireplace with a white-washed hood. A table and four chairs was the only furniture. On the table was a yellowed newspaper and a pair of glasses.
When he left the window and walked back over the flower bed he felt a familiar scent. He sniffed the air, looked down, and received a shock when he realized what it was that was giving off the aromatic smells.
He had stepped on a Ruta, or rue. He recognized the mild yellow-green leaves so well.
Will I die here? he wondered, swiftly making the sign of the cross and backing slowly away from the house. When he lifted his gaze from the flower bed he thought he could see Miguel’s children in the windows. He wanted to leave the house and run away but controlled himself.
It struck him that maybe the poor people in this country also planted Ruta outside their houses. The rich men took pills when they had an ache, while the poor prepared an infusion of herbs or a poultice of healing leaves. It was a poor man’s house they had broken into. That immediately felt better. A rich man would be beside himself. A poor man would understand. That was how it was in the village. The poor were the most generous, but on the other hand they did not have much to give.
Manuel had the idea that they should help clear up a little in the yard. He thought he had seen a saw leaning up against the wall in the shed. They could saw the fallen tree into firewood. That could be done in the wink of an eye.
He went inside where Patricio was still sleeping. He had curled up and turned to the wall. Manuel pulled the blanket out of the bag, crawled in beside his brother, and pulled it tightly around them both.
Fifty-Nine
Very rarely or perhaps never before had Ann Lindell experienced such a veritable storm of information. It started with new leads from the Norrtälje prison, which was shifting the focus of the Armas investigation. Patricio Alavez, who was serving a sentence for attempted drug smuggling, had received a visit from his brother, Manuel Alavez, several days earlier. Lindell immediately tried to flesh out the details on this new player in the game. Faxes were coming in and e-mails were popping up with information that was making her more and more convinced: this brother was of great interest.
She asked Fryklund, the new