The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [157]
Manuel had parked the car behind a Dumpster in the alley. He was trembling with emotion and had trouble getting the key in the ignition. He hastily drew in air through his nose in order to experience her scent one last time.
He nonetheless drove calmly onto the street, past Dakar and out of the city. He found his way easily. He had studied the map all afternoon and memorized the route. Traffic was sparse and after several minutes he was out on highway 272, heading north.
Despite what Eva had said about the police, he was relieved. He had managed to make his way to Dakar and back. He had been lucky that Eva was working and above all he was overjoyed that she had spoken with him.
It was almost midnight when he got back to the house in the forest. He drove the car into the garage. A thin sliver of light could be seen under the door to the shed.
Patricio was sitting in bed. A candle was perched on a stool. He looked ghostlike in the flickering light.
“Did it go well?”
Manuel nodded and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Are you hungry?”
“No,” Manuel said, although in reality his belly was screaming for food.
He sat down on a chair in the middle of the room. It was only now, that he was looking at his brother, that he fully took in the significance of what Eva had said. Up to this point he had been preoccupied with his thoughts of her.
“We have to find another way to leave Sweden,” he said. “You can’t use my ticket. The police will take you right away if you try.”
Patricio stared quizzically at him.
“Who told you this?”
“Eva,” Manuel said curtly and then sighed deeply.
As the sound of her name, his despair welled out. He suddenly saw their predicament in a different light. It was as if someone from above was looking down at their primitive dwelling, surrounded by the darkness of the night, and the deep forest, the flickering light on the stool, and Patricio and himself as two figures who were trying in vain to escape a nightmare. He saw two strangers, two Zapotecs, in enemy territory, who, like soldiers cut off from their command, found themselves in an impossible situation. Now nothing remained but capitulation or a desperate breakout attempt.
Manuel’s energy and creativity were at an end.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed.
Patricio stood up and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, much like an illusionist setting up for a magic trick.
“Here is a telephone number,” Patricio said and held out the slip of paper.
“What do you mean?”
“José gave it to me, the Spaniard who was part of the escape. If I ran into big problems I should call this number. The one who answers is also a Spaniard. But it should only be in case of big problems. He said the number was secure. I should just call. Don’t we have big problems now?”
Manuel stared at Patricio and then at the wrinkled note.
“We should call a another crook?” he asked.
“You have another fifty?”
Manuel got up and turned his back on his brother. The painstakingly stacked firewood on the opposite wall reminded him of the open hearth at home in the village and how his mother would insert the sticks and get the fire going. How she silently kneaded and baked a stack of tortillas that she wrapped in a cloth, took out the chili, and boiled water for coffee. It was almost as if he could hear the crackling in the wood and how Gerardo’s cock impatiently crowed again and again. Manuel used to joke with his neighbor that the cock had taken after its master both in temperament and productiveness. Never did their poverty appear as extreme as these early mornings when their night-stiff bodies shook with cold. Never was the warmth as welcome, and the togetherness as strong,as when they approached the fire, mumbling to each other as they drank their coffee and greeted a new day.
“We’ll call,” Manuel said abruptly. “There is a telephone in the house.”
Sixty-Three
It was a northerly wind and it gave Eva a boost across the fields. In spite