The Demon of Dakar

by Kjell Eriksson

  Jörgen came and picked up Patrik and Hugo every other weekend and Eva put up a wall held together with indifference and suspicion toward his incessant drivel, glad to have escaped but careful not to become mean or ironic. He complained that he and the boys did not have a good relationship, but when Eva suggested that the boys should spend longer periods of time with him, he backed off.

  Nowadays she had all the time in the world. The only schedule she had to observe were the appointments at the employment agency, and her only duty was to care for her two children, make sure that they got off to school, and went to bed at a somewhat reasonable hour.

  Sometimes she was grateful for the fact that she had been laid off. It was as if the process of making herself free had started with her divorce, and that the freedom had now taken a new and higher form. It was a frustrating feeling, this remarkable mixture of anger at not being needed and the joy of being free to do as she pleased.

  She formed the impression that it was more expensive to be unemployed. And yet she cut down on everything. She had stopped smoking about a month ago and calculated that she had already saved four hundred kronor. Where had they gone? she asked, but the answer was immediate. Fitting Hugo for instep supports had cost over a thousand kronor.

  Her freedom may have increased, with all the hours alone with her thoughts, but her self-esteem was at rock bottom. She felt that she was different, or rather that everyone around her saw with different eyes. She was at the disposal of potential employers. The problem was that no one was disposed to employ her. Could they see it on her, did unemployment leave physical marks? Was there something in her posture that made the girls at the ICA supermarket only a little older than Patrik, or the bus driver when she climbed onto the bus in the middle of the day, regard her as a second-class citizen? She did not want to believe this, but the feeling of being worthless had eaten into her.

  And now Helen, who appeared to be growing at Eva’s expense. It was as if she unconsciously saw the possibility of diminishing Eva as a way to take revenge for her own shortcomings and her submission to a man she should have left many years ago.

  Eva had shrunk, been pressed back against the kitchen cabinets and the drain pipes under an increasingly shining countertop. Everything in the apartment was cleaned, picked up, dusted, everything was in its place, only that she was no longer needed. Wrong, she thought. I am needed. They had talked about that at work, how important they were, not least for the old people who patiently waited their turn in line, thumbing letters and forms. Someone decided that the post office should be reduced and that the number of customer chairs should be cut. One day there were carpenters there, putting up a wall. That was how it started. And the old people had to stand.

  Then came the reduced hours. Everything became crowded, the tone cranky, complaints increased, and the clerks had to deal more often with the customers’ frustrations. One day lists appeared in the waiting area where the customers could sign protests of the worsening service and the closing of more post office locations. Many letters to the editor appeared in Upsala Nya Tidning, but nothing helped, and even Eva’s post office was eventually closed down. That was now nine months ago.

  God, how she had looked for jobs! She had spent the first couple of weeks running around to stores, calling the county and the city, getting in touch with friends and even asking Jörgen if he couldn’t get her something at the sanitation company where he worked.

  But there was nothing to get. During the summer she had worked for a few weeks in Eldercare Services, and thereafter at a supermarket, filling in for someone on disability, but the employee had miraculously arisen from his sickbed and returned to work.

  Thereafter, nothing.

  Five

  This was how Manuel imagined a prison: a gray wall and barbed wire that ran the perimeter of a high fence. He had also imagined a manned guard post where he would have to present the reason for his visit, but there was only a gigantic door with a smaller door carved into it.

  He approached the building hesitantly, glancing up and to the side. He felt observed by cameras that were most likely maintaining surveillance of the entire area. Suddenly he heard the squeak of a loudspeaker.

  He could not see a microphone so he spoke straight out into the air, explained the reason for his visit in English, and the door unlocked with a click. He was in.

  “Do you speak Swedish?”

  Manuel stared back without comprehension at the young man behind the counter. He resembled Xavier back in the village, dark hair in a ponytail and kind eyes.

  “English?”

  Manuel nodded and a shiver ran down his back. The man looked more closely at him and explained that in order to be cleared to visit anyone, Manuel would have to produce a certificate from his homeland declaring that he was not a felon. One could not simply turn up on a whim and expect immediate entry to the prison.

  Manuel explained that he had written to his brother and that the latter had spoken with the prison management and then written back to say that everything was in order.

  “You are Patricio’s brother?”

  Manuel nodded and was grateful for the fact that someone knew his brother’s name. Patricio was not simply a number, a prisoner among hundreds.

  “This is no regular tourist attraction,” the man said behind the desk, in an apparent attempt to reassure him, and then explained the rules of the institution as he sized up Manuel.

  There was nothing unfriendly in his manner, quite the opposite. Manuel thought he seemed decent, and some of the tension eased, but he still felt the sweat running down his back.

  Soon he would see Patricio. It gave him a feeling of unreality—after so many nights of questions and concerns over his brother, and so many conjectures about the other country, the prison country, and what it actually looked like—to finally be here.

  When he parked the rental car outside the prison his courage had almost failed him. He imagined that he would also be apprehended. He knew so little about Sweden. Perhaps he would be viewed as an accomplice?

  “You will have to lock up your valuables,” the man said and pointed to a row of green-painted lockers. Manuel chose locker number ten, his lucky number, and locked up his wallet and passport. The prison guard asked for Manuel’s bag.

  “Your brother is studying Swedish,” the guard warden said, and emptied his bag of its contents. “It is going pretty well. He is behaving well. If everyone was like Patricio, there would be no problems.

  “No problemas,” he said and smiled. “Are those presents?”

  Manuel nodded. That his brother was studying Swedish came as complete surprise. It felt wrong, somehow.

  “What is this?”

  “That is a vase,” Manuel said, “from our mother.”

  “Patricio cannot receive it right away. We will have to check it.”

  Manuel nodded but secretly wondered why a ceramic object had to be checked so carefully.

  “If you only knew how many vases we receive that can work equally well as pipes for smoking hashish,” the guard said, as if he had read Manuel’s thoughts.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a dog appeared in the corridor outside the small waiting room.

  Manuel got out of the chair.

  “Hello, Charlie,” the guard said. “How are you doing?”

  The dog made a small whine and wagged its tail. Manuel took a step back and stared at the Labrador that had now stuck its head through the metal detector in the door and appeared to be looking at Manuel with professional interest.

  “Are you afraid of dogs?” the dog handler asked.

  Manuel nodded.

  “Don’t you have dogs in Mexico?”

  “Police dogs are not nice,” Manuel said.

  “This is not a police dog. This is Charlie. We have to let him sniff you.”

  “Why?”

  The dog handler came farther into the room and studied Manuel.

  “Drogas,” he said, grinning.

  “No ten
go drogas,” Manuel burst out. Frozen with dread, he watched the Labrador draw closer.

  The dog sniffed at his shoes and pant legs. Manuel shook and sweat broke out on his forehead. He remembered the demonstration in Oaxaca where a handful of German shepherds had gone to attack and plunged madly into the crowd.

  “You seem clean,” the dog handler said and called on Charlie, who had now lost all interest in Manuel.

  Manuel was brought to a visitation room, where the only furniture consisted of a cot with a red plastic cover and a pair of chairs. There was a sink in the corner. He sat down and waited. The sun was shining in through the iron bars of the window. There was a hint of blue sky above the wall and barbed wire.

  The door opened and Patricio was standing there. In the background, he could see the man with the ponytail. He smiled over Patricio’s shoulder and nodded at Manuel.

  The brothers stared at each other across the room. Patricio’s hair was cut short, almost a buzz cut, just as Manuel had expected, but otherwise he looked different. He had gained weight and there was an expression of sorrowful pessimism around his mouth that reminded Manuel of their father. Patricio had aged. The green shirt was tight around his stomach, the blue pants were too short, and the slippers looked completely foreign.

  “Everyone sends their greetings” was the first thing Manuel said.

  Patricio immediately burst into tears and was not able to talk for several minutes. Manuel braced himself. He wanted to have the strength of a big brother and somewhere he also had the anger that his brother was crying over a situation that he had brought on himself.

  But he embraced Patricio, patted him on the back, and Patricio inhaled deeply at his brother’s shoulder, as if to draw in something of the scent of his homeland. Manuel noticed that Patricio’s ears had become somewhat wrinkled.

  They sat down on the cot. Manuel looked around.

  “Are they recording this?”

  “I doubt it,” Patricio said.

  “How are you?”

  “I am fine. But what are you doing here?”

  “Have you forgotten your family?” His anger made Manuel stand up, but Patricio did not react. “Mama only talks about you and Angel. The neighbors say she is going crazy.”

  A bird flew past the barred window. Manuel stopped talking and looked at his brother.

  “How do they treat you?”

  “They are nice,” Patricio said.

  Nice, Manuel thought. What a word to use about people who work in a prison. Now that he had the possibility of satisfying his curiosity, all of his interest in Patricio’s prison life disappeared. Manuel did not want to hear what he did, how he passed the time.

  “What happened to Angel?”

  Manuel had not intended to ask about his brother immediately, but the words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized how much it must hurt for Patricio to talk about what had happened. In the letters home he had time and again returned to his own guilt, that he was partly responsible for Angel’s death.

  Patricio told him the story with a stranger’s voice. The time in prison had not only changed him physically. Perhaps it was the joy of being reunited or the pleasure of speaking Zapotec that made him so open and talkative?

  Most likely, Angel had been shadowed all the way from Spain to Germany. He had called Patricio, who was still in San Sebastián, from somewhere in France. They had decided not to contact each other, but Angel had been distraught and told him he was being followed. He wanted to return to San Sebastián, but Patricio had convinced him to continue on to Frankfurt as arranged.

  He wanted to throw away the package, but Patricio had urged him to calm down. If he got rid of the cocaine he would end up with big problems.

  “How did he die?”

  “I think he was trying to escape the police. He ran over some tracks and … the train came.”

  “Angelito,” Manuel sighed. He could see his brother in his mind, running, stumbling on. If it had been Patricio with his long legs it would perhaps have been fine, but Angel was not built for running.

  “They sent eleven thousand pesos,” Manuel said.

  Patricio looked at him and repeated the sum to himself under his breath. His lips formed “eleven thousand pesos” as if it were a spell.

  “Is it the fat one who is behind all this?”

  Patricio nodded. Manuel saw that he was ashamed, he remembered that day in the village so well. How the tall one, who called himself Armas, climbed into a large van together with a fat white man. What Manuel could remember best was how much the fat one had been sweating.

  “Where is he?”

  Patricio glanced around the room.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  Patricio tore off a piece of the wrapping paper that had encased the small ceramic vase from their mother, wrote a few lines, and pushed the note over to Manuel.

  “Restaurante Dakar Ciudad Uppsala,” it said.

  Manuel looked at his brother. A restaurant.

  “The fat one and the tall one?” he asked.

  “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 prepar
ing 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, and located Uppsala almost immediately. The city lay about an hour’s drive from the prison.

  Manuel held the map spread out against the roof of the car and again looked up at the prison walls and the gate that kept Patricio locked inside. He suddenly understood why Patricio did not try to claim his fortune. He was ashamed and he wanted to punish himself. He could be living better, even shortening his sentence, but he was denying himself these possibilities. Filled with guilt and shame, he wanted to rot away in his cell.

  Manuel studied the map and tried to memorize the names of the places along the way to Uppsala: Rimbo, Finsta, Gottröra, and Knivsta. It was as if the mapped-out terrain on the page spoke to him; the green and yellow irregular fields formed patterns that he tried to convert into images. He looked around. The trees that surrounded the institution were swaying in the wind, bowing down and straightening their backs. So similar to how it was back home and yet so foreign.