The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Twenty-One

It was only when Eva Willman woke up the following morning, abruptly, as if she had been startled by a bad dream, that she realized the enormity of what had transpired these past two days.

She suddenly imagined her son as a criminal, a juvenile delinquent who would soon grow up and gradually be pulled down into a morass of criminality and drug abuse.

“No!” she sobbed, sinking back into the bed, pulling the blankets more tightly around her and glancing at the time. Half past five.

There were no guarantees in life, no insurance that would keep you from harm. That had been clear to her for a long time, but now it was as if reality, that which was written about in the papers and spoken about on television, came rushing toward her. Every person makes their own decisions, however crazy they may seem, however unlikely they may appear to others.

What decisions had Patrik made? She did not know. She thought she knew what was going on, but now realized with a newly won and overwhelming certainty that her influence was limited. Perhaps she had reached him last night during their brief conversation in the community garden, but for how long?

Who decides over us? she thought. Suddenly life appeared so incomplete and unpredictable. Her marriage to Jörgen, two children in rapid succession, then divorce, her job at the post office, then being laid off, her happiness at finding a new job, but for how long? And now this with Patrik. Up till now he had never so much as hurt a fly and always stayed out of trouble. Of course he and Hugo fought, but that never lasted. In middle school he often complained that others were getting into trouble. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood, and even a blood test was a challenge for him. Now he had come home bleeding and was suspected of assault on top of it.

She got up and fetched the newspaper, quickly leafing through it to see if there was anything about yesterday’s events. On the fourth page there was a short article. “A new violent attack in Sävja” was the title.

“A forty-two-year-old man was stabbed yesterday in the Sävja residential area, in south Uppsala. This is the most recent of a series of violent conflicts that have attracted attention in this area. As recently as last week ago a young woman was assaulted and in January a bus came under gunfire. The man, who lives in Uppsala, was visiting Sävja when he was attacked without provocation by some young men. According to the police, the man attempted to escape his attackers but was overcome in the vicinity of Stordammen school, where he was stabbed in the abdomen and received many kicks. His condition is described as serious but not life-threatening.”

That was all. Eva imagined the newspaper had received the information so late that they had not had the opportunity to include more. Most likely, tomorrow’s paper would include more details.

She read the article again. “Some young men.” Patrik was not a man, he was still a boy, a teenager who only two or three years ago had gone sledding and read comic books.

She had an urge to move away from the area. Settle somewhere else with her sons where there were no “violent conflicts that attracted attention.” But where would that be? Did those places even exist?

From her kitchen window she could see how her neighbors were coming to life, some were eating breakfast while watching morning TV, others were already on their way to work. She saw Helen’s man half-running toward the parking lot. He was late as usual.

Again she was struck by how isolated this block was, how the inhabitants were divided from one another by invisible walls. Even though they were neighbors they were strangers to one another. The suffering of one did not affect the other. People who had lived perhaps ten years on the same level had never set foot in one anothers’ apartments. They knew their neighbors’ names, but it could just as well be a number, an assigned code. Those who lived on level seven could be called 7:1, 7:2, 7:3, and so on.

She herself would be 14:6-1, Patrik 14:6-2, and Hugo 14:6-3. It would be simpler, at least for the authorities. They could inscribe the numbers on their foreheads.

She smiled at her crazy ideas while she set the table for breakfast.

They had once all joined together. That was when the housing association wanted to remove part of the playground and build a room to house the garbage. Then they had all assembled in the neighborhood and decided to protest. Helen had been the most active, going around with lists and putting up flyers in all the stairwells. You could say what you wanted about Helen, but she was not shy. She ended up in the newspaper. The clipping was still on her refrigerator door.

Eva stood in the window but was irritated by her limited view. She only saw a courtyard, a few buildings, and in the background an arm of the forest, or really just a few fir trees. People want to see far, she thought, because then you gain a perspective on your situation and you can discover things beyond yourself. She recalled a visit to Flatåsen in the deep northern forests of Värmland among her grandfather’s relatives, how he had brought her up on a hilltop-her grandfather called it a mountain-from which point they could look out over miles of forests and lakes. For once her grandfather had been quiet. He pointed out villages and swathes of forests where he had worked as a lumberjack in his youth.

Eva, who was in her early teens, had never before seen such large land areas at one time. They lingered up there for a long time. It was her dearest memory of her grandfather, the otherwise so gruff and at times alcoholic communist who in his bitterness no longer trusted anyone and no longer held anything to be of value.

“Everything nowadays is cat shit,” he would mutter in front of the television.

Her head was spinning with thoughts. Her usual morning effectiveness was gone and it had taken her half an hour to put out the dishes, brew some coffee, and empty the dishwasher.

She thought she was on to something important. Maybe she should talk to Johnny at Dakar, or even Feo-someone outside her immediate neighborhood. Helen would just start ranting about this or that kid.

Just then the telephone rang. She picked up at once, convinced it was the police.

“Hi, I saw that you were up.”

It was Helen, she must have noticed Eva in the window. Eva pulled the kitchen door shut and sat down at the table.

“I heard about it yesterday. It’s just like the cops to blame it on Patrik. It would be better for them to go angling around the others.”

Eva had no trouble imagining what Helen meant by “the others.” She stuck the received under her chin, took out a mug, and poured out some coffee.

“They just wanted to talk to him,” Eva said.

“Nonsense. They make up their minds and spread a lot of lies. You should hear what they told Monica last night.”

But Eva did not want to.

“What is Patrik saying?”

“We haven’t really talked,” Eva said and started to cry.

“I’m coming over,” Helen said.

“No, don’t. Maybe later. I have to talk to the boys first.”

They ended the phone call and Eva sat with her hands wrapped around the coffee mug. It had the words the world’s best mom on it.