The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Sixty-Two

The inner yard was even darker than Manuel remembered. He looked around. Two windows in the level above Dakar were lit. Apart from this the entire courtyard was dark and he realized that the light on the wall, that earlier had blinked on and off, had now gone out for good.

The wind had picked up and paper and other garbage was lifted up in tight whirls by the strong breeze.

He moved with the utmost caution, staying away from the rectangles of light that the illuminated windows created in the yard, crept over to the bike rack, and then to the garbage containers outside Dakar’s staff entrance. The stench was overpowering. A mixture of rotten fish and sour milk that made him hold his nose as he crouched down behind one of the containers.

After a while he grew used to the smell and was able to relax. He leaned against the wall in a pose reminiscent of all the hours he had sat waiting for work.

Suddenly one of the rectangles of light in the yard went out, and the lamp in the front hall of the entrance next to Dakar went on. Through the windows of the stairwell Manuel could see a man walk down the stairs and step out into the yard. Whistling, he unlocked a bike and left.

The stairwell went dark and Manuel’s heart rate slowly went back to normal.

He tried not to think about the fat one even if it bothered him that he had not been able to trip him up completely. Maybe he could get in touch with the police anonymously? During the days in the shed he had thought out various alternatives but dismissed them all. He could not risk Patricio’s flight out of the country with unnecessary maneuvers and contacts.

The fat one was perhaps on the other side of the door, several meters away, within reach, and yet not. It didn’t matter, because Manuel had decided never again to use force. It was a ridiculous decision, he realized this, for if he ever returned to Mexico the violence would be there as a reality. If he in the future participated in a demonstration or a protest in the main square, then it would be under threat from batons and firearms. If he was attacked, would he then not defend himself, strike back? He did not know. Maybe the time of demonstrations was over now.

He had to wait for an hour until the door to Dakar opened. It was Feo. Manuel heard this from the curses that the Portuguese used when he lifted the lid of the garbage container. The lid shut with a bang and Feo closed the door behind him. Everything became quiet again.

Perhaps another thirty minutes went by. The door opened again. Manuel was struck with fear when he heard Eva’s voice. She yelled something into the kitchen, and he thought he heard Feo reply.

The door banged shut and Manuel heard Eva’s steps in the gravel. He looked out from behind the container. She was alone. He stood up slowly.

“Eva,” he whispered softly.

She froze in the middle of unlocking her bike.

“It’s me, Manuel.”

She turned slowly. He could tell she had trouble seeing him and so he stepped out further, while tilting his head up toward the illuminated window.

“You?”

Manuel nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything. He took this as encouragement.

“I’ll be going home soon and I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Why…” she started energetically, then fell silent as if her voice had been carried off by the wind, or as if she could not find the right words in English.

“You think I’m lying, but I’m not,” Manuel assured her and took another couple of steps forward.

“Stay where you are! Where is your brother?”

Manuel shook his head.

“This is not about him. This is about us. I don’t want to leave Sweden without saying it.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Eva’s voice was hoarse. He could hardly hear what she said.

“That I wish, that I want… for you to visit my country.”

He took some quick steps up to her, grabbed something from his pocket, and held it out.

“What is it?”

“A present.”

She accepted the rolled-up sock.

“I have nothing else,” Manuel said, “but it’s clean.”

Without a word she pushed the sock into her pocket and bent down to unlock the bike. Manuel wanted to say so much but he did not know how to proceed. He was afraid she would run away, curse him, or start to scream at the top of her lungs.

“He tricked my brothers, you know that. So I set up a trap for him. I wanted to see him in prison, but now I can’t do it anymore. I have to make sure that my brother gets home.”

“He is in jail,” Eva said.

“No, he ran away,” Manuel said, confused. “But now I should go. Tessie or someone else might come.”

Eva stared down into the ground.

“But how will you get home?”

“My brother will fly home on my passport and my ticket,” Manuel explained. “Then I will see what I do.”

Eva stared at him.

“Don’t you get it? The police are looking for you, too.”

“Have you spoken with the police?”

“I haven’t said anything, but they know you are in Sweden. The papers have claimed that you belong to a Mexican drug cartel and that you came to Sweden to… Arlanda will be full of police.”

“Full of police?” he repeated.

Eva nodded.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Armas. Did you…?”

“He tried to shoot me,” Manuel said. “I defended myself. Believe me! I am not an evil person.”

The whites of her eyes glowed in the dark as she studied him. Manuel felt that she was trying to decide what she should believe.

“You do have to go now,” she said finally.

“In the sock there is a note with my address. The phone number of a neighbor. He is nice and speaks a little English.”

Eva laughed unexpectedly.

“The neighbor is nice,” she repeated.

Manuel reached out his hand and nudged her cheek. She flinched but did not pull away. Manuel leaned over and briefly kissed her on the mouth before he left. She thought he resembled a cat as he slunk out of the yard.

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.”