Kjell Eriksson-The Demon of Dakar.pdf

Also by Kjell Eriksson

The Princess of Burundi The Cruel Stars of the Night The DEMON of DAKAR

Kjell Eriksson

Translated from the Swedish

by Ebba Segerberg

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS

ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR NEW YORK This is a work of fiction. All of the

characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36669-8

ISBN-10: 0-312-36669-8

First published in Sweden under the title Mannen från bergen by Ordfront

First U.S. Edition: May 2008

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

One

The clouds slid lazily down behind the mountain on the other side of the valley.

The slender, bone-white streaks of mist that crept through the pass in the east, often

during the late afternoon or early evening, ran together and formed white veils,

sometimes intensely silver-colored, that were illuminated by the sun sinking behind the

mountain peaks. The trees along the ridge stood out like soldiers in a shiny column that

stretched farther than Manuel Alavez could imagine.

The clouds had been out in the world, down to the coast of Oaxaca to gather

nourishment and moisture. Sometimes, for a change, they went north, to taste the

zsaltiness of the Caribbean.

When they returned, the sides of the mountains were still damp and steaming, a

hot breath exuding from the thick vegetation. The people and the mules that were only

marginally larger than their loads inched their way down the paths toward the village,

where the dogs greeted them with tired barks and the smoke rose from the brick-shingled

rooftops burnished by the sun, shimmering in warm red tones.

The clouds shifted indolently closer to the mountain. Manuel imagined that they

and the mountain exchanged fluids and then told each other what had happened during

the day. Not that the mountains had more to report than some idle gossip from the village,

but the clouds let themselves be satisfied with that. They craved a little everyday chatter

after having sailed forth across a restless continent, marked by despair and hard work.

La vida es un ratito , life is a brief moment, his mother would say and display an

almost toothless mouth in a little grin that both underscored and diminished her words.

Later he reformulated her expression to La vida es una ratita , life is a little rat, a

little rodent.

Manuel, his mother, and his two brothers would look at the mountains from the

terrace where they dried the coffee beans. From this vantage point they could look out

over the sixty houses in the village.

A village among many, remote from everyone except themselves, about an hour

away from the nearest larger road that would bring them to Talea and from there, after a

five-hour bus trip, to Oaxaca.

The coffee was packed in some harbor, no one knew which one, and shipped to el

norte or Europe. When the buyers loaded the sacks and shipped them away, the villagers

lost control. They knew their coffee tasted good, and that the price would increase

tenfold, perhaps twenty-fold, before they found their consumer.

Manuel leaned against the cool airplane window, staring out into the crystal-clear

Atlantic night, exhausted by the long trip from the mountains to Oaxaca and another

seven-hour bus trip to the capital and then a half-day of waiting at the airport. It was the

first time he was flying. The worry that he had felt had transformed into an amazement

that he was now at eleven thousand meters.

A cabin attendant came by and offered coffee, but he said no. The coffee he had

received earlier did not taste good. He watched the attendant as she served the passengers

on the other side of the aisle. She reminded him of Gabriella, the woman he was going to

marry. It was high time, his mother said. In her eyes he was old. It felt as if he had to

marry her now. They had met several years ago, during his time in California, and they

had kept in touch through letters. He had called a couple of times. She had waited for

him, and this now felt to Manuel like a millstone. He did not have the heart to deny her

what she had expected and been waiting for for so long: marriage. He loved her of

course, at least he told himself he did, but he felt a growing anxiety about binding himself

forever.

He fell asleep between two continents and immediately Angel appeared to him.

They were out on a milpa where they were growing corn, beans, and squash. It was just

before the corn harvest. His brother had stretched himself out in the shadow of a tree. He

was in good spirits and laughing in that way that only he could, a clucking sound that

appeared to come from his rounded belly. Angel was chubby and had been called el

Gordito in his childhood.

Angel was telling him about Alfreda from Santa Maria de Yaviche, the

neighboring village. They had met in February, during the fiesta, and Angel was

describing her face and hair in great detail. He always took great care with the details.

Manuel stood up, unsettled by Angel’s frivolous tone. The young woman was

only seventeen.

“Make sure you don’t lead her astray,” Manuel said.

“She’s the one leading me astray,” Angel chuckled. “She is the one who makes

me tremble.”

“We have to get back,” Manuel said.

“Soon,” Angel said. “I’m not done yet.”

Manuel couldn’t help but smile. Angel could be a writer, he is so good at

storytelling, he thought, and sat down again.

A couple of wild rabbits were tumbling about on the other side of the field. They

jumped around carefree, curious, and playful, unaware of the hawk sailing in the sky.

“You are also a conéju , but life is not all play,” Manuel said, regretting the words

as he said them.

He was the oldest of the three brothers and all too often adopted the role of the

responsible one, the one who had to scold and set them straight. Angel and their middle

brother, Patricio, were always ready to laugh and dream up childish pranks. They fell in

love as often and as quickly as frogs. They feared nothing and Manuel envied their

optimism and frivolity.

Angel followed his brother’s gaze, sighted the predatory bird that was slowly

plummeting through the layers of air, raised his arms as if he were holding a rifle, aimed,

and shot.

“Bang,” he said, and looked laughingly at Manuel.

The latter smiled and lowered his head toward the ground. He knew the hawk

would soon drop into a steep dive and he did not want to see if it was successful in its

hunt.

“I missed, but the hawk has to live too,” Angel said, as if he had read his brother’s

thoughts. “There are plenty of rabbits.”

Manuel was suddenly irritated that Angel was speaking Spanish, but did not have

time to correct him before he suddenly awakened, straightened, and glanced at the

woman in the seat next to him. She was sleeping. Apparently he had not disturbed her

when he startled.

Patricio was down there somewhere. Ever since Manuel had been informed of

Patricio’s fate he had alternated between anger, sorrow, and grief. The first letter

consisted of three sentences: I live. I have been caught. I have been sentenced to eight

years in prison.

The next letter was somewhat more detailed, factual and dry, but behind the

words Manuel sensed hopelessness and desperation, feelings that came to dominate the

subsequent letters.

Manuel could not imagine Patricio behind bars. He who had loved the open fields

and always fixed his gaze as far away in the distance as possible. There was a stamina in

Patricio that had always amazed Manuel and Angel. He was always prepared to take

several more steps to see what was concealed behind the next curve, hill, or street corner.

Physically, he was the strongest of the brothers, roughly one hundred and eighty

centimeters and therefore taller than most of the villagers. His height and posture,

coupled with his eyes, had given him the reputation as a sensible man worth listening a

little extra to. If Angel was the chatterbox who did not like to expend extra effort, then

Patricio could be described as agile and taciturn, thoughtful in his speech, and restrained

in his actions. Their laughter was really the only thing they shared.

Manuel had gleaned from his brother’s letter that prisons in Sweden were

completely different from those in Mexico, and he tried to make a great deal of the fact

that they were allowed TVs in their cells, and that they could study. But what would he

study? Patricio had never liked books. He was a person who had lived his life studying

others and nature. He went about his work reluctantly, regardless of whether it was

sowing, weeding, or harvesting. He wielded the machete as if it were an enemy in his

hands. Despite his strength, his blows were often weak and without concentration.

“If you think I am going to remain a pathetic campesino , then you are mistaken,”

he repeated when Manuel reminded him that they had a tradition to uphold.

“I do not want to sit in the mountains like a ranchero , eating beans and tortillas,

come down to the village once a week and drink myself silly on aguardiente and just get

poorer and poorer. Can’t you see that we are being cheated?”

Could he handle eight years of jail? Manuel feared for his brother’s life and

health. To Patricio, being locked up was essentially a death sentence. When Manuel

wrote to say that he was coming to Sweden, his brother had immediately replied that he

did not want any visitors. But Manuel did not care. He had to find out what had

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