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-cla.s.s 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 Upsala Nya Tidning, but nothing helped, and even Eva's post office was eventually closed down. That was now nine months ago.

G.o.d, 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 Jorgen 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. 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 rea.s.sure him, and then explained the rules of the inst.i.tution 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 pa.s.sport. 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?" 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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. he said, grinning.

"No tengo drogas," Manuel burst out. Frozen with dread, he watched the Labrador draw closer. 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 pa.s.sed 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 Sebastian, 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 Sebastian, 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 pa.s.sive att.i.tude.

"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.