Now he was hungry, tired, and anxious. He was worried that the fat one or tall one would not even turn up. He could of course walk into the restaurant and ask, but was worried about being recognized. Yet what would they do? Call the police?

In a way, he regretted having escaped, but everything happened so fast and he had not had time to think. The prison routine had been safe. Now he was a fugitive without friends, with Swedish money in his pocket but without the means to stay out of trouble in the long run. He would most likely receive a severe sentence for his escape, but that did not scare him. Eight or fifteen years in prison did not matter.

To him, his life had ended when he left the village and Oaxaca to fly to Europe. Many times he had cursed himself for his naivete. How could he have believed that a gringo would help a Mexican get rich? Manuel used to say that it was the earth that was important, that to leave the earth was to leave one's family and one's origin.

What does it mean to be rich, he asked himself while he studied the people who went in and out of the door to Dakar, but he found no answer. He knew what having no wealth meant. What kind of life would it be to remain in a condemned village where almost everyone was getting poorer and poorer? Why did the young ones flee to Oaxaca, Mexico City, and the United States?

Not even Manuel made much noise about this. After Miguel's a.s.sa.s.sination, he had been as if paralyzed for several weeks and had then undertaken a frenetic project to clear new ground for coffee bushes, and that on a mountain side that was so steep that no one had ever tried it before.

Manuel went there every morning and came back absolutely exhausted late at night. Nothing of the joy of new planting was in his eyes. Shredded by the thorns, his ripped hands, steaming with sweat, he sat on the roof for a while before he rinsed himself off under the tap in the yard.

He lost weight and after a month or so developed a cough that never seemed to go away. Was this the kind of life he wanted them to have? Working day after day on an ill-fated project. Even if they now managed to plant hundreds of bushes on a milpa milpa that no one else wanted to cultivate, what did this prove? And then, what happened when the buyers lowered the price of the beans or when coffee flooded in from somewhere else? Because this was how it had always been. Every advance was blocked with setbacks. There were always new directives from the government or the governor. Always new agreements that were barely explained to the villagers but were guaranteed to make them poorer and their lives more difficult. that no one else wanted to cultivate, what did this prove? And then, what happened when the buyers lowered the price of the beans or when coffee flooded in from somewhere else? Because this was how it had always been. Every advance was blocked with setbacks. There were always new directives from the government or the governor. Always new agreements that were barely explained to the villagers but were guaranteed to make them poorer and their lives more difficult.

Patricio abandoned his bench and his caution and paced back and forth on the sidewalk. A growing number of customers were leaving Dakar and he sensed they were about to close. He could make out a bar through the window and there were still many customers crowded around it. He himself longed for a gla.s.s of mescal, to feel the stinging heat in his mouth and throat. In order not to tempt himself more, he hurried back behind the bushes and trees.

Suddenly he spotted a familiar figure. Patricio stepped back out of the shadows in order to see better. Surely it was the fat one who was waddling up the street? A man was walking next to him. He said something that made Slobodan Andersson laugh. Could it be the tall one? No, the man by Slobodan's side was too young.

He laughs, Patricio thought bitterly. Rage shot up like bile into his throat and he had to control himself not to burst out of his hiding place and run across the street. He could have killed the fat one with his bare hands. He needed no weapon, his wrath was enough. Leave him lying there like roadkill, and Angel would be revenged at last.

The men arrived at Dakar, stopped, and discussed something. Slobodan looked even fatter than when Patricio had met him in Mexico. He can afford to eat well, the Mexican thought with hatred.

Suddenly, Patricio felt that it was G.o.d's will that he escape from prison, and this made him happy for a brief moment. The escape had made it possible for him to take revenge.

Slobodan opened the door to Dakar, exchanged a few words with his companion, then entered the restaurant. Patricio took a couple of steps back as the other man pa.s.sed on the opposite side of the street.

This opportunity had been lost, but the next time perhaps Slobodan would be alone. Then all he had to do was wait him out.

Slobodan Andersson nodded at Mns, looked around in the dining room, greeted some acquaintances, and, against his will, came to think of Lorenzo Wader. I hope he doesn't drop by, Slobodan thought, and wondered if he should ask his bartender if he had seen the unpleasant gangster, for gangster was what Slobodan was convinced he was. But he said nothing to Mns, who poured a grappa and set it in front of him.

"How is Ms. Post Office doing?"

"Fine," Mns said. "She's doing a good job. I think Tessie is pleased. It's a step up from Gonzo, at least."

"Don't remind me," Slobodan said and raised the gla.s.s to his mouth.

In view of last night he shouldn't have anything to drink, but the force of habit was strong. He could let himself have one gla.s.s.

"The dishwasher is a gem," Mns said. "The waitstaff have much more time now."

"What?! Is that b.a.s.t.a.r.d still here?"

Mns looked at Slobodan in astonishment.

"Yes, that's good, isn't it?" Mns said, clearly taken aback at this reaction.

"That little s.h.i.t is out of here," Slobodan said and got up with unexpected haste, went around the bar, and opened the door to the kitchen.

"Is the Mexican still here?"

Donald gave him a quick and angry look.

"Venezuela," he said.

"What? That dishwasher, is he still here?"

Donald gestured at the dishwashing area with his head and sighed.

Slobodan walked out there with only a single thought in his head, to grab that blackmailer by the scruff of his neck and throw him out, but was greeted with a smiling Manuel.

"Hola," he said. he said.

He was standing at the far end of the dishwashing station. He had a knife in his hand. Slobodan slowed down and steadied himself against the dishwashing machine.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" he shouted in English. "Get out!"

"Take it easy," Manuel said, his smile only getting wider. "We have some things in common. Have you forgotten? I am happy here, and I am useful."

Slobodan stared at the Mexican. That insolent devil was laughing at him! He recalled the old conflict so many years ago in Malmo. That time he he was the one who had been holding the knife. was the one who had been holding the knife.

"Leave!" he screamed.

"I will work a couple of more days," Manuel said calmly. "Then I'll go. But by then maybe you have disappeared."

Slobodan stared, astounded at him. Not a trace of yesterday's meekness remained. Was it the knife that made the difference? Was he so d.a.m.ned impudent that he was threatening him?

"What are you talking about? What do you mean 'disappeared'?"

"You are sitting on a fortune; it must be tempting to see other places," Manuel said with a smile.

Slobodan turned on his heel, pushed open the doors to the dining room, and left. He walked right up to the bar and told Mns to pour him a large Bowmore.

"Has be been fired?" Mns asked, and Slobodan could sense the criticism behind the innocent question.

"That's none of your d.a.m.n business."

Mans made a face, reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured Slobodan a gla.s.s.

"He's still here, in other words," Mns said, grinning.

By the time the gla.s.s was half-empty, Slobodan had managed to calm himself somewhat. It was really not worth getting upset about. The Mexican had a need to a.s.sert himself and feel good about himself for once. Slobodan decided to forget about him. He had said he would leave in a couple of days. Never again would he use any of those tortilla guys. In future he would stick to Spaniards.

The reason for his clemency, and he freely admitted this to himself, was that the man's unusual generosity in delivering the unexpected load of cocaine had solved many problems. After the fateful fire at Konrad's house he had suddenly found himself without any goods, unable to distribute what he had promised, and that was devastating. The clients would sour and find new channels.

So certainly he was justified in celebrating with a gla.s.s or two. He wondered how Manuel had managed to get a hold of the drugs in Germany. He was probably not as innocent as he had made himself out to be. He had probably been with Angel on his journey up through Europe, and then when the brother died, he had simply taken over. They are alike, Slobodan thought smugly, hold up a couple of dollars and they come running.

He waved his chubby hand and Mns poured him a beer.

"Is this going to be a repeat performance?" he asked, but Slobodan did not have time to answer before the bartender had turned his back.

Johnny and Donald were busy picking up in the kitchen, rinsing the floor, and cleaning the stovetops. Tessie and Eva were clearing the tables in the dining room while at the same time being attentive to the remaining guests. A party of six that had eaten their way through appetizers, main courses, and desserts had asked for coffee and cognac, and Eva guessed that they would be sitting around for a while. Apart from them, the room was getting empty. A young couple Eva had served paid and left. They had left a tip of one hundred kronor. A hundred kronor, she thought. I can't have been so bad. She placed the small tray with the money on the counter with a certain measure of pride. Mns entered the amount, tucked the hundred kronor note in a large part.i.tion where the tips were kept, and turned to her and smiled. picking up in the kitchen, rinsing the floor, and cleaning the stovetops. Tessie and Eva were clearing the tables in the dining room while at the same time being attentive to the remaining guests. A party of six that had eaten their way through appetizers, main courses, and desserts had asked for coffee and cognac, and Eva guessed that they would be sitting around for a while. Apart from them, the room was getting empty. A young couple Eva had served paid and left. They had left a tip of one hundred kronor. A hundred kronor, she thought. I can't have been so bad. She placed the small tray with the money on the counter with a certain measure of pride. Mns entered the amount, tucked the hundred kronor note in a large part.i.tion where the tips were kept, and turned to her and smiled.

"Did you notice that they were newly in love?"

Eva nodded. She had felt old when she looked at them, even though there was probably no more than ten years between her and the couple. She had felt a tinge of envy when she had seen how he placed his hand over hers, how they had joked and bantered with each other, sometimes lowering their voices and whispering what Eva imagined to be words of love.

Tessie called out to her, interrupting her thoughts. Together they moved a couple of tables and set out new tablecloths.

It had been a good evening. She had gotten past her worst nervousness and was no longer as embarra.s.sed about asking Tessie for advice.

Eva cleaned some gla.s.ses. She noticed that Slobodan was watching her. He was sitting at the bar with a gla.s.s in front of him. Eva had heard from Tessie about last night's events, how the proprietor had drunk himself into a stupor, thrown up in the kitchen, and how Feo and Manuel had had to help him home.

In a way Eva thought it was good. He had shown a weakness. Maybe the violent drunken episode was an expression of grief at Armas's death. Eva glanced at him. He really did look worried, and she hoped he would have the sense to stop drinking in time.

A couple of newspapers lay scattered on a table. She had started to fold them up when her gaze fell on a headline. The word extra extra was printed in bold letters, then "New escape-hostage drama," and below this a picture of the four men. Astonished, she read the short article, flipped to page five where there was a slightly more detailed report but still not as much as one would have a.s.sumed in the case of a dramatic escape in which someone had been taken hostage. She realized it must have been added just before going to press, and that they had not managed to include more than the main points. was printed in bold letters, then "New escape-hostage drama," and below this a picture of the four men. Astonished, she read the short article, flipped to page five where there was a slightly more detailed report but still not as much as one would have a.s.sumed in the case of a dramatic escape in which someone had been taken hostage. She realized it must have been added just before going to press, and that they had not managed to include more than the main points.

She leafed her way back to the photographs again. The similarity was striking. And the last name was the same. It could not be a coincidence. She carefully folded up the paper and took it with her, walked into the kitchen, nodded at Johnny, crammed the paper into the trash, hesitating a couple of seconds as if to check if she were frightened before walking out into the dishwashing area.

Manuel was just pushing the dishwasher closed. He turned his head and Eva studied his face again but without seeing any fear or doubt.

"Eva," he said and laughed as if she had made a funny and unexpected face.

"Manuel," she said, and searched for the right words in English before she continued. She wanted to be precise.

"Have you lied to me about why you are here? You said you wanted to work and earn some money."

He stopped and the look he gave her confirmed her suspicions.

"Do you have a relative who is in prison?"

Manuel searched for something to steady himself, found the counter, cast a nervous glance at the door before he slowly moved himself along the counter and sat on a stool.

"Have you talked to Slobodan?"

Eva shook her head.

"No, but is it true, then?"

Manuel nodded.

"My brother Patricio is in prison," he whispered. "How did you find out?"

This rea.s.sured Eva somewhat. Apparently Manuel did not know about the escape.

"Why is he in prison?"

Manuel was silent for a long time while he debated with himself. Then he told her the story of how his brothers had been tempted to become drug runners, how one of them had died in Germany, and how the other had been caught in Swedish customs.

Eva felt immediately that she did not want to be pulled into anything. Patrik's problems were enough. She caught a glimpse of Johnny's chef's hat and heard Donald say something that was drowned out by the roar of the dishwasher. She did not want to hear more. She thought about her sons and her fear became anger.

"Drugs," she spit with such disgust in her voice that Manuel lifted his head and looked sadly at her.

"You are my friend," he said.

"Never!"

"Let me explain," Manuel said, as if speaking for his life. "I did not want to lie to you. I came to Sweden to visit my brother and to help him. I don't like drugs. It costs us our lives."

He a.s.sured her of his innocence. Became agitated and loquacious. I don't want this, Eva thought. I want to work and have a decent life. She did not even want to have a meeting about drugs and youth. She did not want to hear Helen's complaints and rants, nothing about drugs, she did not want Manuel's sad eyes.

"Go now," she said, and turned her back.

"I dreamed that you came to Mexico," Manuel said. "That you wanted to see my country ..."

Eva paused for a tenth of a second, but then opened the hinged doors to the dining room and left.

Manuel stood as if turned to stone. Eva, his friend, had told him to leave. When Slobodan had said he should leave Dakar for good he had not cared. He had returned for Eva's sake. He did not need to do more dishes, he did not need to make money, and he had no desire to see the fat one anymore. Tomorrow the fat one would be gone from the restaurant, perhaps for good.

He washed dishes at Dakar because he liked Eva and wanted to see her. He pulled off his ap.r.o.n and laid it like a shroud over the dishwasher. He hesitated in the dressing room. Should he leave without saying good-bye to the others? No, he should let it be, it was best simply to leave.

He kicked off the rough shoes he had borrowed, put on his sandals and jacket, and went out into the night. A rustling sound came from the garbage cans outside the door. Strangely enough, it made him feel better. They still have to put up with the rats, he thought ungenerously, but immediately felt guilty. It was Feo, Tessie, and Eva who brought out the trash. It was not Slobodan who ran the risk of being bitten.

He walked slowly across the yard. Now the fat one got what he wanted after all, he thought, and walked up the alley to the street where Dakar had its entrance. Suddenly he saw movement in some bushes. He stopped and tried to see what it was that had set the branches in motion.

The old terror from Oaxaca returned. The police was his first thought, but he dismissed it just as fast. Why would they be hiding behind some bushes?

He came out onto the street and looked toward the restaurant entrance. The fat one was standing there. Manuel thought he saw him sway. At the same time he saw in the corner of his eye how a shadow slipped away from the bushes on the other side of the street. Manuel automatically crouched down behind a parked car. The shadow figure was pressed against the wall, then took several careful steps. Manuel thought there was something familiar about the figure. He glanced at Dakar and saw how Slobodan slowly started walking down the street. A taxi pa.s.sed and Slobodan turned his head and raised his hand awkwardly, as if he was thinking of flagging it down. He is drunk again, Manuel thought.

The shadow on the other side of the street had now speeded up and when it pa.s.sed a shop window Manuel received the shock of his life. Patricio! It was Patricio who was half-running on the sidewalk. Manuel could not believe his eyes, it could not be Patricio. The clothes looked unfamiliar, the cap was pulled down over his face, but the carriage was his brother's, the long gait and the swinging of his arms. That was how Patricio would make his way through the mountains, half-running, leaving everything behind. But it could not be him. Patricio was in prison. His mind was playing games with him.

Slobodan had now stopped and was trying in vain to bend down in order to tie his laces. He cursed and continued.

The shadow figure on the other side of the street was now only some twenty meters from Slobodan. Manuel became convinced that the shadow was following the fat one.

"Hermanito," he shouted, but not too loudly, afraid that the fat one would hear him. he shouted, but not too loudly, afraid that the fat one would hear him.

The man on the other side of the street froze.

"Here," Manuel shouted, now convinced that it really was Patricio, and held his hand up over the top of the car.

The man on the other side of the street turned his head and Manuel staggered when he saw his brother's face.

Patricio looked just as shocked. He stared at Manuel for a couple of seconds before he ran across the street and they fell into each other's arms.

Patricio pulled back from Manuel.

"The fat one is over there," he said and pointed.

"I know."