Part 10 (1/2)

”Where?” Armas asked.

”My tent,” Manuel said, and he saw Patricio's face before him.

He wasn't even sure if the water next to his tent could really be called a river. It was mostly reeds. He was amazed that so few people came to the water. There was the man with the fis.h.i.+ng rod, but no one else. if the water next to his tent could really be called a river. It was mostly reeds. He was amazed that so few people came to the water. There was the man with the fis.h.i.+ng rod, but no one else.

He very much liked the gra.s.s in this foreign country. It smelled good, was soft against his skin and reminded him of a special kind of gra.s.s that they sometimes found in the mountains above his village. Otherwise the gra.s.s there was mostly stiff and sharp.

He was lying on his back with his hands under his head, staring up at the sky. Time and again his thoughts turned to Armas, how he had staggered only to collapse in front of Manuel's feet, his hands pressed against his throat. There was something mesmerizing about the way the blood pumped out between his fingers, in fine red ribbons that were strangely free but also condemned outside their path of circulation and the heart that propelled them.

As he thought about Armas, an image of Miguel came to him. Miguel, his neighbor and childhood friend, who almost always laughed, conceived children like a hamster, and burned for the village, for the Zapotecs and autonomy.

When Miguel was shot to death outside his home there was no beauty. His death was ugly and tattered. Seven bullets tore apart an already dirty and broken body, marked by harsh circ.u.mstances and hard work.

Miguel's blood was dark, almost black, and his limbs were desperately tensed, as if all of him was screaming. One hand rested against the house wall. In the window above his hand, whose fingers appeared to be fumbling for something, one could see his three children.

The villagers stood in a semicircle around the dead man and found that there was no justice in his death, no beauty. Who would have been able to say that Miguel was an attractive corpse? His dead body was as repellant as the life he had been forced to lead.

Miguel's death was expected. The extinguis.h.i.+ng of his life was fated. One who lives in a mountain village in Oaxaca, is campesino campesino and Zapotec, and does not settle for what this means is put on the list. Behind the roar of life and Miguel's laughter, there was always Death peeking out with his grinning mask. It was as if the flies were drawn to Miguel. The flies of death. and Zapotec, and does not settle for what this means is put on the list. Behind the roar of life and Miguel's laughter, there was always Death peeking out with his grinning mask. It was as if the flies were drawn to Miguel. The flies of death.

Armas's end was different. He was a fine corpse. Manuel had at first not realized that the strong body with its smooth skin and well-manicured hands were without life. It was only when the first fly landed on Amras that Manuel fully grasped that the man was in fact dead.

Armas had attacked him, had wanted to kill him. Manuel should have understood the full extent of Patricio's words that a man like Armas never had good thoughts. For him there was no dilemma, nor any difficulties, in killing another person. It was only a question of opportunity and purpose. The purpose of Manuel dying now appeared self-evident in hindsight. Manuel despised his own ignorance. He was the oldest of the brothers but not an ounce smarter.

Armas spoke Spanish with an element of haughtiness in his voice and Manuel had wanted to ask if he spoke his own language with the same carelessness. But now he understood that Armas was careless with life itself. He neither feared G.o.d nor any living man.

Now he was dead by Manuel's hand. But he still felt the threat that Armas's physical presence had radiated. What amazed Manuel in hindsight was the doubleness in Armas: one second his hands were clenched and his movements were like a vigilant animal, the next moment he could speak in carefree terms about women.

Manuel wondered if there had been a woman in Armas's life. He tried to imagine her sorrow but he could only visualize a laughing woman. So it was, he said to himself, that relief followed Armas's death. It was an act that pleased G.o.d, if one interpreted G.o.d's will in terms of wis.h.i.+ng for peoples' happiness. Armas had been a misfortune.

His gaze had been cold, with small lifeless eyes and pupils as dark as soot. He looked like a reptile, but his body spoke another language and that had at first confused Manuel. Armas moved in a supple way, not to say elegant, although he was so large. As long as they had still been in the city he had been reserved, holding Manuel at arm's length with his eyes, but as soon as they reached the river and parked their cars, he placed his arm around Manuel's shoulders and asked him if he was cold.

”It must be hard for a Mexican,” he said, as if he wanted to warm Manuel, but he let go of Manuel's shoulders.

If he only knew how cold it could be, Manuel thought. Thousands of thoughts and impressions swarmed like angry bees in his head. Should I demand the money that Patricio spoke of? Why does he laugh when his eyes say something different? What really happened to Angel?

But it was Armas who overwhelmed Manuel with questions, when and how he had come to Sweden, if he had met any Swedes, yes, perhaps even made some friends.

”Swedes love Latinos,” he said. ”You could start a dance cla.s.s tomorrow and get a lot of women to shake their a.s.ses.”

He spoke well of Mexico, that he would like to return and that Manuel could be his Mexican friend. Had Armas really believed that Manuel was going to take up his brothers' business? He implied as much. Dropped hints of riches. Manuel was amazed. One dead, and one in prison, and the man dared to talk about dollars.

When they reached the tent-it took about ten minutes because Armas stopped constantly-he praised Manuel on its placement and how well Manuel had arranged everything.

”How did you recognize me?” Manuel asked abruptly. ”We only saw each other for a short time and that was a long time ago.”

”You are like your brothers,” Armas said, ”and I have a good memory for faces. I know which ones are important to remember. I work with people and it ...”

Then he stopped suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, and looked at Manuel.

”Are you angry?”

Manuel nodded, but could not say anything. Nothing of what he had thought the last few months came to his lips.

”Have you visited your brother?”

”Yes, once.”

”And he told you a lot of nonsense, of course?”

”He talked about money,” Manuel said and cursed himself. As if money was what was important.

”So he is still hungry for money,” Armas said with a smile, and now he suddenly switched to English.

”I think you should be happy he is alive,” he said cryptically.

”What do you mean?”

”Many unpleasant things happen in prison, people are stressed.”

Manuel stared at him, tried to understand.

”Some are racists and don't like Latinos coming here with AIDS and drugs.”

”AIDS? Is Patricio sick?”

Armas laughed.

”I think you should go home to the mountains,” he said. ”Today.”

Suddenly Manuel understood. He was a threat. Patricio was a threat. As long as they lived they could squeal. He drew back from Armas, who followed.

”I'm staying,” Manuel said. ”I will look after my brother.”

Armas leaned over him.

”If I tell you to go home, then that is what you should do. That will be best for you and your brother.”

”And for you and the fat one?”

”For everyone,” Armas said and smiled.

”I want justice,” Manuel said.

Armas stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gun. It looked like a toy in his hand.

”Are you going to kill me?”