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 God 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 God, if one interpreted God’s will in terms of wishing 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 class tomorrow and get a lot of women to shake their asses.”
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?”
In a way, Manuel was not surprised. In his mind, he saw Miguel lying in front of his house. Miguel’s death smelled of herbs. In his fall he had crushed a plant, a rue bitterwort. It helped a headache, but no plant in the world would get Miguel back on his feet again.
Manuel turned around.
“Then you will have to shoot me in the back,” he said, while he put his hand in his pocket and took out the stiletto that clicked open with a metallic sound. Manuel threw himself forward and to the side, raised his arm and slashed. The cut was perfect. Armas fired his pistol at the same time. The whole thing was over in seconds.
Later, as he was pulling the heavy body down to the river, Armas’s shirt ripped and revealed a bare shoulder and upper arm. Manuel immediately recognized the tattoo and an intense rage grew. How could this murderer and drug smuggler have gotten the idea of having a feathered snake tattooed on his white skin? It was an insult, and in his rage Manuel kicked the lifeless body. Quetzalcóatl meant something that neither Armas nor any other gringo could understand. He took out the stiletto again and with a quick flick of his knife sliced the tattoo away.
Manuel went through the events again and again and discovered to his surprise that there was a bizarre feeling of distance in the deadly conflict by the river. He had never been to a theater, only had a performance described to him, but it was in this way that he imagined a drama, that he and Armas were actors in a play.
The beautiful nature around him, the clearing framed with the green of the trees, roses with pale red rosehips, brush at whose feet there were dark green leaves and in the distance the cackling of sea birds from the reeds, this is what the scene had looked like for a drama of life and death.
The roles had been simple, likewise the dramaturgy: one man prepared to kill and the other forced to do so. They needed no directions, life itself provided the dialogue and action.
It was a drama that Manuel could see from the outside, as if he was no longer an actor but forced to be a passive viewer, one in the audience. And from that position he could see the archetypal in what had happened, frightening and full of anguish, as a drama without artifice.
The feeling of unreality, that he had cut the throat of another human being and dumped him into the water as if he was a bag of trash, had grown stronger afterward. Armas was no longer real. His death had nothing to do with Manuel.
Fifteen
It sometimes happened that Ann Lindell woke up beautiful. It happened at varying intervals, more often in spring and summer, so that she was both surprised, as if someone had unexpectedly complimented her, and also struck by a familiar happiness, as on a fine summer morning when one goes outside and steps into the sun.