Patricio interrupted his thoughts by standing up and helping himself to a sandwich and soda. He ate and drank in silence.
“Is it edible?” Manuel asked.
“I’ve had worse,” Patricio replied, smiling.
Manuel laughed with relief when he realized that his brother was making an effort to bridge the discord and the tense atmosphere.
“I’m also going to have some,” he said, taking out the wrapped sandwich and sitting down next to his brother.
“This afternoon I’ll get us some fried chicken,” he continued.
At that moment a helicopter approached at a low altitude. It swept in from the north and flew over the river a hundred or so meters from the place where the brothers were sitting.
Taken by compete surprise as they were, they did not even manage to react until the helicopter had vanished from view.
“The police,” Patricio whispered.
Manuel did not know what to believe.
“Maybe it’s the military,” he said, and told him that he believed there was an air force base on the other side of the river.
“They’re looking for me,” Patricio said, and stood up.
“I can swim across and check,” Manuel offered. “Maybe it was something routine and nothing to do with us.”
He checked the bushes where he had hidden the money. Patricio noticed his gaze.
“If you cross the river, I’ll put the tent away. Even if they are not looking for us we are clearly visible from the air.”
Patricio was right. Their tent must stand out like a torch from up above. He undressed, swam across the river, climbed up on the other side, and in the distance he could just make out the helicopter that had landed. He was unable to determine if it was a police helicopter, but he could not spot any activity on the airstrip.
Twenty minutes later they were on their way. They followed the Fyris river to the southwest. Manuel had seen a forest in the area. There they should be able to find a more secluded spot. The car could remain parked near the arts and crafts village for now.
After a trek of a couple of kilometers, the river turned directly south toward Uppsala. The brothers crawled up the bank and discussed what they should do. Before them lay a field and beyond that the woods rose up thickly.
They took a chance and crossed the field, arrived at a highway that they crossed, avoided a couple of houses, finally reached the shielding curtain of trees and followed an almost invisible path into the woods. Wine-red mushrooms peeked out between the heavy branches on either side of the path.
“It is like a cathedral,” Patricio said and stopped, stroking the sticky fir with his hands. “How beautiful it would be if-”
“Let’s push on.”
Manuel was irritated. He was in a way, however, grateful for the short break-his brother had not shown any fatigue despite their quick march, while he himself was panting.
“They’re hunting us,” Patricio said.
“As if I didn’t know that,” Manuel said.
“If we were free I would-”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Patricio said hesitantly. “Do you go to mass?”
“Why wouldn’t I do that?” Manuel asked, perplexed.
He continued on deeper into the woods. Patricio lumbered on behind him. After a short while they reached a house.
“It looks abandoned,” Patricio said.
There was no movement either outside or in the windows, and no smoke rose from the chimney. An old tree, still green and covered in apples, was lying straight across the gravel path that led from the gate up to the house. The sight of the giant that had been struck down in the midst of its fruitful phase depressed Manuel. The top of the tree was partly torn to pieces. Manuel walked up and studied the jagged wounds where the branches had been torn from the trunk. The wood was light but with a core of murky brown rot that Manuel was easily able to crumble between his fingers.
“Who lives here in the woods?” he asked and looked around.
There was a small field behind a low stone wall. It was not in use and small trees were growing in a tangled sea of high herbs and grass. The red-painted wooden wall glowed with a warm and welcoming light in the afternoon sun and some yellow flowers that Manuel recognized from his homeland waved by the high stone foundation.
He walked up to the door and tried the door handle. It was locked.
“Manuel, come!”
Patricio was standing in the doorway of a smaller building, waving for his brother.
“We can sleep in here,” Patricio said when Manuel had caught up.
The shed consisted of one small room. Firewood was piled up to the ceiling along one wall. On the other side there was an old metal frame bed. A mattress was rolled up against one end of the bed. Patricio undid the string holding the mattress together and it unrolled over the bed frame. He chuckled.
“The bed is made,” he said and threw himself down.
They carried in their few belongings and installed themselves. Manuel hid the bag of money behind the stack of firewood. It felt unpleasant to force oneself into a stranger’s house, but on the other hand it had been open and they were not causing any damage. The most important thing was that they were no longer visible from the air if any more helicopters appeared.
Patricio stretched out on the bed with his hands under his head. Manuel sat down on a rickety wooden chair.
“What if we were to tell our whole story,” Patricio said after a long period of silence.
Manuel looked quizzically at him. He was too exhausted to think. This fatigue was of a different order from at home. In the mountains he could wander for hours, even carrying a load, without tiring.
“I don’t think Swedes know what it is like in Mexico,” Patricio said.
“That is not so strange. How many people in our village know what it is like here? And how would you make this happen? Are you going to be on TV?”
Patricio shut his eyes. A spider walked across his closely cropped hair. Manuel studied his face. I have to get him home again, he thought, bending forward and brushing the spider away. Patricio smiled, but he did not open his eyes. After a minute or so he slept heavily.
If we could tell our whole story, Manuel thought, where would we begin? How many would listen? Maybe Eva, but how many others?
He got up from his seat and walked as quietly as possible back out into the yard. He walked up to the main house, forcing his way through some bushes to a window, and peered inside. It was a kitchen. There was a wood-burning fireplace with a white-washed hood. A table and four chairs was the only furniture. On the table was a yellowed newspaper and a pair of glasses.
When he left the window and walked back over the flower bed he felt a familiar scent. He sniffed the air, looked down, and received a shock when he realized what it was that was giving off the aromatic smells.
He had stepped on a Ruta, or rue. He recognized the mild yellow-green leaves so well.
Will I die here? he wondered, swiftly making the sign of the cross and backing slowly away from the house. When he lifted his gaze from the flower bed he thought he could see Miguel’s children in the windows. He wanted to leave the house and run away but controlled himself.
It struck him that maybe the poor people in this country also planted Ruta outside their houses. The rich men took pills when they had an ache, while the poor prepared an infusion of herbs or a poultice of healing leaves. It was a poor man’s house they had broken into. That immediately felt better. A rich man would be beside himself. A poor man would understand. That was how it was in the village. The poor were the most generous, but on the other hand they did not have much to give.
Manuel had the idea that they should help clear up a little in the yard. He thought he had seen a saw leaning up against the wall in the shed. They could saw the fallen tree into firewood. That could be done in the wink of an eye.