He had been in Sweden nine hours. He had traveled with only one goal: to check up on his brother. He had gone into debt in order to get the money for the ticket, had assured his mother that he would be careful and not do anything illegal. Was it illegal to persuade the drug dealers, the fat one and the tall one, to pay Patricio the ten thousand dollars that they had promised?
If Patricio didn’t want it, then it certainly would provide Maria with security in her old age. She would never again have to worry about money. It was the thought of this that convinced him.
He folded up the map, got in the car, and drove slowly out of the parking lot.
Six
The sign flashed “Dakar” with three stars, alternating in green and red. Eva Willman leaned her bicycle against the wall, although a sign expressly forbade this.
She had asked Patrik to look up Dakar online. He had received ten of thousands of hits. Dakar was the capital of the West African country of Senegal. Together, they had looked it up in the atlas and Eva felt as if she was embarking on a trip.
Patrik sat leaned over the kitchen table, tracing his index finger across the open pages.
“Timbuktu,” he said suddenly.
The multicolored nations, the straight lines that indicated borders, and the blue ones that followed the laws of nature, meandering across the map, joined up with other arteries and lead to the sea in a finely branched network of threads. Patrik smiled to himself.
The pale sunlight fell in through the window. The light and shade in his young face formed a continent of hope. There was absolute silence in the kitchen. Eva wanted to caress Patrik’s blond hair and downy face, but she let her hand rest on the back of the chair.
“Dakar is by the sea,” Patrik said and looked at her with an expression that was difficult to interpret. There is nothing to the west before America, only water.”
Now Eva was standing in front of a Dakar that was far from the sea. The closest you could come to the Atlantic around here was the Fyris river, a body of water that rarely evoked any dreams, a line that divided the city. It reminded Eva of her grandfather. He had been a construction worker his whole life, a communist, and an alcoholic—a life-threatening combination, especially for her grandmother who became the target of her husband’s frustration and hate. Only in her sixties did she manage to leave him.
In protest, Eva’s father had voted for the conservatives and had continued to do so from sheer habit, long after his ruddy father had shuffled off this mortal coil.
Eva’s inheritance was twofold, consisting in part of a hatred toward pretention and hypocrisy, against those in power, and in part a belief in the role of personal responsibility for one’s own well-being. She had always had difficulties reconciling herself with the collective, with those who spoke for the many but who did not always live as they preached. She had seen enough of that at the post office.
Her grandmother had worked as a waitress at the well-known hotel and restaurant Gillet in her youth, an experience that she constantly mentioned. It was not so much the tired feet and fresh-mouthed customers that she remembered, but more the feeling of having a job and therefore value. When she married, her husband forbade her to continue working. He was jealous, convinced that the men would soil her with their gazes.
Now Eva was standing in front of Dakar. She had called her grandmother, who lived in an assisted-living unit, and told her that she was applying for a job at a restaurant.
“I can teach you a thing or two,” the old woman chuckled.
It had taken Eva half a day to gather enough courage to call Dakar.
She had spoken with a man named Måns, but the person she was going to meet was the boss himself, Slobodan Andersson.
“He can be a bit tricky,” Måns said and Eva thought she could hear him smile. “Ignore his laughter, look him straight in the eye, don’t look down even if he insults you.”
“What do you mean, insults me? I’m applying for a job.”
“You’ll see what I mean,” Måns said.
She stood for a while with her hand on the door handle before she took a deep breath, stepped into the restaurant, and was greeted by the smell of cigars and beer. She could hear a faint buzzing sound and Eva assumed it was a drill. She continued on farther into the room, full of tense anticipation for what she would see, and aware of her own breathing. She couldn’t seem pantingly eager.
A carpenter was putting up shelves behind the bar. A fat man was standing behind the counter, nonchalantly leaning against it, observing the work. He had apparently not heard her come in. He said something that Eva did not catch. It must be him, she thought, looking at his beefy face and the hand that rested on the counter.
She coughed and the man turned his head and waved toward an armchair. Eva sat down. He made a good-natured impression standing there, as he smiled and nodded from time to time as if to assure everyone that everything looked good. When the last screw was in place, he turned to Eva.
“One can never have enough shelves, don’t you think?”
“That’s true,” Eva said, and recalled Måns’s words about looking him in the eye.
“I am Slobodan Andersson and this is Armas, the shelf master,” said the fat man and nodded at the carpenter.
The latter stepped out of the shadows and glanced briefly at her. He was considerably taller than Slobodan Andersson, with a completely bald pate and a face as expressionless as a statue.
“So, my little postmistress, you would like a job?”
Eva nodded.
“They don’t grow on trees,” he went on. “What makes you think Dakar won’t go under if you start working here? Are you so damn good at dishing up food?”
“That’s all I do these days,” Eva replied.
“Is that so?”
“I have two teenage boys at home.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Are they well behaved?”
“Yes, they are.”
“I hate hooligans. What are their names?”
“Patrik and Hugo.”
“Good,” Slobodan said. “Now, stand up.”
Eva rose hesitantly to her feet.
“Why don’t you take a stroll between the tables.”
“If you think you can direct me like a robot, you are wrong,” Eva said and made an effort to keep her gaze steady. His look was difficult to take, nonchalant and taunting, as if he was playing with her. “But certainly, I can take a little walk.”
She sauntered around the tables, taking in the giant photographic prints on the walls, then returned. Slobodan was watching her with an attentive expression, as if she was a shoplifter.
“Nice pictures,” she said.
Slobodan gave Armas a look and let out a sigh. Eva recalled the job interview at her last employer. There had been forms and endless conversations, introductions and courses.
“There you have the heart,” Slobodan said suddenly and pointed into the inner regions of the restaurant. “The kitchen! You out here are only slaves under the kitchen. Nothing but errand boys or errand girls, if you so will. Are you a red stocking?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Women’s talk, you know.”
“Well, I am a woman, and I certainly do talk.”
Slobodan studied her pensively. Armas, who had not said anything thus far, coughed and nodded to Slobodan before receding into the shadows. Slobodan stared after him and then smiled at Eva.
“When can you start?”
“Today,” Eva said quickly, without a second’s hesitation.
She ran her hands quickly down her legs.
“And the hooligans?”
“They’ll manage.”
“You’ll have to fix your hair. Armas, call Elizabeth!”
Eva swallowed and unconsciously touched her head.
She biked back through the city streets like a madwoman. The sun was shining from a clear sky and the traffic signals appeared synchronized to give her all green lights.
The only downside were the hours. She was going to work the lunch shift twice a week, as well as an evening shift three times a week and every other weekend. The salary, eighty-five kronor an hour to start, was worse than she had been expecting, but she accepted it without protest. Slobodan had implied that it could perhaps improve after a while. How much the tips added, she did not ask, but Slobodan had explained that everyone shared alike. That meant the entire kitchen crew, including those lowest on the rung, the assistant chefs and the apprentices from the Ekeby School.
Tiredness hit her at the Ultuna commons and she stepped off her bicycle. A combine harvester was moving across the field, leaving golden brown stalks of straw in its wake. Through the dust billowing across the broad header that was devouring the stalks and grain heads, she caught sight of the driver. Eva waved, and he waved back, smiling. A feeling of solidarity with the harvest worker gripped her. The wheat that the chefs and bakers would turn to food, and that Eva would serve at the table, was being harvested right here and now.
A bus swept past on the road. Soon she would be sitting on it on her way to and from her work.
“A job!” she cried, and she pedaled past Kuggebro.
When she came home, Patrik was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. Hugo was at the computer.
“He’s been sitting there for two hours,” Patrik complained.
“I’m doing my homework!” Hugo yelled.
“You’re kidding me,” his brother muttered.
“Come here, Hugo,” Eva said and sat down at the table. He immediately appeared in the doorway, leaning up against the doorpost, prepared to do battle for computer time.
“I got the job,” Eva said.
Patrick gave her a quick look, before he cut another slice of bread.
“Then we get to eat at a restaurant every day,” Hugo burst out.
It took a long time before the boys went to bed. They wanted to know everything about Drakar and Eva felt that she wanted to promise them something, so they could get a more immediate advance on the lottery win she had scored. That was how she felt: an incredible and unexpected triumph. No one had expected her to get a real job, least of all Helen. The first thing Eva was going to do tomorrow morning was call her.
The clock in the living room sounded twelve times. She should have called her parents in Ekshärad, but it was too late now. Perhaps she should wait a couple of days until she had started at Dakar and grown into her work.
As she was pulling the bedspread from her bed, she decided she would shower and change the sheets, despite the late hour.
Afterward she carefully applied her citrus-scented lotion. She looked at her body in the bathroom mirror and the feeling of being chosen was mixed with the longing to have someone to share the happiness with. The boys were pleased, of course. Hugo had already had time to count up everything she should buy, while Patrik had mostly been silent. Eva sensed that his pleasure lay more in the knowledge that they now had a mother who had a real job.
But sharing this joy with her sons was a controlled joy, one where she constantly had to apply a realistic view: the job at Dakar did not mean she was embarking on a dizzying career track. It was just a job, and not an especially well-paid one at that. Not a lottery win or a ticket to the easy life.
She longed to share her sense of optimism with a man. It was that simple. The lotion was intoxicating with its scent and smoothness, but in its way it was a wasted effort, and she felt guilty that she was throwing money away for no reason.
She went to bed with an excitement in her body that reminded her of an infatuation.
Seven
Slobodan Andersson’s office was tucked behind Alhambra’s kitchen. Only he and Armas were allowed in there. The two of them had been in business together since they had met at a strip club in Copenhagen twenty years before. Armas had been sitting in the very front and with his formidable size had almost taken up two seats at the tiny table. Slobodan had joined him. Not because he wanted the company, but because he wanted to sit close to the stage.
The strippers were mediocre and apparently bored, because they moved with so little energy and creativity that many of the customers stopped watching. Slobodan sighed.
“It’s a disappointment every time,” he said, but Armas stared back at him without appearing to concur and simply shrugged.
Slobodan stretched out his hand and introduced himself. After a second’s hesitation, Armas grasped his hand and muttered a name that Slobodan did not catch.
That was the beginning of their many years of working together.
Now they were sitting on either side of the desk. Armas was silent, while Slobodan was talking a mile a minute. He unfolded a map and placed his chubby finger on a town by the northern border of Spain.
“This is where it will take place,” he said.
Armas already knew this. In fact, he already knew everything about the upcoming operation.
“You take the car down there. I will write out a list of restaurants that you will visit. Above all, this one north of Guernica. Drive around for at least a week, talk to chefs and collect ideas. But not some damn bacalao—I’m so damn tired of cod. But buy as much cheese as you want. You know what I like. If they check you out in customs, then go ahead and act a little nervous about the cheese. And wine, but only Basque varieties, so the customs officials feel proud. Make yourself out to be an idiot when it comes to food. Offer to pay taxes or whatever the hell else, tell them your boss will strangle you if you don’t come back with a good piece of Cabrales.”
Armas nodded and looked at his boss: the sweaty face, the wrinkled suit—one sleeve of which was soiled with a large grease stain—and the plump fingers that continuously fiddled with papers on the desk. Slobodan looked worn out. There were no wrinkles in the shiny round face, but the area around his eyes was growing darker, as if they were sinking more and more deeply into their sockets. The dark, combed-back hair was getting increasingly thin and new gray hairs appeared every day.
“Do you get it?”
“I get it.”
“Jorge e-mailed me the other day.”
Armas looked astonished.
“E-mailed? Has he lost his mind?”
“I deleted everything,” Slobodan said, irritated.
Armas snorted.
“You will meet Jorge outside the aquarium in San Sebastián. Not far from there, on the pier, there is a restaurant. You will see exactly which one it is. They had decked the place out with a lot of flags and knickknacks. Eat there. I know one of the waiters. He’s called ‘Mini.’”
“Is he involved?”
“No, not directly, but he stays informed. He knows exactly what happens in the city, if the police are up to anything.”
Armas didn’t like it. He didn’t like Jorge and definitely not a new Spanish idiot. It was typical of Slobodan to improvise like this at the last minute.
“I know what you think,” Slobodan said, “but a little local backup is always good.”
“Why can’t Jorge go up to Frankfurt, like last time?”
“I don’t trust him. You know what happened to the other one. Mexicans are so damn clumsy. They stink scofflaw to the high heavens. And the German cops are smarter than the Spaniards.”
“If they are so clumsy, why—”
“You know why!”
Armas snorted again. He knew how everything had started and it had gone well. Angel’s demise was something that couldn’t be helped. He only had himself to blame. There was nothing that could tie Angel to Sweden and definitely not to either Slobodan or Armas.
It had been worse with the next idiot, the one who was picked up by Swedish customs and was now sitting in jail. For half a year, during the questioning and the trial, they had
lived in a state of terror, but had finally realized that Patricio had not said a single word about his employers. He had remained silent throughout the entire process and the sentence had surely been more severe because of it.
Slobodan tossed a folder onto the desk.
“Here is the list of restaurants,” he said.
He was intending to repeat all of his warnings and orders about what Armas should do in Spain and how he should treat the restaurant personnel, authorities, customs, police, or whoever he bumped into, but then realized this would only worsen the Armenian’s mood.
Armas eyed the list. He had nothing against the prospect of eating well for a week. Perhaps he could even pick something up that could be of use to them at Alhambra or Dakar.
What troubled him was the prospect of Mini. Armas did not like unknown cards. The fact that he had managed to survive, and without spending a single day in jail, was entirely due to his policy of never relying on unknown cards. Mini was just such an untested quantity, even if Slobodan had vouched for him.
Jorge he had met in Campeche, Mexico, and had judged him to be significantly more reliable than Angel. That damn Indian had only had one thing in his head, and that was women. That could only lead to one thing: Hell. Armas put great pride in never starting a relationship that lasted more than a couple of days, perhaps a week. The record was held by a French woman he had met in Venezuela. They had been together for three weeks before she disappeared without a trace.
For a while, he kept to whores. They were professionals, like himself, but he grew tired of them. According to Armas, women made you lose your focus, and he was completely convinced that this was the reason Angel had failed. There must have been a woman involved. He had never trusted the Mexican. He talked too much about broads.
The Demon of Dakar Page 4