The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [102]
He dreamed every night about how he dragged the dead man to the water, how the shirt tore and revealed the tattoo. That had been the worst part, removing Quetzalcóatl from the gringo’s upper arm. A white man could not be allowed to bear such a symbol. That was how he had felt at the time, in his bitterness and confusion. But he regretted it now. What right had he had to mutilate a dead man?
He picked up cutlery, plates, and glasses, rinsed and cleaned with something approaching work satisfaction. He did not do it to win approval. It was the warmth and the movements in themselves that motivated him and lifted his mood. Something that Feo also contributed to when he came out to him. They exchanged a few words and joked a little.
He listened to the talk between the coworkers without understanding a word, and saw how Tessie, the gringa, and the new waitress submitted orders. There were clattering noises from the kitchen, warm steam rose from the pots and pans, and the clouds that wafted into the wash station brought with it the smell of fish, garlic, and other things that made his mouth water. Particularly enticing was the sound of meat hitting the pan. For a few moments Manuel forgot why he was in Sweden and he even hummed a song he had heard Lila Downs sing in the square in Oaxaca.
At eleven o’clock the steady stream of dishes and silverware started to wane and he was able to relax somewhat. Eva and Tessie served the last of their desserts and the cooks started putting things away and cleaning up. Feo called out to him and asked if he was tired, but Manuel felt as if he could have worked all night.
Eva came out with a tray of glasses. She looked at him as if she was wondering if he could take more questions about his homeland. That was at least how he interpreted her appraising glance and hesitant smile, and when he nodded kindly to her she went and stood next to him and helped to load the dishwasher.
“Do you come from a small village?” she started, and Manuel nodded.
“How could you afford to come here?”
“I saved,” Manuel answered, suddenly on his guard.
“I’m also saving,” Eva said, “but I never get anywhere. There is never enough money. I dream of traveling but I have never left Sweden. Well, once my grandfather and I walked into Norway.”
“Norway is another country?”
“Yes, it borders on Sweden.”
“Were you looking for work?”
“No,” Eva laughed, “we were picking berries and grandfather got it into his head that we should visit Norway. I remember how tired I became.”
“Were there no police there? At the border, I mean.”
“Police?”
“You can’t simply walk into another country?”
“Yes, you can. The border between Sweden and Norway is almost completely open,” Eva explained. “You can come and go as you like.”
She told him about the close contact people on either side of the border had always had. She told him her grandfather’s more or less accurate stories about heroic deeds during the Second World War, how Norwegian resistance fighters had been smuggled over the border in each direction. Manuel listened, fascinated.
“Everyone helped out. Almost everyone voted for the communists and hated the Nazis, so it wasn’t hard to find volunteers.”
Eva smiled to herself.
“Do you miss it?” Manuel asked.
“Yes, sometimes. But it’s a two-sided thing, as it was for my grandfather, sort of. When he was home in the district of Värmland he was a completely different person. He was happy, talkative, and laughed a lot.
It even happened that he mixed in Finnish words. In Uppsala he was always grumpy.”
“He also missed the place,” Manuel stated.
She smiled and Manuel recognized it as a smile that concealed something else.
“Maybe I should visit you,” Eva went on suddenly. “I mean, your family, not that I want to stay for