The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [104]
“Where do you come from?”
Manuel looked quizzically at the fat man, who then repeated the question in English.
“America,” Manuel answered, and at the same time felt an unexpected euphoria. Perhaps it was the evening’s conversation with Eva, or the fact that Slobodan Andersson was drunk that raised his spirits, after the initial shock and terror at encountering the fat one so unexpectedly had subsided.
Slobodan Andersson sat down on the stool by the door to the dining room. His upper body swayed and an almost desperate level of exhaustion was visible in his face.
“America is a big country,” he slurred. “There are … I have been to Las Vegas, what a fucking city.”
Manuel observed him and was treated to a lengthy account of Slobodan’s experiences in the United States before he abruptly stopped, raised his heavy head, and looked at Manuel.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said with vehemence. “All they want to do is put one over on you. You’re lucky you only have to worry about the dishes.”
Manuel smiled and started putting wineglasses in a rack, happy to have something to do with his hands.
“I have a friend who was murdered, you have probably heard about it. We had known each other for twenty years, at least … twenty long, fucking years … and then the bastard goes and gets himself murdered. Is that right? We were like brothers…. Do you have a brother?”
Manuel nodded.
“Then you know. A brother is everything. Brothers don’t let each other down.”
“He let you down?”
Slobodan Andersson trained his glassy eyes on Manuel and for several seconds the latter forgot himself, felt sorry for the man before him. In his pitiable eyes he could read the man’s great sorrow and all the human misery he knew so well.
He picked up a knife from the container of silverware. A piece of meat still clung to it. He would be able to drive this knife into that fat body and then leave Dakar. Then all accounts would be paid and settled.
“I don’t know,” Slobodan said, his gaze on the knife.
Manuel tossed the knife back in the basket, turned his back on Slobodan, and opened the dishwasher, which disgorged a cloud of steam.
“The uncertainty is the worst thing,” he said and lifted out a tray of glasses.
“I started with nothing,” Slobodan resumed and held up his palms as if to illustrate his starting point. “Just like you. I slaved like an animal, so afraid I almost wet myself. I have struggled, built something, and I don’t want some bastard to come and take everything. Do you know what I mean? There has to be some justice. I have received nothing for free! Work, work, work, all day long, all year. And what is the thanks? The authorities chase you, they want taxes to fatten themselves up, so they can sit on their big behinds and pick their nails. It has to be clean as a laboratory, otherwise they close you down. The union hounds you, as if you were made of money. And regulations for everything, damn it! I sure as hell didn’t get overtime or vacation compensation. I was happy I had a job.”
Slobodan steadied himself by putting his arm on the counter and rising to his feet before he went on.
“I’m creating jobs, damn it! Do you know how many people I have trained, given a life? Yes, that’s how it is, I’ve provided them with a life, all the people who don’t have the balls to fix something for themselves.”
He slapped the counter with his hand as if to underscore his words.
“I make people happy. They come here to eat and drink and forget for a moment that we live in a society of thieves. I am a generous person, but now there is no place for this. Everyone wants a piece, without making an effort.”
He fell silent as suddenly as he had started his outburst and sank down on the stool. He studied his hands, the cuticles and knuckles.
“Ungrateful,” he whispered in Swedish.
Manuel was not sure if he should take this opportunity to reveal his identity and the fact that he was here to claim Patricio’s money, but he decided to wait. A new idea had formed in his mind, one that had the potential to yield considerably more.
He did