The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [105]
“I am done now,” Manuel said and pushed in the final tray.
He wanted to speak to Feo before he left Dakar. He longed for the peace and quiet of his tent, but perhaps there was something else he should do before he left. He peered out into the bar. Feo sat at the counter, leaning over a beer. Måns said something that made Feo smile and look around the dining room.
Manuel felt a pang of envy at the Portuguese. His smile was genuine. His tender talk of his wife and child was without artifice. He was happy in his work, prepared his food in laughter and with an economy of movement as if he were allied with fortune.
Slobodan coughed behind his back and Manuel turned around. The fat one was staring into space. His head drooped and there was a glint of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
Manuel again felt a kind of sympathy for the man and for a moment, forgetful of the context, he had the impulse to help Slobodan Andersson to his feet, to console him and see to it that he made it home.
Then the door to the dining room was thrown open and Tessie entered, glancing at Slobodan who had slumped on the stool. She laughed.
“Are you the babysitter?” she asked with an American accent that took Manuel back to California.
“Wake up,” she said and shook Slobodan’s shoulder, without taking any further notice of the dishwasher. “It is time to go home. I’m calling a cab.”
The proprietor shook his head.
“I can’t …”
“Of course you can,” Tessie said, and Manuel understood, even though she was speaking Swedish.
“There’s someone out there,” Slobodan slurred.
“What are you talking about? Are you supposed to meet someone?”
Slobodan tried to stand up but fell back onto the stool. Tessie sighed.
“Damn, I’m tired,” she muttered in English. “It’s bad enough that I have to wait on the customers, let alone play mom to this lump.”
“He thinks you should be grateful that you have a job,” Manuel said.
Tessie stared at him.
“Grateful! I should be grateful? Are you on drugs?”
She flounced out of the kitchen, exasperated and disgusted. Slobodan looked up.
“They’re out to get me,” he groaned, before the heavy body jerked and the vomit projected straight out from his mouth. He stared at the floor in astonishment, with the slack jaw of a drunkard.
Manuel walked out into the bar and gave Feo a sign that he should come out into the kitchen. The Portuguese smiled at him, slid off the bar stool, and rounded the counter.
“What is it?”
“It’s the fat one.”
The stench was indescribable. Slobodan had fallen asleep with his head against the wall. They cleaned it up together. Feo sprayed water onto the floor while Manuel mopped it up with rags.
“I have never seen him so drunk,” Feo said, and for once he looked worried.
“He talked about someone being after him,” Manuel said.
“I have heard him talk about that,” Feo said, turning the water off and looking at the sleeping man. “He thinks the person who killed Armas is after him.”
“Who would want to kill both of them?”
Manuel’s tension was like a cramp in his stomach.
“Armas should have been here,” Feo said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “He would have picked him up by his arms and carried him home. Can you help me? He can’t stay here.”
One hour later they had lugged Slobodan into his apartment. The first cab had refused to take them, and they had to call for a bigger cab that was able to fit Slobodan in the luggage area.
Manuel and Feo then dragged the half unconscious proprietor up to his apartment and onto his bed.
They stood for a while and watched the shapeless body that flinched from time to time as if from a cramp. His breathing was heavy and wheezy and Slobodan muttered something in his sleep.
“Can you stay with him for a while?” Feo asked.
Manuel nodded and looked around the bedroom.
After Feo had left, Manuel walked from room to room in amazement. It was the largest residence he had ever set foot in. Five rooms and a kitchen