The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [14]
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