The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [22]
“See you tomorrow,” she said and glided out the door, returning almost immediately.
“There’s a famous cop out there,” she said.
Donald froze in the middle of his movements. Feo turned around.
“Who is it?” they asked at the same time.
“Her name is Lindell,” Eva said. “She has a kid at the day care next to the school where my youngest is.”
“What is she doing here?”
“Having dinner, of course. What did you think?”
Feo shrugged and chuckled. Donald stared sourly after the waitress.
“What the hell is up with her?” he asked.
“I wonder what the cop is doing here,” Feo said.
“You heard her,” Johnny said, “she’s having dinner.”
“I don’t believe in cops,” Feo said.
“What the hell is up with her?” Donald repeated. “Gonzo isn’t the greatest, but at least he doesn’t gab so damn much.”
Feo peered out through the window.
“Cops don’t just come here and eat,” he said. “She’s probably investigating something.”
“Is that a problem?” Johnny asked. “Are you working under the table?”
For a moment, Feo looked upset and he shot Johnny an angry look, but then he resumed his carefree demeanor.
“No, but I am from Portugal,” he said.
Johnny waited for an explanation but it never appeared, and he simply shrugged.
Pirjo, who had hardly said one word all evening, laughed. A dry, joyless laugh that made even Donald look up.
“I am from Finland,” she said.
“I am from Småland,” Johnny said.
“Tessie is from the USA,” Pirjo said.
“Gonzo is from Gonzoland,” Feo added.
Everyone’s gaze was directed at Donald. It was as if a great seriousness had gripped the staff of Dakar, as if someone had entered the kitchen in order to deliver some grave news.
The meat chef turned a fillet in the pan and then looked around, allowing his gaze to travel from Johnny, on to Pirjo, and finally landing on Feo with a contemplative smile, stroking his chin with one hand while the other reached for a frying pan, seemingly of its own accord.
“I was born in Kerala,” he said after a couple of trembling seconds of absolute silence, turning his back to the others and pulling down yet another pan from the rack above the stove. He held it outstretched above his head for a moment, as if it were a torch.
“Kerala,” he repeated.
Feo burst into a thunderous laughter but stopped as suddenly.
“Where is that?” Pirjo asked.
“To the East,” Donald said.
“So is Lempälä,” she said.
“And we are all gathered here,” Johnny said. “In Dakar’s kitchen.”
For a few moments he experienced a feeling of expansion, despite the limited space of the kitchen. He was suddenly very happy that he had left Jönköping and Sofia. It was as if life had taken a little hop, and not simply straight up in order to land in the same spot, but Johnny now knew that the move to Uppsala meant a forward movement. He studied Feo, who was leaning over a plate of anglerfish, and then let his gaze wander over to the head chef. Donald really was a complicated person. Johnny could not yet decide when he was joking and when he was serious.
His face looked as if it had been carved out of marble, with heavy cheeks and a meaty nose above the deeply set eyes. Eyes that appeared to regard the kitchen as the only possible refuge, but also a prison for the dreams he painstakingly concealed behind a dismissive facade.
Donald had worked in perhaps fifteen different kitchens in his thirty years as a chef. Johnny had met many of these cooking nomads. If they could maintain some semblance of balance between the late work shifts, the subsequent late nights, alcohol, and an attempt at a social life, then their professional skill could flower and become a security in any stormy and stressful kitchen, a rock for many a restaurant owner.
Maybe Donald was this kind of man, he would find out in time. He watched over the plates that left Dakar’s kitchen like a hawk, and they were a series of perfection.
“This and nothing else,” he said and showed Johnny how the veal should look.
“Nothing else,” he repeated and polished away a spot that was