The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [6]
“I’m going to get myself a new job,” she said.
“Good luck,” Helen said, and resumed her filing.
Eva left the living room and walked out into the kitchen, hastily shuffling together the papers from the unemployment agency and pushing them in among the cookbooks in the kitchen. Patrik would be home soon.
The rhythmic filing could be heard all the way out in the kitchen. Eva ended up standing in front of the cabinet where the box of O’boy was. The most routine duties became important, every movement, such as taking out milk and chocolate powder, became significant. She stretched out her hand. The white line on her wrist where her watch had been was a reminder of the passage of time. She moved guardedly as if she were a stranger in her own kitchen, while the seconds, minutes, and hours marched on relentlessly. Her hand was warm but the cabinet handle cool. Her arm was tanned and covered in tiny liver spots that had grown more numerous over the past few years.
Eva opened the cabinet. The filing had stopped and the only thing she could hear was the rustle of Helen turning the pages of a magazine.
There was sugar, flour, oats, popcorn, coffee, and other dry goods on the shelves. She sized up each package as if it were the first time she was looking at it.
Her paralysis was only broken when Patrik suddenly opened the front door. Eva quickly took out the powdered chocolate mix, then opened the refrigerator door and took out some milk. Barely two liters left. The cucumber was almost gone, the cheese an ancient monument, the eggs, okay, and enough yogurt, she summed up.
“Hello!” she yelled, surprised at how happy she sounded, but only the sound of his feet on the hallway floor made her smile.
Behind his shuffling movements and somewhat grumpy demeanor there was a capacity for observation that never ceased to amaze her. He was becoming wiser and more mature. When she pointed this out he became dismissive, and when she praised him he appeared completely bewildered, as if he did not want to admit to having been thoughtful or kind.
He walked into the kitchen and sat down. Eva set the table in silence.
“Who is here?”
“Helen. She wanted to borrow the iron.”
“Doesn’t she own one?”
“It’s broken.”
Patrik sighed and poured out some milk. Eva watched him. His pants were starting to get worn. When he claimed that they were supposed to look like that, she laughed heartily. When worn clothes became trendy, the poor man had the advantage for once.
“I have a job for you,” Patrik said suddenly.
He was making his fourth sandwich.
“What?”
Patrik looked at her and Eva thought she saw concern in his eyes.
“Simon’s mom was talking about it. Her brother is moving to Uppsala, for a new job.”
He took a sip of the O’boy chocolate milk.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“They need a waitriss. He’s a chef.”
“Waitress, not waitriss.”
“But chef is right.”
“I’m going to work as a waitress? What else did she say? Did she talk about me?”
A new sigh from Patrik.
“What did she say?”
“You’ll have to talk to her yourself.”
He stood up with a sandwich in his hand.
“I’m going to the movies tonight.”
“Do you have money?”
He shuffled off to his room without answering, and closed the door behind him. Eva looked at the clock on the wall. Simon’s mother, she thought, and started to clear the table, but stopped. Hugo would be home from school soon.
Helen came into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
“Where’s Patrik?”
Eva didn’t bother to answer. Helen knew very well where he was. Fury boiled up in Eva at the sight of her friend.
“You think I put you down, yes, I know it,” Helen said, with unexpected loudness. “You dream of sailboats and nice, wonderful men, but have you thought of something?”
Eva stared at her.
“That you never do anything about it. Get it? It’s only talk.”
“I’ve got a job,” Eva said.
“What?”
“Waitress.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” Eva said.
Helen looked at her and Eva thought she saw the flicker of a smile on her lips.
When Helen had left, Eva poured out