The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [77]
“And on top of everything this is the worst possible time,” Donald went on, unusually expressive, though without explaining why.
“What do you say, Eva?” Feo asked.
“I belong to a different union,” she said tentatively, uncertain of the atmosphere in the kitchen.
Gunnar Björk summoned up his nerve, encouraged by her words.
“Then we’ll arrange a transfer for you to Hotel and Restaurant,” he said and immediately started to dig in his briefcase.
“I will never join,” Donald said.
“Why not?”
Donald stopped short, turned to Feo, and bored his eyes into him.
“I hate all organizations, all collective pressure where everyone has to sing the same damn song in the same damn choir.”
“You can sing whatever you like,” the union rep said.
“You know what, if you want to agitate, then go do it in your spare time and not here!”
“But you agitate on the job,” Feo objected, and tried to catch Johnny’s gaze. He was standing right in the line of fire with a bunch of leeks in his hand.
Donald twirled around and gave Feo a hard look.
“Stop it! Get back to work.”
Johnny started to cut the leeks. The sound of the knife against the cutting board softened the effect of Donald’s wrath somewhat.
“I’ll come back at a different time,” Gunnar Björk said in a conciliatory tone.
Donald returned to preparing the meat.
“This land is free, isn’t it?” Feo said.
Donald shook his head and sighed heavily.
Johnny put the cut leeks into a bowl. Eva was standing in the doorway to the dining room.
“I’ll go help Tessie,” she said.
Feo stared at Donald for a minute before he also left.
Johnny took out more leeks. He loved leek rings and could go on chopping them forever.
“Lovely,” he muttered to himself. For the first time since coming to Dakar he experienced something of what he had been looking for: the joy of working a sharp knife on a chopping block. He was rested and sober. Two meters away, Donald started to whistle, as if his earlier irritation was already forgotten. The aroma of raw beef mingled with the pungent smell of onion. The fish broth was already starting to bubble and hiss and Donald reached out to turn down the gas flame.
“Ten leeks are enough, don’t you think?”
“That’s fine for now,” Donald said.
Johnny felt his coworker’s gaze like a radiator in his back.
“Do you know a chef called Per-Olof, nicknamed ‘Perro’?”
“The one who left for the States?” Donald asked.
Johnny nodded.
“Sure, we worked together at Gondolen for a year.”
“He’s good,” Johnny said. “He trained me at Muskot in Helsingborg.”
“Then you know Sigge Lång?”
“That was before my time,” Johnny said, “but I know who he is. He went to Copenhagen.”
“Didn’t he become head chef at some fish restaurant?”
The conversation went back and forth, about restaurants and cooks, owners and head chefs, while Donald prepared duck breast, veal, and lamb and Johnny laid out ingredients for the garnish, took out the butter, kept an eye on bread in the oven, and tidied up.
Dakar’s kitchen had been hit hard by Armas’s murder, and both of the cooks felt the need for casual chatter. Not because Armas had been particularly well-liked but because of the turbulence his death had caused. The police had questioned everyone, asked Donald to check the kitchen knives and make sure that none were missing. Donald tried to explain that every chef owned their own knives, and that it would never occur to them to contaminate them with human blood.
“And the rest are so worthless that we basically never touch them,” he explained further and refused to entertain the idea that anyone at Dakar was a murderer.
Feo returned to the kitchen.
“The cops are coming here again,” he said. “They are going to talk to Tessie and Eva.”
“Damn it, we have a job to do!” Donald exclaimed.
“As do they,” Johnny said calmly.
The police had searched every corner and taken a bag of papers from the small desk squeezed in behind the counter. The desk was Donald’s territory and it had upset him, though he had not said anything. He