The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [95]
Eva stared after him and thought she saw him turn to the right, up Linnégatan. She was still a little afraid of him. He was nothing like anyone she had ever encountered before.
In general the people in the restaurant business were foreign to her, tougher and more outspoken than she was used to. She knew she would get used to it but missed the intimacy of her last workplace. Feo was the only one she had connected with at all. She couldn’t really get a handle on Johnny, with his rapid shifts in mood and sad expression. Feo had told her that he had just ended a relationship with a woman and had more or less fled his hometown of Jönköping.
“He needs to cook,” Feo had said. “He needs us, he needs a little warmth from the stove, then it will pass.”
Everything passes with time, she thought, and got back on her bike. Already the minimal downward slope from the bridge to East Ågatan made her forget about Johnny’s long face. She had the impulse to stick her legs out to either side as she had done as a young girl in the steep parts of the gravel roads outside Flatåsen, and coast the whole way to Dakar, even though it was five hundred meters away, and partly uphill.
A stranger was sitting in the kitchen. Eva did not like the look of him. He reminded her of a gangster she had seen in an American movie that she and Helen had rented on videocassette. He looked up and glanced at her briefly. There was nothing to focus on in his expressionless eyes.
“Hello,” she said, and gave Feo a little shove.
“This is Manuel, but I call him Mano,” Feo said. “La mano, the hand, who will help us with the dishes.”
“Okay,” Eva said and nodded to the newcomer.
“You’ll have to speak Spanish or English. He’s from Venezuela.”
“Venezuela,” she said.
She thought of the article about sailing in the Caribbean and took a closer look at him. He also emanated a sense of sorrow. Not an outwardly lamented sorrow but a tightly compacted, almost cramplike, grief. The clenched hands resting in his lap and the watchful eyes gave the impression of a man who, at the least sign of concern or danger, would jump up and run out of the kitchen.
Eva suddenly felt ill at ease. What was he doing at Dakar? Was he an old friend of Feo’s?
“If Slobban agrees, that is,” Feo added.
Donald came in from the bar at that moment, a bottle of mineral water in his hand.
“I can hire him,” he said, “and that lying poodle can go fuck himself. We need more people, damn it, we’re drowning.”
“You have the job,” Feo said in Spanish, gave a triumphant smile, winked at Eva and shrugged.
Manuel stood up.
“Where should I work?”
“There,” Donald suddenly said in Spanish, and pointed. “Feo will show you how it works. Learn it now and then come back at half past six. Understand?”
Manuel nodded.
“So you speak Spanish,” Feo said. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve worked in Majorca,” Donald answered.
Feo and Manuel went over to the dishwashing station. Eva looked at them. It was clear that Feo liked his role as adviser. The newcomer received the information attentively but without a word, nodding and then repeating mechanically what Feo said.
“He’ll do fine,” Feo said when he returned to the kitchen area.
Slobodan Andersson wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Damn, it’s hot,” he breathed.
No one had seen or heard him come in. He had simply materialized in the kitchen. He had entered Dakar through the staff entrance, the same way Manuel had left the restaurant some moments earlier.
Donald informed him that he had hired a dishwasher who would be able to jump in for a couple of hours every evening.
“It won’t work, otherwise. Tessie and Eva can’t run around like antelopes between the dining room and the dishes and the rest of us don’t have time, just so you know.”
Surprisingly, his boss had no objections.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it will be fine,” he said, and fingered a stack of plates. “Have the cops been here?”
“They