The Demon Of Dakar Part 3

"I have never eaten as well in my life as I do here," he said, but Manuel did not believe him.

"I go to the chapel as often as I can. There is a priest who comes here. We pray together. It is a remarkable church," he added, then stopped abruptly.

"What do you mean?"

"Here there are all religions. We are over two hundred inmates and everyone prays to his own G.o.d. It doesn't bother me. I usually talk to an Iranian in the chapel. He has lived in the USA. There is a clock on the wall, and it comes from Jerusalem, and when I look at it I think about the suffering of Christ and that my problems are nothing compared to what G.o.d's son had to go through. Being in the chapel makes me calm."

Manuel stared at his brother. He had never talked so much about religion before.

"But what about the money?" he asked, in order to change the topic. "You can do a lot with ten thousand."

"You don't know how it works," Patricio said. "The greenbacks would do me no good in here. It is better if they send the money home. How are things back there?"

"They're fine," Manuel said.

Patricio studied him in silence.

"I will never see the village again," he said. "I will die in here."

Manuel stood up quickly. What could he say to prevent his brother from sinking more deeply into a depression? In his letters he had talked about taking his life, that only his faith prevented him from doing so. As Manuel looked at Patricio, at his altered gaze and posture, he sensed that the day when his faith weakened, when doubt crept into his brother's body, yes, then he would also waste away, perhaps end his life.

Manuel believed his brother's words were an unconscious way of preparing him, and perhaps himself, for such a development.

"Of course the money could help you," he resumed.

"To buy drugs, or what?"

"No, I didn't say that!"

"Tell me one thing ..."

"Patricio, you are twenty-five years old and ..."

"Twenty-six. It was my birthday yesterday."

Manuel fell silent before his brother's gaze.

"Patricio, Patricio, my brother," Manuel mumbled when he was back in the parking lot, next to his rental car. He could not make himself leave. He stared at the building, trying to imagine how his brother was escorted through endless corridors back to his cell and how the ma.s.sive oak door was shut behind him. mumbled when he was back in the parking lot, next to his rental car. He could not make himself leave. He stared at the building, trying to imagine how his brother was escorted through endless corridors back to his cell and how the ma.s.sive oak door was shut behind him.

It was as if his brother did not exist, he was hidden behind walls of concrete, forgotten by everyone except the guards and Manuel.

Patricio had changed, and his despondence had shocked Manuel. He did not seem to want to do anything to improve his situation. Manuel did not for one moment believe the talk of how he was fine. Ten thousand dollars could improve his living conditions, Manuel was sure of that. That was how it worked in Mexico, and human beings were alike all over the world, but Patricio had not done anything to try to recover the money.

Manuel looked at the piece of paper on which Patricio had written the name of the restaurant. He unlocked the car door, took a map out of the glove compartment, and located Uppsala almost immediately. The city lay about an hour's drive from the prison.

Manuel held the map spread out against the roof of the car and again looked up at the prison walls and the gate that kept Patricio locked inside. He suddenly understood why Patricio did not try to claim his fortune. He was ashamed and he wanted to punish himself. He could be living better, even shortening his sentence, but he was denying himself these possibilities. Filled with guilt and shame, he wanted to rot away in his cell.

Manuel studied the map and tried to memorize the names of the places along the way to Uppsala: Rimbo, Finsta, Gottrora, and Knivsta. It was as if the mapped-out terrain on the page spoke to him; the green and yellow irregular fields formed patterns that he tried to convert into images. He looked around. The trees that surrounded the inst.i.tution were swaying in the wind, bowing down and straightening their backs. So similar to how it was back home and yet so foreign.

He had been in Sweden nine hours. He had traveled with only one goal: to check up on his brother. He had gone into debt in order to get the money for the ticket, had a.s.sured his mother that he would be careful and not do anything illegal. Was it illegal to persuade the drug dealers, the fat one and the tall one, to pay Patricio the ten thousand dollars that they had promised?

If Patricio didn't want it, then it certainly would provide Maria with security in her old age. She would never again have to worry about money. It was the thought of this that convinced him.

He folded up the map, got in the car, and drove slowly out of the parking lot.

Six.

The sign flashed "Dakar" with three stars, alternating in green and red. Eva Willman leaned her bicycle against the wall, although a sign expressly forbade this. three stars, alternating in green and red. Eva Willman leaned her bicycle against the wall, although a sign expressly forbade this.

She had asked Patrik to look up Dakar online. He had received ten of thousands of hits. Dakar was the capital of the West African country of Senegal. Together, they had looked it up in the atlas and Eva felt as if she was embarking on a trip.

Patrik sat leaned over the kitchen table, tracing his index finger across the open pages.

"Timbuktu," he said suddenly.

The multicolored nations, the straight lines that indicated borders, and the blue ones that followed the laws of nature, meandering across the map, joined up with other arteries and lead to the sea in a finely branched network of threads. Patrik smiled to himself.

The pale sunlight fell in through the window. The light and shade in his young face formed a continent of hope. There was absolute silence in the kitchen. Eva wanted to caress Patrik's blond hair and downy face, but she let her hand rest on the back of the chair.

"Dakar is by the sea," Patrik said and looked at her with an expression that was difficult to interpret. There is nothing to the west before America, only water."

Now Eva was standing in front of a Dakar that was far from the sea. The closest you could come to the Atlantic around here was the Fyris river, a body of water that rarely evoked any dreams, a line that divided the city. It reminded Eva of her grandfather. He had been a construction worker his whole life, a communist, and an alcoholic-a life-threatening combination, especially for her grandmother who became the target of her husband's frustration and hate. Only in her sixties did she manage to leave him. front of a Dakar that was far from the sea. The closest you could come to the Atlantic around here was the Fyris river, a body of water that rarely evoked any dreams, a line that divided the city. It reminded Eva of her grandfather. He had been a construction worker his whole life, a communist, and an alcoholic-a life-threatening combination, especially for her grandmother who became the target of her husband's frustration and hate. Only in her sixties did she manage to leave him.

In protest, Eva's father had voted for the conservatives and had continued to do so from sheer habit, long after his ruddy father had shuffled off this mortal coil.

Eva's inheritance was twofold, consisting in part of a hatred toward pretention and hypocrisy, against those in power, and in part a belief in the role of personal responsibility for one's own well-being. She had always had difficulties reconciling herself with the collective, with those who spoke for the many but who did not always live as they preached. She had seen enough of that at the post office.

Her grandmother had worked as a waitress at the well-known hotel and restaurant Gillet in her youth, an experience that she constantly mentioned. It was not so much the tired feet and fresh-mouthed customers that she remembered, but more the feeling of having a job and therefore value. When she married, her husband forbade her to continue working. He was jealous, convinced that the men would soil her with their gazes.

Now Eva was standing in front of Dakar. She had called her grandmother, who lived in an a.s.sisted-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 Mns, but the person she was going to meet was the boss himself, Slobodan Andersson.

"He can be a bit tricky," Mns 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," Mns 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 a.s.sumed it was a drill. She continued on farther into the room, full of tense antic.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sure 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 Mns'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 d.a.m.n good at dis.h.i.+ng 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 into the shadows. Slobodan stared after him and then smiled at Eva.

"When can you start?"

"Today," Eva said quickly, without a second's hesitation.

She ran her hands quickly down her legs.

"And the hooligans?"

"They'll manage."

"You'll have to fix your hair. Armas, call Elizabeth!"

Eva swallowed and unconsciously touched her head.

She biked back through the city streets like a madwoman. The sun was s.h.i.+ning from a clear sky and the traffic signals appeared synchronized to give her all green lights. city streets like a madwoman. The sun was s.h.i.+ning from a clear sky and the traffic signals appeared synchronized to give her all green lights.

Above all she longed for Patrik and Hugo. The night before they had talked about the waitress job, or rather, Eva had talked about it while her sons had silently evaluated her chances at around zero. Finally she was the bearer of good news.

The only downside were the hours. She was going to work the lunch s.h.i.+ft twice a week, as well as an evening s.h.i.+ft three times a week and every other weekend. The salary, eighty-five kronor an hour to start, was worse than she had been expecting, but she accepted it without protest. Slobodan had implied that it could perhaps improve after a while. How much the tips added, she did not ask, but Slobodan had explained that everyone shared alike. That meant the entire kitchen crew, including those lowest on the rung, the a.s.sistant chefs and the apprentices from the Ekeby School.

Tiredness. .h.i.t her at the Ultuna commons and she stepped off her bicycle. A combine harvester was moving across the field, leaving golden brown stalks of straw in its wake. Through the dust billowing across the broad header that was devouring the stalks and grain heads, she caught sight of the driver. Eva waved, and he waved back, smiling. A feeling of solidarity with the harvest worker gripped her. The wheat that the chefs and bakers would turn to food, and that Eva would serve at the table, was being harvested right here and now.

A bus swept past on the road. Soon she would be sitting on it on her way to and from her work.

"A job!" she cried, and she pedaled past Kuggebro.

When she came home, Patrik was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. Hugo was at the computer.

"He's been sitting there for two hours," Patrik complained.

"I'm doing my homework!" Hugo yelled.

"You're kidding me," his brother muttered.

"Come here, Hugo," Eva said and sat down at the table. He immediately appeared in the doorway, leaning up against the doorpost, prepared to do battle for computer time.

"I got the job," Eva said.

Patrick gave her a quick look, before he cut another slice of bread.