The Demon of Dakar (26 page)

“I was scouting it out,” Lindell said. “The owner’s business partner was murdered recently. How about yourself?”

“We’re on an assignment from our Stockholm colleagues,” said Elin
from Västerås, and made it sound as if they had been sent from the Vatican.

“It concerns a man called Lorenzo Wader,” Lindman said. “Does the name sound familiar?”

“Was he the one who was sitting opposite Konrad Rosenberg?”

“We don’t know Rosenberg,” Elin said.

“Then we complement each other,” Lindell joked, as Elin deliberately and with feigned lack of interest picked apart the straw.

Axel Lindman told her that Lorenzo Wader figured in an extensive investigation that spanned the jurisdiction of several authorities from Stockholm to Västmanland. Money laundering, art theft, fencing, and many other activities. The Stockholm crime unit had had their eye on Wader for the past six months and it was likely that he would recognize the Stockholmers. That’s why they had turned to Västerås.

Why not Uppsala? Lindell wondered, but thought of the answer almost immediately.

“He’s been staying at the Hotel Linné for the past four weeks,” Lindman continued. “Calls himself a businessman and lives fairly luxuriously. He seems—”

“Who is Konrad Rosenberg?” Elin interrupted.

“Excuse me, I didn’t catch your last name,” Lindell said.

“Bröndeman,” she said, and Lindell thought she caught a twitch of Lindman’s lips.

Lindell told them about Rosenberg. The Västerås duo listened without interrupting.

“Cocaine,” Lindman said when she finished. “Our Lorenzo is a man of many talents.”

“We only have a suspicion of crime when it comes to Rosenberg and even less when it comes to Wader,” Lindell said, “but it certainly looks interesting.”

She wished that Lindman would elaborate on the background but sensed resistence from Elin Bröndeman.

“Who’s in charge of the investigation in Stockholm?” Lindell asked, in the hopes that it was someone she knew.

“Eyvind Svensson,” Lindman said with a laugh.

He looked around the establishment and then fixed his gaze on Lindell, as if he wanted to bring the discussion of their Uppsala assignment to an end.

“Apart from this, how is everything?”

Axel Lindman had a roguish glint in his eye as if he had resumed the innocent flirtation from the police workshop.

“Everything is fine,” Lindell said absently, suddenly thinking of Görel, how she had left without a word.

Then Görel’s words about Edvard came back. “A socially handicapped bumpkin” and a “boring old fart” was what she had called him. What right did she have to speak about him that way? It was as if her assessments washed over onto Ann herself. The criticism had hit her harder than she wanted to admit, or that she had shown. Of course she had described Edvard in similar terms, but he was so much more. What did Görel know about that? Nothing!

She got up from the table, thanked them politely, and left her bewildered colleagues sitting at the table. All that remained was a box of orange juice.

The waitress gave him a
coffee refill. Lorenzo Wader smiled at her and praised the food, while he scrutinized the man on the other side of the table. Rosenberg was aware that he was being evaluated and felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff.

“Yes, it was very good,” Rosenberg told the waitress, as if he wanted to avoid Lorenzo’s gaze. “Are you new here?”

“I started a week ago. I’m still getting used to it.”

“You are doing a fine job,” Lorenzo extolled. “Slobodan has a real ability to find good staff,” he went on generously.

As she left the table he nodded and repeated how delicious the dinner
had been. Rosenberg could not figure him out. One second he looked dangerously ferocious, only to be smiling the next.

“What I don’t understand,” Lorenzo said, “is how Armas could deliver the goods in such a secure fashion. I have trouble imagining him running around town and handing it out himself.”

Against his better judgment, Rosenberg had let slip that Armas dealt with the cocaine, perhaps through a muted need to be of service, to shine as brightly as Lorenzo, who already appeared to know how everything hung together.

“Some people are prepared to do whatever it takes to make a buck,” Rosenberg said.

“Are you?”

The question came quickly and demanded an equally rapid answer.

“It depends,” Rosenberg said, and heard as he said it what a lame answer it was. “If the risks are small and the rewards are good enough,” he added.

“There is always the danger that one ends up with a knife in one’s back,” Lorenzo said and sipped the coffee.

Konrad took an overly large gulp of his drink, and started to cough.

“Give me some names,” Lorenzo said, unaffected by the coughing fit, and put up a hand when Rosenberg made an attempt to protest. “I know that you have been in the industry and I don’t care about that, but if we are going to be friends then you have to help me.”

Rosenberg cursed his decision to accept Lorenzo’s invitation to dinner, and that he had chosen Dakar as their meeting place did not make things better. Not to be friends with Lorenzo would mean trouble, he realized, and the alternatingly jovial and satanic Stockholmer was a considerably greater threat than Slobodan. Was it Lorenzo who had had Armas killed? This thought struck him with full force as he stared at Lorenzo’s slender hands and ring-laden fingers.

“There is a guy,” he said finally. “Still wet behind the ears, but very eager. He wants to make money to save his father, he says.”

“Is he in jail?”

“In Turkey or something,” Rosenberg said, feeling relieved that he could talk about someone other than himself. “He sells to friends and is very diligent.”

“Does he use it himself?”

Rosenberg shook his head.

“What is his name?”

“He is called Zero.”

Lorenzo smiled.

“Now we are starting to get somewhere,” he said and waved the waitress over. “I think we will have cognac.”

The lid of the dishwasher
started to vibrate. Manuel leaned back, regarded the shiny machine, and heard the water rush into it. After the first hour’s initial confusion at everything new, he worked with increasing satisfaction and pleasure. The heat in the dishwashing station did not bother him, quite the opposite. Nor all the dishes that were brought over to him. The towers of plates and all the glasses took his thoughts away from drugs and Patricio and Armas.

In addition, he liked the other staff members. Above all, the Portuguese cook, but also Eva, the waitress, who was also the one he had the most contact with. She knew no Spanish but could make herself understood in broken English.

Manuel had been told that she was also new at Dakar. She had a way of looking at him that made him bewildered. She looked him straight in the eye, with curiosity and a smile on her lips. She asked about Venezuela, what the country looked like, the clothes, climate, and how the food tasted. She wanted to know everything, the questions seemed never to end and she showed such interest that he could not ignore her.

For a moment, he was tempted to tell her the truth, that he was a Mexican. He did not really want to lie to her, the first person in Sweden who he had real contact with and who showed this bold interest. Instead, in order to speak truthfully, he created the country anew, added his experiences from the mountains to the north of Oaxaca and applied
them to Venezuela. He described the peasant farmers’ lives and found that Eva liked it, those slight details about how the coffee was dried on the roof and who fired up the stove in the mornings.

Manuel had felt no guilt in this, for he believed that the people in Venezuela and Mexico lived basically under the same conditions. He realized that the driving force behind the waitress’s inquiries was a longing for something else, and in this intense conversation they could join in mutual enthusiasm for a land that in reality was two. Eva made him speak and experience longing, and he looked forward to their brief meetings when she came flying in with more dishes.

Once he had looked out into the restaurant and received a shock. The fat one was sitting at the bar with a beer. He had his attention directed at the bartender and did not notice Manuel, who quickly ducked back inside.

Once he was back at the dishwashing station the old hate, which that had temporarily fallen away in his conversation with Eva, rose up. When Feo came over to see how things were going, Manuel asked what the fat one’s name was and how often he usually came to Dakar.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Feo said, “we have talked to him and he knows that you have been hired.”

“Is he nice?”

Feo laughed heartily.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he repeated.

Manuel was not afraid but he was unsure of what he should do. He had looked for a job at Dakar on impulse. He had come here in order to see what the place looked like and perhaps catch sight of the fat one. Now he found himself in the lion’s den.

There was an advantage in working at a restaurant: he could eat his fill. During his first days in Sweden he had not indulged in more than bread and canned corn and it was only now, in the presence of so much food, that he realized how hungry he had been.

He spent the remainder of the evening trying to figure out what he should do. One way out would be to destroy the drugs that he had stolen from the house, say good-bye to Patricio, and fly back home. That was the easiest solution, but he knew he would never attain any peace if he
went back with his tail between his legs. The thought of his brother behind bars, while those who had masterminded the drug smuggling would still be free, was unbearable. He wanted to make things easier for Patricio, that was his duty as an older brother. But how should he proceed? To extract ten thousand dollars from Slobodan Andersson in exchange for his silence was perhaps not an impossibility, but it felt inadequate. Manuel did not want to see Slobodan Andersson dead, it was more than enough to have Armas’s blood on his hands. But he wanted to punish him in some way.

He dreamed every night about how he dragged the dead man to the water, how the shirt tore and revealed the tattoo. That had been the worst part, removing Quetzalcóatl from the gringo’s upper arm. A white man could not be allowed to bear such a symbol. That was how he had felt at the time, in his bitterness and confusion. But he regretted it now. What right had he had to mutilate a dead man?

He picked up cutlery, plates,
and glasses, rinsed and cleaned with something approaching work satisfaction. He did not do it to win approval. It was the warmth and the movements in themselves that motivated him and lifted his mood. Something that Feo also contributed to when he came out to him. They exchanged a few words and joked a little.

He listened to the talk between the coworkers without understanding a word, and saw how Tessie, the gringa, and the new waitress submitted orders. There were clattering noises from the kitchen, warm steam rose from the pots and pans, and the clouds that wafted into the wash station brought with it the smell of fish, garlic, and other things that made his mouth water. Particularly enticing was the sound of meat hitting the pan. For a few moments Manuel forgot why he was in Sweden and he even hummed a song he had heard Lila Downs sing in the square in Oaxaca.

At eleven o’clock the steady stream of dishes and silverware started to wane and he was able to relax somewhat. Eva and Tessie served the last of their desserts and the cooks started putting things away and cleaning up. Feo called out to him and asked if he was tired, but Manuel felt as if he could have worked all night.

Eva came out with a tray of glasses. She looked at him as if she was wondering if he could take more questions about his homeland. That was at least how he interpreted her appraising glance and hesitant smile, and when he nodded kindly to her she went and stood next to him and helped to load the dishwasher.

“Do you come from a small village?” she started, and Manuel nodded.

“How could you afford to come here?”

“I saved,” Manuel answered, suddenly on his guard.

“I’m also saving,” Eva said, “but I never get anywhere. There is never enough money. I dream of traveling but I have never left Sweden. Well, once my grandfather and I walked into Norway.”

“Norway is another country?”

“Yes, it borders on Sweden.”

“Were you looking for work?”

“No,” Eva laughed, “we were picking berries and grandfather got it into his head that we should visit Norway. I remember how tired I became.”

“Were there no police there? At the border, I mean.”

“Police?”

“You can’t simply walk into another country?”

“Yes, you can. The border between Sweden and Norway is almost completely open,” Eva explained. “You can come and go as you like.”

She told him about the close contact people on either side of the border had always had. She told him her grandfather’s more or less accurate stories about heroic deeds during the Second World War, how Norwegian resistance fighters had been smuggled over the border in each direction. Manuel listened, fascinated.

“Everyone helped out. Almost everyone voted for the communists and hated the Nazis, so it wasn’t hard to find volunteers.”

Eva smiled to herself.

“Do you miss it?” Manuel asked.

“Yes, sometimes. But it’s a two-sided thing, as it was for my grandfather, sort of. When he was home in the district of Värmland he was a completely different person. He was happy, talkative, and laughed a lot.

It even happened that he mixed in Finnish words. In Uppsala he was always grumpy.”

“He also missed the place,” Manuel stated.

She smiled and Manuel recognized it as a smile that concealed something else.

“Maybe I should visit you,” Eva went on suddenly. “I mean, your family, not that I want to stay for free but it is always good to know someone …”

She stopped and Manuel saw a blush spread across her cheeks. He placed several plates in the dishwasher and saw out of the corner of his eye how she closed her eyes and brushed her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, it is starting to get late,” she said.

“It would be nice to have a visitor,” Manuel said.

He could be generous, he thought, especially as he sensed that such a visit would never take place. But then it struck him that he was very far from his homeland. Why wouldn’t Eva also be able to cross the Atlantic.

He halted his movements, inadvertently shifting a tray of glasses in toward the wall and studied her more closely. At first she did not notice that he was looking at her, but when she was done putting glasses into the dishwasher and had closed the door she saw that he had stopped working.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Manuel said, but he did not take his eyes off her face even though he realized that she thought this close scrutiny was, if not disconcerting, then at least somewhat unorthodox.

“It would be good if you came to my country. The tourists who come to Mexico are different from you. They walk across the plazas, into the churches, and sit in the outdoor cafes without really seeing us. If you only knew how we felt—”

“Mexico? You said Venezuela.”

“I was lying,” Manuel said and only now did he avert his gaze. “Don’t ask me why and don’t tell anyone.”

“No, why should I,” Eva said simply, “and I’m just as happy to go to Mexico.”

He joined in her laughter and thought that it was the first time he
laughed in Sweden. Manuel felt how his joy, bolstered by Feo’s humming from the kitchen and the warmth of the dishwasher filled him and gave him several seconds of optimism. It was as if the release from his lie reconciled him to the events of the past few days. It did not even occurr to him that Eva could betray him, and it was perhaps this trust in another human being that allowed him to simply exist and speak freely for a moment, as he was when he was home with his own kind.

He began talking about California, about the work of harvesting, about the barracks that he and his brothers had lived in, about the sun that at first made them sweaty and tired, then agitated and bad-tempered. He told her about the water faucet in the yard that some days only yielded a few drops, while the crops were irrigated with large water canons that wandered the fields like primeval animals.

He took Eva to Orange County, because he could tell that she enjoyed the details. She also followed the trio of brothers back to Oaxaca. He described the village as if it were a paradise, he found himself beautifying it and corrected himself by describing the poverty, the bad roads, and how divided the villagers were.

Eva sat on a stool with her hands clasped in her lap and listened.

Occasionally she asked a couple of questions, otherwise she sat quietly for long periods of time and watched him. A quarter of an hour went by. When the roar of the dishwasher came to an end and was supplanted with a ticking sound, Manuel also grew silent.

“It is my country,” he concluded his tale, and felt as if it had been accurate, but also knew how much had been left out. He felt uplifted and appreciated the fact that she had listened with genuine interest. Even so, the emptiness and upheaval that he had felt ever since he heard of Angel’s death in Germany and the imprisonment of Patricio returned at the same moment that Eva stood up and said she should get back to work.

She left the kitchen and Manuel watched as the door to the dining room swung back and forth until it reached a point where it was definitively closed.

The next moment, Slobodan Andersson stepped into the room.