The Demon Of Dakar Part 22

A well-functioning restaurant kitchen is a strange creature, as sensitive as a mollusk, it reacts in self-defense with lightning rapidity at the smallest external interruption. Anyone who disturbs this vulnerable and sophisticated organism experiences this. is a strange creature, as sensitive as a mollusk, it reacts in self-defense with lightning rapidity at the smallest external interruption. Anyone who disturbs this vulnerable and sophisticated organism experiences this.

"We don't have time for this s.h.i.+t," Donald snarled.

Gunnar Bjork pulled back quickly in order not to be in the way.

"This is a workplace, not a social club," the chef continued.

Feo smiled, blinked at the union representative, and sat down on a stool with deliberation.

"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 Bjork 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 d.a.m.n song in the same d.a.m.n 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 Bjork 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 Lng?"

"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 b.u.t.ter, 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."

"d.a.m.n 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 knew they would pay no attention to his objections anyway. Instead, the chef's wrath had gone out over the rest of them and above all Johnny. It was as if Donald connected the murder with the arrival of the new cook.

Donald hated change and irritating elements that disturbed the balance of the kitchen. He did not grieve for Armas as such but for the work peace that had been lost.

Naturally there had been wild speculation about the motive of the murder. Feo had launched a theory that it was Slobodan who had taken out his companion. His coworkers listened in fascination as he embroidered a story that contained almost everything: black money, trade in prost.i.tutes from the Baltic states, and Armas's and Slobodan's murky past.

"The past caught up with Armas," he said and waved the fillet knife in ill.u.s.tration.

The one to whom the police had shown the most attention was Gonzo, but nothing spoke for the fact that he had been involved, even if the alibi that he presented for the day of the murder was flimsy. It was his day off, he had slept until eleven and gone into town at around two o'clock. He could prove that he had been to the Saluhallen markets by way of a receipt from the cheese vendor that had 14:33 printed on it. In addition, the sales clerk could remember Gonzo's purchase. He had bought some Stilton.

It was after this that his account became less substantial. He had wandered around downtown, ducking briefly into Bergstrom's clock store in order to look at a watch, but no one there could recall seeing him. Then he had gone to Alhambra and talked to Slobodan, returned home at around four o'clock, and then stayed in until shortly before nine when he had a beer at Svensson's.

He stubbornly claimed that he had resigned, even though everyone knew that he had been fired by Armas. But Gonzo's version of the events could of course be worth as much as Armas's.

Eva returned to the kitchen after the police had left. She had been off for two days and wanted to know what had happened. Tessie was not particularly communicative and only gave monosyllabic answers to Eva's questions. after the police had left. She had been off for two days and wanted to know what had happened. Tessie was not particularly communicative and only gave monosyllabic answers to Eva's questions.

"Tessie is still in shock," Feo said. "I think she was the only one who liked Armas. In a way they were similar to each other, though Armas was more ruthless. Tessie has a heart."

"What do the police say?"

"To us? Nothing. And s...o...b..n has hardly shown his face. He came down once and then he went on about how everything would go on as normal. He is holed up at Alhambra."

"He's scared," Donald said, unexpectedly.

"How do you know that? Has he said anything?"

"No, but you can tell. Armas meant more to him than you realize."

Donald expressed himself as if he knew more than the others but did not find it worth his while to try to explain it.

When it came to the kitchen and the food he was number one and no one questioned it, but Donald often adopted his superior att.i.tude in other areas. When they discussed politics he mostly gave jabs at Feo.

Feo was eager to re-create a good feeling in the kitchen and therefore he overlooked the arrogant tone.

"It must have been a quick one to slit the throat of someone like Armas," he said. "Armas was no one you toyed with."

"Maybe it happened in bed," Donald said.

"What?"

"You didn't know, did you? Armas was a f.a.g."

"I don't believe it," Feo said.

"Talk with Nicko at the local video store," Donald said nonchalantly. "Once Armas came in and checked out twenty h.o.m.o-films at one time. That's serious business."

"No, I don't believe it," Pirjo exclaimed.

Everyone looked at the kitchen a.s.sistant, who immediately became beet red.

"I see," Feo said, grinning, "you don't believe it. Maybe he came on to you?"

Pirjo turned away.

"Don't pay any attention to us," Donald said.

It was not the first time he defended the shy Pirjo, who found it so difficult to express what she wanted or thought. But now she turned back again.

"You're speaking ill of the dead," she said vehemently. "When Armas was still alive you said nothing, least of all to his face. Am I right?"

Feo nodded. Donald looked at her with curiosity.

"You are right," he said, "we are cowards. Everyone who works in a kitchen is a coward, you should learn that. If someone has b.a.l.l.s, he'll take his knives and leave, that's how it is. Such a chef is unhappy."

"More unhappy than the coward?" Feo asked.

"Yes," Donald said.

"Is that why you don't want to join the union?" Johnny hazarded, though he regretted it as soon as he said it.

"As if that is any of your business. No, that isn't why, and you should have been able to figure it out."

Johnny got it. With Donald's work ethic and with the quality of the dishes he presented, there was a negligible chance that he would be badly treated by his employer. Not even if he joined the union. He was too valuable.

Their hands did not rest while they gabbed. They prepared sauce bases, sliced meat, took some things out, wrapped others in plastic, and continued their preparations. Only Eva stood pa.s.sively. She lingered in the kitchen. There was still a quarter of an hour to go before her s.h.i.+ft officially began. She wanted to absorb as much as possible of the new world that was opening to her.

The atmosphere here was completely different from the post office. Perhaps it was the stress that created the raw tone that dominated. There was an urgency to her former job as well, but it was as if the warmth of the stoves, the clatter of china and silverware, the steam from pots and pans, the sudden sizzle of meat, and the waitstaff's shouted orders ... everything created a never-ending restlessness.

"Can you help me, Eva?"

Johnny was busy stocking the refrigerator.

"How are the boys?" he asked softly.

"They're fine," Eva said and looked up.

He held her gaze.

"Patrik has started to talk," she went on, "but he is still grounded."

She looked at her reflection in the mirror that the roll of aluminum foil attached to the wall provided and where her face appeared cracked in a thousand wrinkles, before she tore off a sheet and handed it to Johnny.

"What do the cops say?"

"Let's talk later, okay?"

Johnny nodded.

"Thanks for the help," he said and Eva sensed that the thirty seconds she had helped him were as important for Johnny as for herself.

"Let's get a cup of coffee," she said. "I mean some day before we start work."

He nodded and glanced at the others.

"Then you can start your own chapter of the union," said Donald, who had his back to them. He then turned his head and gave them a look of amus.e.m.e.nt.