The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Thirty-Eight

There was nothing attractive about the courtyard behind Dakar. There was a rusted Opel in one corner, three green garbage containers in the other, and a worn old bicycle in a deteriorating bike rack.

The asphalt was uneven and cracked and had undergone various rounds of repair. Even the weeds that stuck out of the cracks looked miserable and wilted in the still air. There was a strong smell of garbage, but this did not affect Manuel. He hardly noticed it. His whole attention was fixed on the red-painted door that bore the restaurant’s name in white.

He had been standing there for half an hour. Initially he had approached the door purposefully but then stopped himself, his finger poised on the doorbell. He had lowered his arm, drawn back, and sat down on the bike rack. In this state of indecision, he experienced peace for the first time in this foreign land. Maybe it was precisely the smell of garbage and the baking sun that made him lean up against the wall and smile. He could easily recall and identify the smell as well as the warmth from his earlier life. There was comfort in this passive state of waiting. How many times had he not experienced this in California? The waiting for work, for someone to drive up in their pickup, roll down the window, and size him up without a word, along with the other men, evaluating their physical strength and stamina.

He wished that he could roll himself a cigarette and maybe share a beer with someone. When he closed his eyes he thought he could hear the quiet talk of the other men. Brief stories of villages and families that he had never heard of, but that nonetheless appeared as vivid as old acquaintances, about bosses you had to watch out for, slave drivers and racists, and about women, living and imagined. The men were never as bold, and at the same time as bare, in their longing and grief as when they were waiting for work.

And the hope that these men kept alive as they spoke. It was as if the silence threatened to burst their already frozen hearts.

Even then Manuel knew that it was all in vain. None of their dreams were going to come true, yet he allowed himself to be influenced by their delusionary hopes and plans for the future. He rarely participated in the discussions but he allowed the muffled voices to keep even his hope alive. Maybe it was the same for them? Manuel believed that even behind the most innocent and naive compatriot, there was a realist. They all took part in an enormous game of pretend that included millions of impoverished job seekers. They allowed themselves to be duped in the same way that they, for a few moments, let themselves be tempted by the tricks of the jesters and verbose fantasies of the fiesta.

Was it this that Angel and Patricio had no longer been able to bear? Manuel wanted to think so, that it was not pure foolishness that drove them to associate with drug smugglers, that they were not deluded but fully conscious of what they were doing. They did not let the quiet chatter soothe them any longer. They knew that there was no future for a miserable and poor campesino who was waiting for work and happiness. They could not stand this farce, and decided instead to snatch a part of the fortune that the fat man’s drug trade created.

Angel used to ask why the white men were rich and why the Indians lived worse than dogs. Manuel’s talk about five hundred years of oppression and extortion did not impress him.

“But there are more of us,” he would object. “Why do we accept the white man taking the best for himself?”

Manuel knew that all Angel dreamed of was a woman to share his life. Where and under what circumstances did not matter. His brother had an uncomplicated attitude to life; he wanted to love and be loved. Manuel had always imagined Angel as the father of countless offspring, small chubby Zapotec children in a village like all the others.

Why should he talk politics when he couldn’t understand it? Why ponder the injustices of life when all he wanted was a woman’s embrace?

Almost an hour had gone by when a man suddenly appeared in the courtyard. It was only as he approached the red door that he noticed Manuel. He jumped but then smiled and said something that Manuel did not understand.

Manuel nodded and asked in English if he worked at Dakar.

“Are you Spanish?” the man asked.

“Venezuela,” Manuel answered.

“A friend of Chávez,” the man said, in a strange kind of Spanish.

“No,” Manuel replied.

“Your president, I mean. Forget it,” he added, when he saw Manuel’s look of incomprehension. “My name is Feo and sure, I work here.”

“Are you from Spain?”

“Portugal,” Feo said.

Manuel stared at him. Feo took out a set of keys.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Manuel shook his head. “I’m looking for work,” he said.

Feo put a key in the lock but did not turn it. Manuel felt the tense feeling from California, and got to his feet.

“At Dakar? Do you have any experience?”

“I can work,” Manuel said hastily. “I am used to everything. I can work hard and long.”

Feo studied him. Manuel stood with hanging arms, met his gaze, and thought of Angel. He decided to go to Frankfurt to see where his brother had met his death. Perhaps there were some stones on the railway tracks with dried blood? Perhaps someone had seen him run?

“You’ll have to speak to the owner,” the Portuguese man said. “He isn’t here, but come in and wait. You look like you could use a Coke.”

He unlocked the door and let Manuel go in first, locked the door behind him and Manuel was struck by how cool everything was. There was a faint smell of cleaning solution and food.

Feo put a hand on his shoulder.

“You look like you could use a Coke,” he repeated.

Manuel looked around him as if he were expecting to be ambushed at any second. Feo brought him out to the bar, took out a Coca-Cola, and held it out with a smile.

There was a clatter of pots from the kitchen and a radio playing Bruce Springsteen. Manuel was thirsty but did not manage to swallow more than a mouthful.

“Come along and meet the chef,” Feo said.

Manuel accompanied Feo to the kitchen. As Feo was introducing him, Manuel wondered why he was being treated so kindly. He watched the Portuguese and heard him explain in Swedish why the stranger was here. Donald gave him a cursory glance and nod but then immediately turned back to his work. In front of him lay herb-stuffed lamb roulade that he was slicing into portions, then weighing and stacking them in a plastic container. Manuel drew in the smell.

“You speak English?” Donald asked.

Manuel nodded.

“Damn, you speak English with an Indian accent,” Feo said and thumped Donald in the back.

“Do you have a work permit?”

“No,” said Manuel.

“Then it will be difficult. Slobban, the guy who owns this place, is pretty particular about things like that.”

“No problems,” Feo said.

“You are from Venezuela?” Donald continued. “Where did you learn English?”

“I have worked in California.”

“Grapes of Wrath,” Donald said in Swedish, and smiled unexpectedly.

He finished slicing the lamb.

“A novel” was his reply to Feo’s quizzical look, and then switched back to English again. “I’ll talk to Slobban because we do need a dishwasher. If you have worked in the States then it will be like a vacation to wash dishes at Dakar.”

Manuel listened in fascination to the chef. His English really was funny.

“But I think we can arrange a couple of hours every evening,” Donald explained. “Do you think it smells good?”

“Yes, very,” Manuel said.