The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Fifty-Seven

Ever since Eva Willman woke up at six o’clock that morning she had wondered if she should contact the police.

The escape from the Norrtälje prison had been allotted a great deal of space in the paper. She had read every line with an increasing sense of anxiety and indecision. She stared at the photograph of Manuel’s brother. They were very alike.

Where are they now, she wondered, and recalled Manuel’s awkwardness about all things Swedish. He had displayed a sweeping lack of knowledge about the country and Uppsala.

She believed him when he had pleaded ignorance about his brother’s escape. Perhaps not last night-then there had only been room for surprise and bitterness at his duplicity-but now in hindsight, as she recalled his assurances and above all his expression, she was prepared to take him at his word.

What had he said as she left the dishwashing area? That he had believed she had wanted to visit his country. She pushed the paper away and tried to imagine herself in Mexico. She had toyed with this thought, of course. And it was not only from curiosity about another country or the fact that she had recently read an article about the Caribbean. It was also Manuel the man. After her initial assessment, when she had pegged him as a movie villain, she had gradually adjusted her impression. He was perhaps not exactly handsome, but he possessed a strength that appealed to her.

She was drawn to fit, wiry men. She did not like couch potatoes with jutting stomachs and poor posture, she might as well admit it.

She had noticed how he studied her in secret. These had not been unpleasant looks, as opposed to Johnny in the kitchen who stared at her with a mixture of disdain and lust. Blushing, she thought about how she had put in a little extra effort to make herself look good before yesterday’s shift, and the look he had given her in the changing room had been exhilarating, in a somewhat bewildering way.

She was not in love with this lying Mexican, but it was as if her new job also involved a new relationship to life and the future. She was not stuck. She could develop. She could make money and have the opportunity to travel, as she had dreamed of for so long. She could meet a man to flirt with and perhaps love. Love in a new way, not like with Jörgen. Dakar promised this. Even the new, trendy hairstyle that had been more or less forced on her, but that she had immediately liked, was a confirmation of all this.

It was in this context that Manuel had entered Dakar as a messenger of the fact that the world was bigger than just Uppsala. However many articles she read, and however many travel programs she watched on television, a living person was a much more effective catalyst for dreams.

Eva had met people from foreign countries before-taking a walk through Sävja was enough for that-but Manuel’s stories about Mexico and his village vibrated with a love and a longing that Eva absorbed with all her senses. She could not put her finger on what it was exactly, but he had intensified her longing.

Now he was gone for good. She felt it as a betrayal, as if she had been double-crossed at the start of a budding and promising romance.

Hugo stumbled groggily into the kitchen. Eva stood up and quickly put breakfast on the table. She smiled at the sound of Patrik in the bathroom.

“How are you doing?”

Hugo grunted something and shouted at Patrik to hurry up.

When they were done with breakfast-it took five minutes because both of the boys had slept in-and they had hurried off to school, the telephone rang. Eva glanced at the wall clock. It was shortly after nine.

She lifted the receiver and heard Feo’s agitated voice. He told her he had been called by Donald, who in turn had a received a call from Oskar Hammer at Alhambra. Oskar had told Donald about the visit from the police and that he had been forced to hand over all keys. Dakar, Alhambra, and Slobodan’s apartment were being searched. The police had not wanted to tell him what it was all about, but Hammer had guessed that it was a matter of suspected tax fraud.

When Donald had rushed down to Dakar, he had been stopped by a police officer who stood at the entrance like a bouncer. Donald had managed to catch sight of a dog inside.

“It must be drugs,” Feo said. “The tax authorities don’t bring a dog.”

“Do they think Manuel…?”

“No, why would they be interested in him? An illegal worker is not enough for them to hit Alhambra and Slobodan at home. It must be something else. Damn it!”

Eva knew Feo was thinking of his job, and it struck her that the same went for her. If the police closed Dakar she would be unemployed again.

“Did Donald say anything else?” she asked.

“He tried to talk to the police, but they were cold as fish so he went home. We’ll have to see.”

“Are you going down there?”

“I’m supposed to work today,” Feo said despondently.

When she had hung up she just sat at the kitchen table. It was too much. First the revelation about Manuel and his drug brother who had escaped, and now this.

Eva stood up with a sigh, took out the telephone book from a kitchen drawer, found the number of the police, dialed the numbers, and found herself speaking with a recorded, mechanical voice that urged her to make a selection from one of the available options. After a couple of seconds she slammed the receiver down onto the table and the call was disconnected.