The Rabbit Hunter

68

Rex and Sammy are alone in the large kitchen of Smak restaurant. The wide stainless steel counters have been washed and wiped down. Saucepans, sauté pans, ladles, whisks and knives are all hanging on their hooks.

Sammy is wearing a baggy sweater. He’s coloured his eyebrows black and is wearing a lot of eyeliner. Rex is wearing a pink rose in his buttonhole, picked from a bouquet that Edith, the pretty journalist, sent him yesterday.

The restaurant will be changing its menu in two weeks, and Rex has been coming in to test each new element of it before the restaurant opens.

Absolute precision under extreme time constraints only works if the prep cooks, line cooks and head chef all do their part perfectly. When the kitchen closes for the night, cooks finally discover the bruises, small burns and cuts that they’ve suffered during those hours of intense work.

Today Rex is preparing a mushroom consommé with pan-fried rye bread, pickled chanterelles and herb oil; asparagus with béarnaise sauce; and medallion steak from the Säby estate. Just before he left the flat, Sammy asked him out of the blue if he could come along.

While the meat is cooking sous vide, Rex shows Sammy how to slice the small tarragon leaves and whisk together the egg-yolks, veal stock, mustard and tarragon vinegar.

With a look of concentration, the boy tips an egg-yolk from one half of the shell to the other.

‘I didn’t know you were interested in cooking,’ Rex says weakly. ‘I’d have brought you here earlier if I’d known.’

‘No worries, Dad.’

Sammy looks up at him shyly through his long, bleached fringe. He’s drawn a tear at the corner of his eye with eyeliner.

‘Well, you’re very good at it,’ Rex says. ‘I wish...’

He trails off, the words catching in his throat, and remembers that it’s his own fault he knows next to nothing about his own child.

While Sammy is chopping shallots, Rex makes a consommé of chanterelles, shiitake, celeriac and thyme.

‘Some people only filter the stock through layers of cheesecloth,’ he says, looking at his son. ‘But I always use egg-white to pick up any impurities.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be going away soon?’ Sammy asks, putting the knife down.

‘I’m meeting a group of investors up in Norrland this weekend... just a bit of schmoozing really, to make them feel special.’

‘Does that mean you can’t let them see that your son is gay?’

‘I just assumed... if even I’m balking at the idea of a bunch of old men talking shop and hunting reindeer, then I thought that you’d...’

Rex mimes throwing up over the stove, sink and his shirt.

‘OK, I get the idea,’ Sammy smiles.

‘But as far as I’m concerned...’

He breaks off when he hears the swing-door squeak. He thinks his sous-chef is early, but when the kitchen door opens he sees the beautiful Security Police officer, Saga Bauer, with Janus Mickelsen.

‘Hello,’ she says, then gestures towards the man by her side. ‘This is my colleague, Janus Mickelsen.’

‘We’ve met,’ Rex says.

‘Old orders from Verner,’ Janus explains to Saga.

‘This is my son, Sammy,’ Rex says.

‘Hi,’ Sammy says, holding out his hand.

‘Are you a chef too?’ Saga asks in a friendly voice.

‘No, it’s... I’m nothing,’ he says, blushing.

‘We’d like to talk to your dad for a few minutes,’ Janus says, poking at a lime on the counter.

‘Should I go into the restaurant?’ Sammy asks.

‘You can stay,’ Rex says.

‘Up to you,’ Saga says.

‘I’m trying not to have as many secrets,’ Rex says.

He gently removes the egg-white from the consommé and lowers the heat.

‘I saw you talking about the Foreign Minister on television,’ Saga says, leaning against the counter. ‘It was good, very touching...’

‘Thanks, it...’

‘Even if it was all lies,’ she concludes.

‘What do you mean?’ Rex says.

‘You pissed on his deck chairs, and—’

‘I know,’ he chuckles. ‘That was a little over the top, but we—’

‘Just be quiet,’ she says tiredly.

‘That was just our way—’

‘Shut up.’

Rex falls silent and looks at her. A tiny muscle below his eye starts to twitch. Sammy can’t help smiling as he looks down at the floor.

‘You were going to say that it was just part of your friendship,’ she says quietly. ‘That you shared a wacky sense of humour, played lots of practical jokes... but that isn’t true. You weren’t friends.’

‘He was my oldest friend,’ Rex tries, even though he realises there’s no point.

‘I know you haven’t seen each other for thirty years.’

‘Maybe not regularly,’ he replies weakly.

‘Not at all. You haven’t seen each other at all.’

Rex looks away and sees Janus pick a white cat-hair from the wrist of his leather jacket.

‘But you did go to the same boarding school,’ Saga says calmly.

‘My dad used to run the Handels Bank. We were wealthy, so I should have fitted in very well at Ludviksberg School.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘I became a cook, not a company director,’ Rex replies, lifting the pan from the water-bath.

‘What a disappointment,’ she smiles.

‘I am, actually, in all sorts of ways.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Sometimes... sometimes not,’ he says honestly, and glances at Sammy. ‘I’m a sober alcoholic, but I’ve had a few relapses. One thing that happens when I’m drunk is that I remember I can’t stand our fancy Foreign Minister because... well, what the hell, he’s dead now. Because he was a bastard when he was alive.’

Janus flicks his hair from his face and smiles, revealing the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes.