“The past caught up with Armas,” he said and waved the fillet knife in illustration.
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 Bergström’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.
“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 Slobban 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 attitude 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 fag.”
“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 homo-films at one time. That’s serious business.”
“No, I don’t believe it,” Pirjo exclaimed.
Everyone looked at the kitchen assistant, 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 balls, 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 passively. She lingered in the kitchen. There was still a quarter of an hour to go before her shift 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 amusement.
“Only if you join us,” Eva said, and swept out of the kitchen.
It was ten o’clock when Eva got home. Her legs were tired and her headache did not want to go away, but she felt satisfied and sent Tessie a mental note of gratitude. She had let Eva go home early. It was as if no one was being so precise anymore, and she had also been understanding when Eva withdrew to call home.
Patrik had answered every time, irritation in his voice, but he turned out to be sitting up waiting for her in the kitchen when she got home.
Hugo was in his room. She heard the sound effects from his computer game. She opened the door a little wider and said hello. His tense back and the concentration in his face testified to a crucial moment in one of these games he spent most of his time on.
She went to the bathroom and got herself some pain relievers.
“Hi, have you had anything to eat?”
Patrik nodded and Eva followed his gaze to the kitchen counter. They had even loaded their dishes in the dishwasher and wiped the counters.
She laughed and put her hand through his hair.
“Was it fun?”
“There were a lot of people,” Eva said. “But they let me go early. When the dinner guests start to get finished it’s mostly drinks and such, and I’m not so good at that yet. The bartender has promised to show me some things. I can’t even tell all the different kinds of beer apart yet.”
“What did they say about that guy who was murdered?”
“No one knows anything, there’s just a lot of talk.”“Was he a good guy?”
Eva shrugged.
“I met him twice and he said all of five words. What about you, what have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” Patrik said.
“Do you want some tea?”
She started to get things out, while Patrik put water on to boil.
“I don’t think Hugo will want any,” he said.
When they sat down at the table, Patrik started to talk. Eva realized that he must have spent the evening thinking about it and even how to formulate his beginning.