“Everyone helped out. Almost everyone voted for the communists and hated the Nazis, so it wasn’t hard to find volunteers.”
Eva smiled to herself.
“Do you miss it?” Manuel asked.
“Yes, sometimes. But it’s a two-sided thing, as it was for my grandfather, sort of. When he was home in the district of Värmland he was a completely different person. He was happy, talkative, and laughed a lot.
It even happened that he mixed in Finnish words. In Uppsala he was always grumpy.”
“He also missed the place,” Manuel stated.
She smiled and Manuel recognized it as a smile that concealed something else.
“Maybe I should visit you,” Eva went on suddenly. “I mean, your family, not that I want to stay for free but it is always good to know someone…”
She stopped and Manuel saw a blush spread across her cheeks. He placed several plates in the dishwasher and saw out of the corner of his eye how she closed her eyes and brushed her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes, it is starting to get late,” she said.
“It would be nice to have a visitor,” Manuel said.
He could be generous, he thought, especially as he sensed that such a visit would never take place. But then it struck him that he was very far from his homeland. Why wouldn’t Eva also be able to cross the Atlantic.
He halted his movements, inadvertently shifting a tray of glasses in toward the wall and studied her more closely. At first she did not notice that he was looking at her, but when she was done putting glasses into the dishwasher and had closed the door she saw that he had stopped working.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Manuel said, but he did not take his eyes off her face even though he realized that she thought this close scrutiny was, if not disconcerting, then at least somewhat unorthodox.
“It would be good if you came to my country. The tourists who come to Mexico are different from you. They walk across the plazas, into the churches, and sit in the outdoor cafes without really seeing us. If you only knew how we felt-”
“Mexico? You said Venezuela.”
“I was lying,” Manuel said and only now did he avert his gaze. “Don’t ask me why and don’t tell anyone.”
“No, why should I,” Eva said simply, “and I’m just as happy to go to Mexico.”
He joined in her laughter and thought that it was the first time he laughed in Sweden. Manuel felt how his joy, bolstered by Feo’s humming from the kitchen and the warmth of the dishwasher filled him and gave him several seconds of optimism. It was as if the release from his lie reconciled him to the events of the past few days. It did not even occurr to him that Eva could betray him, and it was perhaps this trust in another human being that allowed him to simply exist and speak freely for a moment, as he was when he was home with his own kind.
He began talking about California, about the work of harvesting, about the barracks that he and his brothers had lived in, about the sun that at first made them sweaty and tired, then agitated and bad-tempered. He told her about the water faucet in the yard that some days only yielded a few drops, while the crops were irrigated with large water canons that wandered the fields like primeval animals.
He took Eva to Orange County, because he could tell that she enjoyed the details. She also followed the trio of brothers back to Oaxaca. He described the village as if it were a paradise, he found himself beautifying it and corrected himself by describing the poverty, the bad roads, and how divided the villagers were.
Eva sat on a stool with her hands clasped in her lap and listened.
Occasionally she asked a couple of questions, otherwise she sat quietly for long periods of time and watched him. A quarter of an hour went by. When the roar of the dishwasher came to an end and was supplanted with a ticking sound, Manuel also grew silent.
“It is my country,” he concluded his tale, and felt as if it had been accurate, but also knew how much had been left out. He felt uplifted and appreciated the fact that she had listened with genuine interest. Even so, the emptiness and upheaval that he had felt ever since he heard of Angel’s death in Germany and the imprisonment of Patricio returned at the same moment that Eva stood up and said she should get back to work.
She left the kitchen and Manuel watched as the door to the dining room swung back and forth until it reached a point where it was definitively closed.
The next moment, Slobodan Andersson stepped into the room.
Forty-Four
“Who are you?”
Slobodan Andersson stared at Manuel, who unconsciously raised the blue dish rack that he was holding in his hands.
It was as if the proprietor was unable to take his eyes off the new hand in the dishwashing area. Manuel was forced to look down, he turned and pushed the tray on the shelf above the counter.
“Where do you come from?”
Manuel looked quizzically at the fat man, who then repeated the question in English.
“America,” Manuel answered, and at the same time felt an unexpected euphoria. Perhaps it was the evening’s conversation with Eva, or the fact that Slobodan Andersson was drunk that raised his spirits, after the initial shock and terror at encountering the fat one so unexpectedly had subsided.
Slobodan Andersson sat down on the stool by the door to the dining room. His upper body swayed and an almost desperate level of exhaustion was visible in his face.
“America is a big country,” he slurred. “There are… I have been to Las Vegas, what a fucking city.”
Manuel observed him and was treated to a lengthy account of Slobodan’s experiences in the United States before he abruptly stopped, raised his heavy head, and looked at Manuel.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said with vehemence. “All they want to do is put one over on you. You’re lucky you only have to worry about the dishes.”
Manuel smiled and started putting wineglasses in a rack, happy to have something to do with his hands.
“I have a friend who was murdered, you have probably heard about it. We had known each other for twenty years, at least… twenty long, fucking years… and then the bastard goes and gets himself murdered. Is that right? We were like brothers… Do you have a brother?”
Manuel nodded.
“Then you know. A brother is everything. Brothers don’t let each other down.”
“He let you down?”
Slobodan Andersson trained his glassy eyes on Manuel and for several seconds the latter forgot himself, felt sorry for the man before him. In his pitiable eyes he could read the man’s great sorrow and all the human misery he knew so well.
He picked up a knife from the container of silverware. A piece of meat still clung to it. He would be able to drive this knife into that fat body and then leave Dakar. Then all accounts would be paid and settled.
“I don’t know,” Slobodan said, his gaze on the knife.
Manuel tossed the knife back in the basket, turned his back on Slobodan, and opened the dishwasher, which disgorged a cloud of steam.
“The uncertainty is the worst thing,” he said and lifted out a tray of glasses.
“I started with nothing,” Slobodan resumed and held up his palms as if to illustrate his starting point. “Just like you. I slaved like an animal, so afraid I almost wet myself. I have struggled, built something, and I don’t want some bastard to come and take everything. Do you know what I mean? There has to be some justice. I have received nothing for free! Work, work, work, all day long, all year. And what is the thanks? The authorities chase you, they want taxes to fatten themselves up, so they can sit on their big behinds and pick their nails. It has to be clean as a laboratory, otherwise they close you down. The union hounds you, as if you were made of money. And regulations for everything, damn it! I sure as hell didn’t get overtime or vacation compensation. I was happy I had a job.”