Slobodan steadied himself by putting his arm on the counter and rising to his feet before he went on.
“I’m creating jobs, damn it! Do you know how many people I have trained, given a life? Yes, that’s how it is, I’ve provided them with a life, all the people who don’t have the balls to fix something for themselves.”
He slapped the counter with his hand as if to underscore his words.
“I make people happy. They come here to eat and drink and forget for a moment that we live in a society of thieves. I am a generous person, but now there is no place for this. Everyone wants a piece, without making an effort.”
He fell silent as suddenly as he had started his outburst and sank down on the stool. He studied his hands, the cuticles and knuckles.
“Ungrateful,” he whispered in Swedish.
Manuel was not sure if he should take this opportunity to reveal his identity and the fact that he was here to claim Patricio’s money, but he decided to wait. A new idea had formed in his mind, one that had the potential to yield considerably more.
He did not want to kill Slobodan, only take his money and then crush him. The pathetic man on the stool could very well be allowed to suffer in torment several more days.
“I am done now,” Manuel said and pushed in the final tray.
He wanted to speak to Feo before he left Dakar. He longed for the peace and quiet of his tent, but perhaps there was something else he should do before he left. He peered out into the bar. Feo sat at the counter, leaning over a beer. Måns said something that made Feo smile and look around the dining room.
Manuel felt a pang of envy at the Portuguese. His smile was genuine. His tender talk of his wife and child was without artifice. He was happy in his work, prepared his food in laughter and with an economy of movement as if he were allied with fortune.
Slobodan coughed behind his back and Manuel turned around. The fat one was staring into space. His head drooped and there was a glint of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
Manuel again felt a kind of sympathy for the man and for a moment, forgetful of the context, he had the impulse to help Slobodan Andersson to his feet, to console him and see to it that he made it home.
Then the door to the dining room was thrown open and Tessie entered, glancing at Slobodan who had slumped on the stool. She laughed.
“Are you the babysitter?” she asked with an American accent that took Manuel back to California.
“Wake up,” she said and shook Slobodan’s shoulder, without taking any further notice of the dishwasher. “It is time to go home. I’m calling a cab.”
The proprietor shook his head.
“I can’t…”
“Of course you can,” Tessie said, and Manuel understood, even though she was speaking Swedish.
“There’s someone out there,” Slobodan slurred.
“What are you talking about? Are you supposed to meet someone?”
Slobodan tried to stand up but fell back onto the stool. Tessie sighed.
“Damn, I’m tired,” she muttered in English. “It’s bad enough that I have to wait on the customers, let alone play mom to this lump.”
“He thinks you should be grateful that you have a job,” Manuel said.
Tessie stared at him.
“Grateful! I should be grateful? Are you on drugs?”
She flounced out of the kitchen, exasperated and disgusted. Slobodan looked up.
“They’re out to get me,” he groaned, before the heavy body jerked and the vomit projected straight out from his mouth. He stared at the floor in astonishment, with the slack jaw of a drunkard.
Manuel walked out into the bar and gave Feo a sign that he should come out into the kitchen. The Portuguese smiled at him, slid off the bar stool, and rounded the counter.
“What is it?”
“It’s the fat one.”
The stench was indescribable. Slobodan had fallen asleep with his head against the wall. They cleaned it up together. Feo sprayed water onto the floor while Manuel mopped it up with rags.
“I have never seen him so drunk,” Feo said, and for once he looked worried.
“He talked about someone being after him,” Manuel said.
“I have heard him talk about that,” Feo said, turning the water off and looking at the sleeping man. “He thinks the person who killed Armas is after him.”
“Who would want to kill both of them?”
Manuel’s tension was like a cramp in his stomach.
“Armas should have been here,” Feo said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “He would have picked him up by his arms and carried him home. Can you help me? He can’t stay here.”
One hour later they had lugged Slobodan into his apartment. The first cab had refused to take them, and they had to call for a bigger cab that was able to fit Slobodan in the luggage area.
Manuel and Feo then dragged the half unconscious proprietor up to his apartment and onto his bed.
They stood for a while and watched the shapeless body that flinched from time to time as if from a cramp. His breathing was heavy and wheezy and Slobodan muttered something in his sleep.
“Can you stay with him for a while?” Feo asked.
Manuel nodded and looked around the bedroom.
After Feo had left, Manuel walked from room to room in amazement. It was the largest residence he had ever set foot in. Five rooms and a kitchen for one person. Everything was so light. The furniture, textiles, wallpaper, and polished wood floors virtually lit up the dark August night.
“Maria,” he mumbled, pulling his hand across the beautiful surface of the dining room table.
He took out a can of beer from the refrigerator, but only had one sip before he set it down. He opened cupboard after cupboard and viewed the multitude of glass and china. Who can afford this, he thought. And who can use it all? In the drawers, there were knives and gleaming utensils that had, for him, an unknown purpose. He picked up a knife whose extremely slender blade appeared to exclude it from all normal use, and weighed it in his hand but then tossed it back and closed the drawer with a bang.
He returned to the bedroom. One of Slobodan’s hands hung over the edge of the bed and Manuel picked it up and laid it across his stomach. Slobodan muttered something in his sleep.
The feeling of being an intruder grew stronger. What was he doing in the apartment? He looked at the man who now appeared to have settled in and was snoring heavily.
A freight train went by outside the window and Manuel walked over to the window. The coupled sections jerked and squeaked, and the mild thumping of the wheels against the track was soothing. He counted the cars, container after container, tank after tank; it seemed they were never going to end.
Once he had read a book about a man who was traveling through the United States on a freight train. Occasionally he worked temporarily on a farm or at a gas station, but mostly he wandered restlessly from state to state, looking for a woman he had once known and loved. Manuel did not remembered how the book ended-if the man reached his goal-but something of the anxiety and feeling of being an outsider that had plagued the rambler now gripped Manuel.
The clanging signals stopped, the bars at the nearby crossing were slowly raised, and Manuel stared at the disappearing lights of the last car until they were completely gone.
Slobodan suddenly snuffled. His heavyset body twisted as if in pain and he let out a sob. A rivulet of vomit ran down his cheek. Slobodan pulled his hand across his mouth in his sleep and muttered something.
It occurred to Manuel how easy it would be for him to end Slobodan’s life. The feeling had been in the back of his head ever since Feo had left him alone with the fat one. How easy it would be. Armas and Slobodan gone, their debts paid. But to what purpose? Would Angel come back to life or Patricio get out of prison because Slobodan died?
He turned his head and looked at the man in the bed. The fat one had appeared like a bhni guí’a, a man from the mountain, filled with promises and green bills, thundering and powerful. Now he lay there like a helpless colossus. Manuel would easily be able to suffocate him with a pillow and then disappear for good. No one would suspect foul play, everyone would believe that Slobodan had suffered a drunkard’s violent but natural death.