“Dakar is by the sea,” Patrik said and looked at her with an expression that was difficult to interpret. There is nothing to the west before America, only water.”
Now Eva was standing in front of a Dakar that was far from the sea. The closest you could come to the Atlantic around here was the Fyris river, a body of water that rarely evoked any dreams, a line that divided the city. It reminded Eva of her grandfather. He had been a construction worker his whole life, a communist, and an alcoholic-a life-threatening combination, especially for her grandmother who became the target of her husband’s frustration and hate. Only in her sixties did she manage to leave him.
In protest, Eva’s father had voted for the conservatives and had continued to do so from sheer habit, long after his ruddy father had shuffled off this mortal coil.
Eva’s inheritance was twofold, consisting in part of a hatred toward pretention and hypocrisy, against those in power, and in part a belief in the role of personal responsibility for one’s own well-being. She had always had difficulties reconciling herself with the collective, with those who spoke for the many but who did not always live as they preached. She had seen enough of that at the post office.
Her grandmother had worked as a waitress at the well-known hotel and restaurant Gillet in her youth, an experience that she constantly mentioned. It was not so much the tired feet and fresh-mouthed customers that she remembered, but more the feeling of having a job and therefore value. When she married, her husband forbade her to continue working. He was jealous, convinced that the men would soil her with their gazes.
Now Eva was standing in front of Dakar. She had called her grandmother, who lived in an assisted-living unit, and told her that she was applying for a job at a restaurant.
“I can teach you a thing or two,” the old woman chuckled.
It had taken Eva half a day to gather enough courage to call Dakar.
She had spoken with a man named Måns, but the person she was going to meet was the boss himself, Slobodan Andersson.
“He can be a bit tricky,” Måns said and Eva thought she could hear him smile. “Ignore his laughter, look him straight in the eye, don’t look down even if he insults you.”
“What do you mean, insults me? I’m applying for a job.”
“You’ll see what I mean,” Måns said.
She stood for a while with her hand on the door handle before she took a deep breath, stepped into the restaurant, and was greeted by the smell of cigars and beer. She could hear a faint buzzing sound and Eva assumed it was a drill. She continued on farther into the room, full of tense anticipation for what she would see, and aware of her own breathing. She couldn’t seem pantingly eager.
A carpenter was putting up shelves behind the bar. A fat man was standing behind the counter, nonchalantly leaning against it, observing the work. He had apparently not heard her come in. He said something that Eva did not catch. It must be him, she thought, looking at his beefy face and the hand that rested on the counter.
She coughed and the man turned his head and waved toward an armchair. Eva sat down. He made a good-natured impression standing there, as he smiled and nodded from time to time as if to assure everyone that everything looked good. When the last screw was in place, he turned to Eva.
“One can never have enough shelves, don’t you think?”
“That’s true,” Eva said, and recalled Måns’s words about looking him in the eye.
“I am Slobodan Andersson and this is Armas, the shelf master,” said the fat man and nodded at the carpenter.
The latter stepped out of the shadows and glanced briefly at her. He was considerably taller than Slobodan Andersson, with a completely bald pate and a face as expressionless as a statue.
“So, my little postmistress, you would like a job?”
Eva nodded.
“They don’t grow on trees,” he went on. “What makes you think Dakar won’t go under if you start working here? Are you so damn good at dishing up food?”
“That’s all I do these days,” Eva replied.
“Is that so?”
“I have two teenage boys at home.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Are they well behaved?”
“Yes, they are.”
“I hate hooligans. What are their names?”
“Patrik and Hugo.”
“Good,” Slobodan said. “Now, stand up.”
Eva rose hesitantly to her feet.
“Why don’t you take a stroll between the tables.”
“If you think you can direct me like a robot, you are wrong,” Eva said and made an effort to keep her gaze steady. His look was difficult to take, nonchalant and taunting, as if he was playing with her. “But certainly, I can take a little walk.”
She sauntered around the tables, taking in the giant photographic prints on the walls, then returned. Slobodan was watching her with an attentive expression, as if she was a shoplifter.
“Nice pictures,” she said.
Slobodan gave Armas a look and let out a sigh. Eva recalled the job interview at her last employer. There had been forms and endless conversations, introductions and courses.
“There you have the heart,” Slobodan said suddenly and pointed into the inner regions of the restaurant. “The kitchen! You out here are only slaves under the kitchen. Nothing but errand boys or errand girls, if you so will. Are you a red stocking?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Women’s talk, you know.”
“Well, I am a woman, and I certainly do talk.”
Slobodan studied her pensively. Armas, who had not said anything thus far, coughed and nodded to Slobodan before receding into the shadows. Slobodan stared after him and then smiled at Eva.
“When can you start?”
“Today,” Eva said quickly, without a second’s hesitation.
She ran her hands quickly down her legs.
“And the hooligans?”
“They’ll manage.”
“You’ll have to fix your hair. Armas, call Elizabeth!”
Eva swallowed and unconsciously touched her head.
She biked back through the city streets like a madwoman. The sun was shining from a clear sky and the traffic signals appeared synchronized to give her all green lights.
Above all she longed for Patrik and Hugo. The night before they had talked about the waitress job, or rather, Eva had talked about it while her sons had silently evaluated her chances at around zero. Finally she was the bearer of good news.
The only downside were the hours. She was going to work the lunch shift twice a week, as well as an evening shift three times a week and every other weekend. The salary, eighty-five kronor an hour to start, was worse than she had been expecting, but she accepted it without protest. Slobodan had implied that it could perhaps improve after a while. How much the tips added, she did not ask, but Slobodan had explained that everyone shared alike. That meant the entire kitchen crew, including those lowest on the rung, the assistant chefs and the apprentices from the Ekeby School.
Tiredness hit her at the Ultuna commons and she stepped off her bicycle. A combine harvester was moving across the field, leaving golden brown stalks of straw in its wake. Through the dust billowing across the broad header that was devouring the stalks and grain heads, she caught sight of the driver. Eva waved, and he waved back, smiling. A feeling of solidarity with the harvest worker gripped her. The wheat that the chefs and bakers would turn to food, and that Eva would serve at the table, was being harvested right here and now.
A bus swept past on the road. Soon she would be sitting on it on her way to and from her work.
“A job!” she cried, and she pedaled past Kuggebro.
When she came home, Patrik was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. Hugo was at the computer.
“He’s been sitting there for two hours,” Patrik complained.
“I’m doing my homework!” Hugo yelled.