The Chef

23

Barack Obama had won the election at a canter. From next year, the United States would be governed for the first time in its history by a black president. The world marvelled and Europe applauded, almost more enthusiastically than the country which had elected him.

It was only those in Dalmann’s circles, both national and international, who were sceptical. They had feared the Democrats might win, as they had worried during the previous two elections as well. They found the Republicans’ economic, foreign and in particular their fiscal policy more predictable and compatible.

‘Bad news,’ was Dalmann’s reply when Schaeffer woke him with confirmation of what had been looming the night before: the European economy had now officially slipped into recession. The GDP of the Eurozone had fallen for the second quarter in succession.

For Dalmann this was the signal to turn his attention again to those business areas from which he had been gradually distancing himself in the last few years.

In the bar of the Imperial Hotel four men were sitting having drinks. The pianist was playing golden oldies, discreetly, but loud enough to allow private conversations to take place at the tables.

The men had eaten and drunk well at the Huwyler and were now allowing themselves a nightcap. Until the women arrived.

Four inconspicuous figures in dark suits: two Europeans, one American and an Asian. The last of these was about fifty and wore large, round glasses. As was the custom in Thailand, everybody called him by his nickname. His was Waen: glasses.

They talked in English, one with a Thai accent, two with Swiss twangs, and one with a drawl from the southern states.

The American’s name was Steven X. Carlisle. Steve owned a small import-export firm in Memphis. Besides other things, he was an intermediary for the buying and selling of new and used products from his country’s armouries. Waen’s company, which had its headquarters in Bangkok, also worked in this field.

The two other men were Eric Dalmann and Hermann Schaeffer, his colleague.

This was the first time that Steve and Waen had met. Dalmann had arranged the meeting and the two of them had hit it off instantly. Before dinner they had done some serious work in Dalmann’s office and all were happy with the result.

It was a deal which Dalmann would have left well alone if times had been better. But given the financial crisis – his personal one, too – and the fact that the deal was almost legal, Dalmann had agreed to take on the role of intermediary.

The goods were non-upgraded armoured howitzers from the 1950s that had been rejected by the Swiss army and were destined for scrap. Waen could find buyers for the equipment; the only problem was Swiss legislation. It did permit the export of these goods to Thailand, but only if a declaration was signed that they would not be exported again to a third country, something the Swiss would be able to monitor.

The risk that the controls would actually be carried out was not high, but it was an ever-present one, given domestic political sensitivities. Arms exports to countries at war was currently a hot topic, and a referendum to ban such exports was in the offing.

Several years ago, however, the Government had made a decision on the export of munitions which solved this problem. Disused munitions could be returned to their country of manufacture without the need for a declaration that they would not be re-exported. In the case of the M109 armoured howitzers, this country was the United States of America.

This is where Steve came in. He would buy the goods for the manufacturer at a notional price and supply them to Waen as products of the country where they were made. This would not be a problem as the United States was the largest arms supplier to Thailand.

Schaeffer had arranged a meeting for the following afternoon between Carlisle, Dalmann and the official responsible for writing off the howitzers. With a lunch to follow.

Waen would join them when the official had left.

The barman brought two long-legged women in cocktail dresses to the table. The taller of them was black. Her short-cropped hair looked like the tight-fitting cap of an Olympic swimmer. The four men stood to welcome them. Two of them gave the women their chairs and bade the others farewell until the following day.

24

It was only a telephone call, but it had grave consequences. Andrea was shopping in the household section of a department store. She was choosing cloths, cushions, candlesticks and a few other decorative items. Not because Love Food urgently needed them, but simply because it was Indian Week at the shop and business was good.

Her mobile rang and the display said it was Esther, the therapist.

‘Hi Esther!’ Andrea said, exaggerating her delight. ‘So nice to hear from you!’

Esther was abrupt and came straight to the point. ‘It’s my job to solve couple’s problems, not create them. And so I’m ending our business relationship forthwith.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Andrea’s voice had become serious and soft.

‘Mellinger’s wife found out about his affair. He mentioned you. How could you?’

‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m really sorry.’

‘Me too.’

That is when Esther terminated the conversation. Andrea put back the things she had chosen. Although Love Food had a good number of bookings for the next fortnight, there were no other reservations after that.

Esther had meant it seriously. Andrea tried to get her to change her mind, but to no avail. ‘You know what?’ Esther had said. ‘I’ve got my reputation to think of. If Love Food is going to be that underhand, I might as well send my patients straight to a brothel.’

Andrea had suspected that Esther was happy to have an excuse to end their relationship, and she made the mistake of telling her so. ‘Sure,’ she remarked, ‘if your patients come directly to us rather than to you, you’ll be left with nothing.’

Had there been the slightest chance of making Esther change her mind, Andrea had blown it with this comment.

She did not inform Maravan of this development immediately. It was he who finally asked, ‘Have we had fewer enquiries or are you not accepting them all any more?’

Only then did she make her confession.

He listened calmly, then said, ‘So I can finally cook something else again.’

‘And where am I going to get the customers for normal dinners?’

‘My dinners are never normal,’ Maravan answered.

Andrea was right. Without the erotic element, Love Food was merely another small catering firm, with the handicap that it was operating illegally and dependent on word of mouth for business. But who would put the word around for a firm that nobody knew about? They needed a way in.

Andrea tried in vain to get their first commission. It was Maravan who had the obvious idea: ‘Why don’t you just invite people over? And if they like it you can tell them that we can also do it at their homes.’

She put together a list of those people she knew who were most active socially, most comfortable financially, most willing to experiment and most communicative, and came up with twelve names. Not a single man among them.

They set a date for 15 November. In Washington, the twenty leading industrial and emerging nations met at a global finance summit and decided on a reorganization of the world’s financial markets. The Sri Lankan army continued to shell the city of Kilinochchi. And the Swiss Defence Minister was bullied out of his post by his own party.

Andrea was decorating the dining room and setting the table. They had decided to use cutlery and not eat on the floor. Maravan had even allowed her to play some Indian background music. He had only vetoed the incense sticks.

He was standing in Andrea’s kitchen, finally able to cook to his heart’s content. He did not have to pay any attention to the aphrodisiac effect of the dishes, his arsenal of kitchen gadgets had grown and now his eagerness to experiment was almost limitless. He had been busy preparing this dinner for two days.

The menu consisted of his experimental versions of classic Indian dishes:

Cinnamon curry caviar chapattis

Baby snapper marinated in turmeric with molee curry sabayon

Frozen mango curry foam

Milk-fed lamb cutlets in jardaloo essence with dried apricot purée

Beech-smoked tandoori poussin on tomato, butter and pepper jelly

Kulfi with mango air

This may have been slightly shorter than the classic Love Food menu, but it was more work because each course had to be given the finishing touches just before serving. Six times over for twelve people.

Maravan was as nervous as a sprinter before the start of a race. And the fact that Andrea kept on coming in every few minutes did not make it any easier.

The milk-fed lamb cutlets were cooking in the digital water bath (one of Love Food’s new acquisitions) at exactly 65 degrees, along with the tandoori poussins, another of Maravan’s new creations. He was working on the curry sauce that would form the basis for the molee sabayon; the onions, which he was lightly sautéing in his tawa in coconut oil with chillies, garlic and ginger, had just turned a honey-yellow when Andrea came in.

‘I’m amazed you don’t freeze with that window open.’

He did not reply. He had told her often enough that he could not work in a jumble of smells. He always had to air his kitchen in order to separate the aromas and work with precision. He did not cook his curries by measuring amounts; he cooked them by using his nose.

And this nose was now telling him that it was exactly the time to add tomatoes, peppercorns, cloves, cardamom and curry leaves.

‘When you’ve got a moment I’d be grateful if you could come into the sitting room.’

He must have looked irritated because she said, ‘Please, I’ll be quick, really quick.’

She waited for him to follow her.

They had carried the suite which made the room into a dining-cum-sitting room into the office; otherwise there would have been no room for the table for twelve. Together with the chairs, they had borrowed this from a former employer who ran a trendy pub with a garden on the edge of town. Now it was covered with a variety of Indian tablecloths which she had bought in the end from the department store that had the Indian Week. Along the entire length was a centrepiece of two white tablecloths folded lengthways. On top of this was a garland of orchids, of the sort that could be bought cheaply in Thai shops, interrupted by candles. They had stuck with the idea of candlelight.

‘Well?’ Andrea asked.

‘Lovely,’ he replied.

‘Not kitschy?’

‘Kitschy?’ Maravan did not know this word. ‘Very lovely,’ he said again, and went back into the kitchen.

He retained the mini chapattis as the amuse-bouche. But instead of drizzling the curry leaf, cinnamon and coconut oil essence with a pipette, he took off the fat and poured the essence into calcium chloride water until it formed caviar pearls. These were then rubbed in coconut oil and used to decorate the warm mini chapattis.

He had to leave making the fake caviar to the last minute, so that the tiny balls did not set. They should be liquid inside and burst between tongue and palate. Andrea came back in again. She had her telephone in her hand and a smile of incredulity on her face. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

Maravan continued working without looking up.

‘Someone’s just called and said, “Are you the ones who do the sex dinners?”’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That he’d got the wrong number.’

‘Good.’

‘“This is Love Food, isn’t it?” was his reply.’

‘Where did he get the number from?’

‘A friend of a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘He said that was irrelevant. “So do you do sex dinners or not?”’ Andrea said it with a deep voice and in a broad, rather common accent.

‘What then?’

‘I said no.’

‘Could you see his number on your phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘So find out who it was on the internet.’

‘Won’t work. It’s a mobile number.’

It took half an hour for all the guests to arrive. Through the kitchen door Maravan could hear the piercing shrieks of people catching up with each other and the over-excited laughter of those arriving. Now and then Andrea brought an empty bottle of champagne into the kitchen and left again with a full one.

Finally she popped her head in and said, ‘Go!’

This was Maravan’s cue.

Almost three hours later he was sitting on a kitchen chair, satisfied with his work and the seamless progression of the courses. Then Andrea came in, beaming and slightly tipsy, took his hand, and brought him out into the dining room.

There, twelve women sitting in the flattering candlelight turned their heads to the door.

‘Ladies, let me introduce to you Maestro Maravan!’ Andrea proclaimed.

The cheering and applause made Maravan so embarrassed that he became stiff and serious.

Andrea received phone calls the following day, and the day after that letters from her delighted guests. Most of them said that they would be making use of Love Food’s services very soon, two of them even said very, very soon. One of them had already made a firm booking: in ten days’ time, on 27 November, 7.30, four people.

The success was absolutely crucial. Including the champagne and wine, Love Food had invested more than 2,000 francs in the dinner. Neither Andrea nor Maravan had any cash put by. In view of how well the business had been going they had both spent a fair amount of money. And Love Food had invested in a number of high-tech kitchen appliances, which the company would not have been able to afford in its current circumstances.

They were also forced to change their pricing. Charges for non-therapy dinners had to be lower, naturally. Andrea had calculated that they would make up for these losses with the higher numbers of guests. She had reckoned on an average of six per dinner. So the first booking for four was not a great start.

A week after the promotional dinner there had still been no further bookings. Andrea started getting nervous. She called a friend who had promised to make a reservation ‘very, very soon’ and said, ‘I’ve been keeping a few evenings free for you in the next ten days and just wanted to make sure you didn’t have one in mind before I give them to other people.’

‘Oh,’ the voice at the other end said, ‘so good of you to call. We’ve got a few diary difficulties at the moment. I don’t want you to have to turn down other people because of me. Tell you what. Let the other people have those evenings, and as soon as we’ve sorted out our social calendar I’ll get back to you. And if you don’t have any free slots, which wouldn’t surprise me, then it’s my own fault.’

The other potential clients, who had said they would book ‘very soon’ made similar excuses when Andrea called.

25

Maravan was kneeling before his domestic shrine. His forehead touched the floor. He was praying to Lakshmi for Ulagu.

Today he had received the news that Ulagu had disappeared. In the morning he had been with his brothers and sisters; in the evening he was nowhere to be seen.

Whenever a fourteen-year-old boy disappeared in the north of Sri Lanka, the first worry was that he had died, the second that he had become a soldier, voluntarily or involuntarily joining the Tamil Tigers or the Karuna rebels fighting with the Sri Lankan army.

Maravan prayed this was not the case – that at this very moment, while he was praying for Ulagu, the boy was already back safe and sound with his family.

He could hear the ringtone of his mobile in the kitchen. He ignored it, finished his prayer, and started to sing his mantra in a restrained voice.

Afterwards, he straightened up, folded his hands across his chest, bowed and touched his forehead. He stood and went into the kitchen, back to preparing the dinner in two days’ time that he had interrupted to pray.

Four iron pots were sitting on the cold stove, each with a different-coloured curry: a lamb curry with yoghurt, light brown; a fish curry with coconut milk, yellow; a vegetable curry, green; and a Goan lobster curry, orange.

He wanted to make four jellies from these and pair each one with its main ingredient: a slice of lamb fillet cooked pink on the light brown one; a steamed halibut cheek on the yellow one; okra stuffed with lentils for the green one; and a lobster rosette for the orange one.

He relit the flames under the pans and waited, absentmindedly, until the bubbles started rising again.

He noticed the mobile phone on the work unit. One missed call, it said, and a text message.

Stop. Dinner cancelled. A

Maravan went to the stove and turned off the gas. He did not care.

There was still no trace of Ulagu three days after his disappearance.

On the fourth day the Tigers arrived.

Maravan was experimenting in his kitchen with different jellification dosages when the bell rang. Two of his compatriots were standing at the door. He knew one of them: Thevaram, the LTTE man who had arranged Maravan’s modhakam job at the temple and pocketed 1,000 francs for the favour.

The other man was holding a briefcase. Thevaram introduced him as Rathinam.

‘May we come in?’

Maravan reluctantly let them in.

Thevaram glanced into the kitchen.

‘Well equipped. Business seems to be doing all right.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Maravan asked.

‘They say you’ve set up a catering service.’

Rathinam remained silent, just staring at Maravan.

‘I cook for people sometimes,’ said Maravan. ‘Cooking’s my profession.’

‘And successfully, too. You sent more than 6,000 francs back home in the last few weeks. Congratulations!’

It came as no surprise to Maravan that the Batticaloa Bazaar had passed the details on to these people.

‘My grandmother is very ill,’ was all he said in reply.

‘And you paid back all your loan to Ori. Congratulations again!’

Ori, too, thought Maravan. He waited.

‘Yesterday was Maaveerar,’ Thevaram continued, ‘Heroes’ Day.’

Maravan nodded.

‘We wanted to bring you Velupillai Pirapaharan’s speech.’

Thevaram looked at his companion. The latter opened his briefcase and took out a computer printout. At the top of the page was a portrait of the stocky LTTE leader in camouflage gear, and a long text underneath.

Maravan took the sheet of paper. The two men offered him their hands.

‘Congratulations again on your success. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the authorities don’t hear of your lucrative activities. Especially as you’re still signing on.’

At the door Rathinam spoke for the first time: ‘Read the speech. Particularly the end.’ Maravan could hear their footsteps in the stairwell and then the muffled ding-dong of a doorbell one floor below.

The end of the speech went like this:

At this historic juncture, I would request Tamils, in whatever part of the world that they may live, to raise their voices, firmly and with determination, in support of the freedom struggle of their brothers and sisters in Tamil Eelam. I would request them from my heart to strengthen the hands of our freedom movement and continue to extend their contributions and help. I would also take this opportunity to express my affection and my praise to our Tamil youth living outside our homeland for the prominent and committed role they play in actively contributing towards the liberation of our nation.

Let us all make a firm and determined resolution to follow fully the path of our heroes, who, in pursuit of our aspiration for justice and freedom, sacrificed themselves and have become a part of the history of our land and our people.

Maravan went into the kitchen, threw the paper in the bin, and washed his face and hands very thoroughly. Before he entered the sitting room he took off his shoes, then he kneeled in front of the domestic shrine, lit the wick of the deepam, and prayed fervently that Ulagu would not follow the path of the heroes.

26

Andrea was freezing as she sat in the rattan chair in her conservatory. She wore thick woollen socks and had pulled up her legs, so the Kashmir shawl covered her toes. The shawl had been a present from Liliane, Dagmar’s predecessor. Andrea had met her in Sulawesi, a happening restaurant which, with its international fusion cooking, had enjoyed a brief heyday and then vanished. Liliane, an analyst at a large bank, was a regular at Sulawesi. Andrea had served her table on her first night working there and flirted a little. When she left the restaurant long after midnight Liliane was waiting for her in her red Porsche Boxster and asked whether she could give her a lift home.

‘Whose home?’ Andrea had asked.

That was a long time ago now, and the Kashmir shawl had a few moth holes, which annoyed Andrea every time she took it out of the cupboard.

The November Föhn wind was shaking the rickety windows, the draught stirring the indoor palms. She had put an electric heater in the middle of the room, because the only radiator was lukewarm. It needed bleeding, but Andrea did not know how. Dagmar had always done that.

The electric heater would send her bills sky-high, but she did not care. She refused to accept that the conservatory – otherwise known as a winter garden – could not be used in winter.

She put the newspaper she had finished reading to one side and did something she had not done for weeks: she picked up the job section, which she usually threw away unread, along with the rest of the classified pages.

Love Food had a total of three bookings till the end of the year. Two on the back of her promotional dinner, and one from a couple of Esther’s patients who had contacted her directly. And this was December, the high season for the catering industry.

Even if there were another one or two bookings, these would not be enough to keep Love Food afloat. Andrea saw two choices: go on the dole like Maravan or look through the job announcements. Maybe she would find something that would give her the evenings free, so she would be available for Love Food if they got a booking. She had not abandoned all hope that Esther Dubois might call again, or someone else from her clique. She still clung to the idea – her idea – of aphrodisiac catering and hoped that Maravan’s residency status would soon allow them to run Love Food as an official concern.

To her mind it would have been unfair on him to give up so quickly. She felt responsible for his situation. If it were not for her he would probably still be working at the Huwyler. And, after all, it had been her fault that they no longer had bookings through Esther Dubois.

She dropped the job advertisements, pulled the shawl up to her chin and started thinking again about how to get Love Food back on its feet.

But it was a surprising call from Maravan that provided the answer.

The previous day Maravan had been standing at a snack bar at the main railway station. He was wearing a woolly hat and scarf, sipping his tea. Before him was a folded Sunday newspaper, unread, in which he had put an envelope with 3,000 francs in large denomination notes. It was practically all he had left from his Love Food income.

He had found out the day before that his sister had received a letter from Ulagu. The boy wrote that he was committed to the struggle for freedom and justice and had joined the LTTE fighters. It was his handwriting, Maravan’s sister had said, but not his language.

He saw Thevaram coming. He was making his way through the passengers, idlers and those just waiting. At his side was the silent Rathinam.

They waved at him and came over to his table. Neither of them showed any inclination to get a drink from the snack bar.

Maravan pointed to the paper. Thevaram dragged it over, lifted it slightly, felt the envelope with his hand, and counted the notes without looking. Then he raised his eyebrows approvingly and said, ‘Your brothers and sisters back home will thank you for this.’

Maravan sipped his tea. ‘Maybe they can do something for me, too.’

‘They are fighting for you,’ Thevaram replied.

‘I’ve got a nephew. He joined the fighters. He’s not even fifteen.’

‘There are many brave young men among our brothers.’

‘He’s not a young man. He’s a boy.’

Thevaram and Rathinam exchanged glances.

‘I will give greater support to the struggle.’

The two men exchanged glances again.

‘What’s his name?’ Rathinam suddenly asked.

Maravan told him the name, Rathinam jotted it down in a notebook.

‘Thank you,’ Maravan said.

‘All I’ve done so far is made a note of his name,’ Rathinam replied.

As a result of this meeting Maravan decided to ring Andrea.

He was not sure whether Thevaram and Rathinam had any influence over Ulagu’s fate, but he knew the LTTE’s arm was a long one. He had heard of Tigers demanding contributions from asylum seekers, using scarcely veiled threats against relatives back home. If they were capable of threatening people’s lives over such a distance, then maybe it was in their power to save them too.

Maravan had no option. He had to seize the chance, however small, that the two men could do something for Ulagu. And that cost money. More than he was earning at the moment.

The cold room smelt of heating oil. It had taken Maravan a long time to light the burner. Now, barefoot and in a sarong, he was kneeling before the domestic altar doing his puja. Despite the cold he was taking longer over it than usual. He prayed for Ulagu and for himself, that he might make the right decision.

When he stood up he realized the burner had gone out and the bottom of the combustion chamber was swimming in oil. He set about soaking up the oil with kitchen paper – a job he detested. When he had finally done it and the burner was lit again, Maravan and the whole flat stank of oil. He opened the windows, took a long shower, made himself some tea, then shut the windows.

Maravan pulled the chair away from the computer and over to the burner. In his leather jacket, pressing the cup of tea tightly against his torso, he sat in the weak light of the deepam, which was still flickering by the shrine, and thought.

Undoubtedly it was against his culture, his religion, his upbringing and his convictions. But he was not in Sri Lanka. He was in exile. You could not live here as you did at home.

How many women of the diaspora went to work, even though it was their job to run the household, bring up the children and cultivate and pass on the traditions and religious customs? But here they had to earn money. Life here forced them to.

How many asylum seekers were obliged to take jobs that were only fit for the lower castes – kitchen helps, cleaners, carers? Most of them, because life here forced them to.

How many Hindus within the diaspora had to make Sunday the holy day of their week, even though it ought to be Friday? All of them, because life here forced them to.

So why should he, Maravan, not also do something that back home would go against his culture, tradition and decency, if life in exile forced him to?

He went to the telephone and dialled Andrea’s number.

‘How are things looking?’ was the first thing Maravan asked when Andrea answered.

She hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Pretty dire, to be honest. Still only three bookings.’

It was silent on the other end for a while.

Then Maravan said, ‘I think I would do it now.’

‘What?’

‘The dirty stuff.’

Andrea understood immediately what he was saying, but asked, ‘What dirty stuff?’

Maravan paused.

‘If someone else rings and wants, you know, sex dinners. As far as I’m concerned you can say yes.’

‘Oh that. All right, I’ll take that on board. Anything else?’

‘Nothing.’

As soon as Maravan had hung up, she looked for the number of the caller who had asked about the sex dinners. She had noted it down, just in case.

December 2008

27

The apartment in Falkengässchen was on the fourth floor, right in the middle of the old town in a lavishly restored seventeenth-century house, if the inscription above the door was to be believed. A new, silent lift had brought her up here. The sitting room and kitchen took up the entire floor. The sloping roof went right up into the gable and opened out onto a roof terrace, from where you could look out over the tiled roofs and church towers of the old town.

A door in the wall led to the adjacent building. Behind it were two large bedrooms, each with a suite of furniture, and a luxurious bathroom. Everything was new and expensive, but kitted out in bad taste. Plenty of marble and gold-plated fittings, deep-pile carpets, dubious antiques and chrome-steel furniture, bowls with dried, perfumed petals.

The apartment reminded Andrea of a hotel suite. It did not look as if anybody lived there.

When she rang the man who had asked about ‘sex dinners’ that time, he answered with a brusque ‘Yes?’ His name was Rohrer and he came to the point immediately. They – he did not reveal who ‘they’ were – occasionally organized private dinners for relaxation. The guests were people for whom discretion was crucial. If she thought she might be able to offer something in this line, he would arrange a test dinner. Depending on the result, this might lead to further dinners.

Andrea met Rohrer the very next day to look around the premises. A man in his late thirties with short-cropped hair, he scrutinized her with a professional gaze. She was a head taller than him, and in the cramped lift up to the apartment she could smell a mixture of sweat and Paco Rabanne.

She told him that the apartment was suitable and that the suggested date in four days’ time – she looked awkwardly in her diary – was possible.

The dinner was served in the bedroom. The suite had been removed and Andrea had made the usual table with cloths and cushions – including brass fingerbowls, as now diners would be eating with their hands again.

For the first time Maravan worked with a tall chef’s hat. Andrea had insisted on it, and at the moment he did not feel like putting up a fight.

The dinner was planned for a woman and a man. Rohrer would leave the moment the guests arrived. But Andrea and Maravan should stay after the last course, until they were called.

He cooked his standard menu. With the usual care, but without the usual passion, Andrea thought.

The man was Rohrer’s boss. He was in his early fifties, somewhat overly groomed, wearing a blazer with golden buttons, grey gabardine trousers and a blue-and-white striped shirt, the white high collar of which was fastened by a gold pin. It made a bridge below the knot of his yellow tie.

He had green eyes and reddish, slightly longish hair, styled back with gel. Andrea noticed his fingernails. They were carefully manicured and polished.

He glanced into the kitchen, said hello to Andrea and Maravan, and introduced himself as Kull. René Kull.

They did not see his companion until they brought out the champagne. She was sitting at the dressing table, her narrow back in a low-cut dress facing Andrea. Her hair was shaven to within millimetres and went down in a wedge shape to the bottom of her neck. Her skin was a deep ebony colour, which shone in the light of Andrea’s sea of candles.

When she turned round, Andrea saw a roundish forehead of the sort that women from Ethiopia or Sudan have. Her full lips were painted red and now puckered into a surprised, interested smile.

Andrea beamed back. She had not seen such a beautiful woman for a long time. Her name was Makeda. Makeda set about the dinner with such pleasure and gusto that Andrea wondered whether she might not be a prostitute. Kull, on the other hand, kept his composure, not even unbuttoning that collar which had already seemed as if it might choke him when he arrived.

When they had not heard the temple bell for a while after the confectionery, Andrea listened anxiously to the noises coming out of the room. Then Kull strode into the kitchen.

‘Of course, the main reason for the effect this dinner has is the knowledge that you’re eating an erotic menu – and all the other stuff, the candles, eating with your hands. But do you actually put something else in the food?’ Kull’s cheeks were slightly red, but his top button was still done up.

‘I don’t put anything else in the food,’ Maravan explained. ‘It’s what’s in there already that creates the effect.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Herr Kull,’ Andrea interjected, ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that that’s our professional secret.’

Kull nodded. ‘Are you just as discreet in other ways?’ he asked after a while.

28

From that point onwards Love Food cooked regularly for Kull. The venue was always the apartment in Falkengässchen. Only the guests changed. Especially the men.

René Kull ran an escort service for a very upmarket, mostly international clientele. Men whose business brought them to the financial centre or the headquarters of the International Football Federation, or those who were simply making a stop on their way to a family holiday in the mountains. They set great store by discretion and were not infrequently accompanied by hefty, taciturn men who would munch on sandwiches they had brought with them in the sitting room.

Kull did not quibble about the price Andrea had tentatively asked for: 2,000 plus drinks.

Andrea had never come into contact with this world before, and she was fascinated. She was quick to strike up conversation with the women, who usually arrived before their clients and would have a drink and a few cigarettes in the sitting room while waiting. They were beautiful, wore off-the-peg clothes and expensive jewellery, and treated her as if she were one of their own. She enjoyed chatting to them. They were funny and talked about their work with an ironic distance which made Andrea laugh.

The women loved these evenings because of the food. And because – as a Brazilian girl confessed – it even made what came afterwards quite fun.

Andrea had little to do with the men. They usually turned up accompanied by Rohrer, Kull’s dogsbody, who would bring them straight into the prepared room, then disappear immediately. When Andrea served up the dishes, she would focus her attention on their female companions.

On one occasion she was banished to the kitchen with Maravan. There was a huge commotion in Falkengässchen before the guest arrived. A number of bodyguards searched the apartment, one making a recce of the kitchen, and after the mystery person had been smuggled past the closed kitchen door, yet another bodyguard came in and announced that he would be doing the waiting. All Andrea had to do was explain to him what each dish was. Each time he had served one, he practised the presentation of the following one with her until the temple bell rang again.

‘I’d love to know who that was,’ Andrea said as she and Maravan were going down in the lift.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Maravan replied.

It was not the shady side of his work that bothered Maravan, it was his role in it. When the diners had been for couples in therapy, he had been treated with the respect afforded to a doctor or specialist who is in a position to help people. And when they had done normal catering assignments he had been feted like a star.

Here he was ignored totally. It didn’t matter how tall his chef’s hat was, he was invisible. He hardly ever came face to face with the guests, and Andrea never had any compliments to relay back to him when she brought in the dirty crockery.

As a kitchen help Maravan had been used to leading a shadowy existence. But this was different: the guests came here because of his creations. Whatever happened between them was a direct result of his artistry. In short, the artist in Maravan felt neglected. And, what was almost worse, so did the man.

His relationship with Andrea had not developed in the way he wanted. He hoped that being together almost every day, the close contact and the conspiratorial nature of their collaboration, would bring them closer. It did, but only as friends, almost like siblings. The erotic element of their work did not rub off on their relationship.

However, whereas Andrea felt nothing more than friendship towards Maravan, she became very close with the girls working for Kull. By the second meeting they were already hugging each other like long-lost friends, spending the time before the punters – Maravan deliberately called them this in front of Andrea – arrived chatting, smoking and laughing on the white sofas. There was one girl in particular she liked: a tall Ethiopian called Makeda. If Maravan was honest, he felt jealous of this woman.

Makeda had fled to Britain with her mother and older sister when she was twelve. They belonged to the Oromo people; her father had joined its liberation movement, the Oromo Liberation Front. After the fall of the Derg government he was an OLF deputy in the transition parliament, but following the elections the OLF left the Government and put itself in opposition to the ruling party.

Early one morning soldiers had arrived at Makeda’s parents’ house, ransacked the place and taken away her father. It was the last time she saw him. Her mother made dogged attempts to discover where he was being held, and thanks to some former acquaintances she did indeed find out. Her contacts even allowed her to visit the prison. She returned home silent and red-eyed. Two days later, Makeda, her mother and sister crossed the Kenyan border in a clapped-out Land Rover. From that point on, her mother could not call in any more favours from old acquaintances. They flew to London and sought asylum. They never heard from her father again.

At sixteen Makeda was discovered by a modelling agency scout. He called her ‘the new Naomi Campbell’. Against her mother’s will, she went to a few castings, took part in some fashion shows and was photographed for magazines. But she waited in vain for the breakthrough.

It was during Milan Fashion Week that she crossed the fine line between up-and-coming model and call girl. Feeling lonely, she took a purchaser for a boutique chain back to her room. When she awoke the following morning he was gone. On the bedside table were 500 euros. ‘I then realized that my first lover had also been my first punter,’ she said with a sarcastic laugh.

When she had to accept that she was not going to get very far as a model, Makeda went back to her family and to school. But by now she was used to a freer and more expensive existence. Life was too constricted at home; she found her mother’s views too narrow-minded. It was not long before they were arguing. Makeda moved out, for good.

She was discovered by another scout, but this time they worked for an escort service. Makeda became a call girl, a profession in which she met with rather more success than on the catwalk.

Makeda had come across Kull less than a year ago. He lured her away and she followed him to Switzerland, where she felt pretty lonely.

She related all of this in the half-light of Andrea’s bedroom. While waiting for a client they had made a date for the following day. Despite the cold, they went for a walk by the lake and ended up in Andrea’s bed, as if this were the natural order of things.

So Maravan’s jealousy was not unjustified. Andrea was in love.

Not long after their last visit, Thevaram and Rathinam were back at Maravan’s flat. They brought news from Ulagu. They claimed he had signed up for the Black Tigers, an elite unit of suicide bombers. The entry requirements were very tough, however; there was a good chance he would be rejected. They could try to increase this chance through their contacts, if Maravan so wished.

Maravan promised them another donation of 2,000 francs.

After their visit, Maravan let his sister know, via the Batticaloa Bazaar, that he had made some initial progress in the matter they had discussed.

The Huwyler was normally booked out in December; both rooms would be full almost every night. But this year a few of the stalwart companies who always took the restaurant for their Christmas management dinners had not made reservations. Huwyler was convinced they were either using the crisis as an excuse or had come to this decision for appearance’s sake: it did not look very good if you started tightening your belt, but dined at the Huwyler.

Whichever it was, it amounted to the same thing for Huwyler. The restaurant had noticeably fewer customers than usual at this time of year.

This is why he was paying particular attention to Staffel’s table. It had twelve diners: top management and their wives, a real rarity these days.

Staffel had every reason to celebrate. The financial press had unanimously voted him Manager of the Year in the ‘new technology’ division. And the company he ran, Kugag, had registered such good results that both they and their image could afford themselves this little luxury.

He could have been a little more generous in his choice of menu, however. Huwyler had suggested the tasting menu, but Staffel had opted for a simple six-courser. He stuck to the mid-price wines, too. In these times it was the prudent, conventional types who became Managers of the Year.

By contrast, another of his guests was anything but prudent or conventional: Dalmann, the heart-attack victim. The first time he showed his face in the restaurant, fresh from his rehabilitation, less than a month after the attack, Huwyler was shocked. Less by his audacity at turning up here at all after that distressing incident, but by the fact that Dalmann could actually do it all over again. He did not hold back with the food or drink, and even ordered a cigar to go with his cognac.

Since then, however, Dalmann had become a very welcome guest. A sign of normality.

He was here this evening, too. In the company of Dr Neller, business lawyer and – as the two men kept emphasizing with ever greater frequency as the evening wore on – a childhood friend and a fellow Boy Scout. They ate the Surprise.

Dalmann pulled a fir twig from the Christmas table decoration with the dark-blue bauble and held it above the candle. He loved the fragrance of singed pine needles. The essence of Christmas. It made him feel sentimental in a nice way, especially on an evening like this, after a good dinner with an old friend. The restaurant was not too full or too empty, not too loud or too quiet. The smoke of his Bahia was cool, the Armagnac smooth and the conversation friendly.

‘Have you made use of Kull’s services again?’ Neller enquired.

Dalmann smiled. ‘I’ve got to watch my heart, you know that.’

‘Of course. I always forget that when I see you like this.’

‘Why do you ask? Should I be?’

‘I don’t want to put your life at risk, but in case you do fancy it, he’s offering something with food now.’

‘I’d rather eat here.’

‘It’s a very special dinner. Erotic.’

Dalmann gave him a quizzical look and puffed on his cigar.

‘He’s got an Indian or someone like that who cooks and a hot bird who serves it up. By the way, she used to wait here briefly, you know: tall, black hair all combed to one side.’

‘And now she’s working for Kull?’

‘Only as a waitress.’

‘And she’s responsible for the erotic bit?’

‘No, it’s the food that does that. I didn’t believe it to begin with either. But it’s true. The food makes you feel completely different.’

‘In what way?’

‘Not just excited down there,’ Neller pointed vaguely downwards. ‘That, too. But more up here.’ He tapped his high forehead, which was glistening with sweat.

‘You mean you get a stiffy in your head?’ Dalmann laughed, but Neller seemed to think about his question quite seriously.

‘Yes, you could put it like that. And the best thing about it is that it appears to turn the women on too. You get the impression they’re actually enjoying it.’

‘They’re paid to act like they are.’

Neller shook his head. ‘Take the word of an old fox. I can tell the difference. It’s real. Maybe not completely, but definitely a little bit.’

Dalmann chewed thoughtfully. Then he wiped his mouth and asked, ‘Do you think they put something in the food?’

‘They say they don’t. It’s just the recipes. And the ambience. Cushions and candles. You sit on the floor and eat with your hands.’

‘What do you eat?’

‘Spicy stuff. Spicy and sweet. It’s a sort of Ayurvedic molecular cuisine. Strange, but outstanding. Special tip from me. Not cheap, mind, but something totally different.’

‘And definitely no drugs or chemicals?’

‘All I can say is that I felt brilliant the following morning. And – just between us chaps – I haven’t had a shag like that in a long time.’

‘As I said, my heart.’

Neller raised both hands. ‘I’m just telling you, Eric. Just telling you.’

Dalmann had no intention of following up his friend’s tip. But he would happily bear it in mind if he ever needed anything really special for someone.

They changed the subject and went on chatting for a while. When Huwyler accompanied them to a taxi with an umbrella, snow had settled on the entryway. And large, heavy flakes of snow were still falling.

On the evening when they had been celebrating their year-end results and the Manager of the Year award, Dalmann had come to the table, congratulated Staffel and said, ‘Thanks to you I’ve won a large bet.’

‘A bet?’ Staffel asked.

‘I bet that it would be you.’

‘Well, that was quite a gamble. I hope the wager wasn’t too high.’

‘Six bottles of Cheval Blanc ’97. But there was no risk. I hope you have a good dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your evening, you’ve deserved it.’

‘Isn’t that the chap who came over last time and knew more than I did?’ Staffel’s wife had whispered to her husband the moment Dalmann left their table. ‘Do you know who he is now?’

Staffel had enquired, but could not say much about him. Dalmann was a lawyer, but did not practise as one. He sat on a number of boards and worked as a consultant and intermediary. He forged business relationships, brought people together, stepped in sometimes, too, if a post had to be refilled informally, and obviously had such good contacts in the media that he could get certain snippets of inside information if necessary.

Staffel ought to get to know Dalmann better.

29

As the year came to a close, it was difficult to say which was greater: relief that it was over or worry about what the next year would bring.

The state of the global markets was cataclysmic: the Swiss stock exchange had experienced its worst year since 1974; the DAX had collapsed by 40 per cent; the Dow Jones had lost more than a third of its value; the Nikkei registered similar losses; the stock exchange in Shanghai had plummeted by 65 per cent; and Russia had put all these in the shade with a fall in stocks of 72 per cent.

It was the last of these that had a particularly visible impact on Kull’s sector. The Russians had been good clients in the last few years. Usually, over the holiday period, a large proportion of his team’s work would be shifted to St Moritz and he would have to call in extra staff to meet the demand. But this year the advance bookings suggested there would be little need for that.

By contrast, the Love Food business had been going so well that Kull wanted to make it available in the Engadin Valley as well. To be on the safe side he had already booked the duo for a few days.

For Dalmann, the holiday period in St Moritz was the most important business event of the year. It provided an opportunity to meet people with whom it was impossible to have personal contact throughout the rest of the year. He could revive old connections and secure new ones. A multitude of social occasions made it possible to come together in an informal, relaxed atmosphere, get closer to people personally, and pave the way for new deals or maintain old ones.

Up in the mountains the crisis had made itself felt, too, but it was as Dalmann had expected: the quality guests still came this year. The crisis had the advantage of separating the wheat from the chaff.

He stayed as usual in the Chesa Clara, in a five-room apartment on the top floor. A dentist friend had built the house at the beginning of the 1990s; since then Dalmann had rented every year during the Christmas holidays. It was a considerable expense, but one which had always paid off in the past. He hoped it would this time, too.

The apartment was slightly over-furnished and fitted with old walnut doors and pine panelling, which had been collected from a variety of ancient houses. It was roomy enough for Dalmann and two guests, and also had a small staff flat where Lourdes stayed. She did the housework and also made breakfast here. She did not have to cook, because he always ate out and never invited people over to dinner. Apart from his legendary hangover breakfast on New Year’s Day: open house from eleven o’clock until dusk.

He rarely engaged in any sporting activities these days. In the past he had been an excellent skier, but now he would only put on skis to make it up to those mountain restaurants that were not accessible on foot. Otherwise he preferred to take gentle walks to culinary destinations. Or go to the same establishments by horse-drawn sleigh.

It was Maravan’s first time in the mountains. Throughout the entire journey he was silent and sceptical, sitting in the passenger seat of Andrea’s packed estate car. When the hills around them became taller and more rugged, the roads narrower and lined with snow, when it actually started snowing, he regretted agreeing to go on this adventure.

When they reached their destination, he was disappointed to see just another town, no more beautiful than the one they had left, but smaller, colder, wedged between mountains and with more snow.

Where they were staying was not much nicer than Theodorstrasse, either. Each of them had a tiny studio in a block of flats with a view of another block.

Shortly after their arrival, however, Andrea knocked on Maravan’s door and persuaded him to come on an excursion. They drove further along the valley, southwards.

They stopped in a village called Maloja. ‘If we continued on this road for about an hour you’d see palm trees.’

‘Let’s go on then,’ he suggested, half-seriously.

Andrea laughed and walked in front.

The path soon became narrow, bounded by walls of snow. Maravan found it difficult to keep up. He was wearing clunky rubber and nylon boots without any grip. He had bought them in the same cheap department store that he bought everything, save for those items he needed for his kitchen. His trousers were so tight they would not go over the tops of his boots; he had to stuff them inside, which must have looked ridiculous. He could not be absolutely sure, however, because where he was staying there was no mirror in which he could see his feet.

The firs that lined the path were heavily laden with snow. Now and then some fell to the ground. This was followed by a trickle of white glitter from the branches relieved of their burden.

All he could hear was the crunching of their shoes. When Andrea stopped and waited for him, he stopped too. That was the first time he heard silence.

It was a silence that engulfed everything. A silence that became more powerful every second.

He had never been so aware just how remorselessly his entire life had been full of noise. The chitter-chatter of his family, the hooting of the traffic, the wind in the palms, the crashing of waves in the Indian Ocean, the explosions of the civil war, the clattering in kitchens, the sing-song of the temple, the rattle of the trams, the droning of traffic, the chitter-chatter of his thoughts.

Now, all of a sudden, there was silence. Like a jewel. Like a luxury item people like him had no right to.

‘What’s wrong?’ Andrea asked. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Shh!’ he said, putting his forefinger to his lips.

But the silence had vanished, like a timid animal.

Andrea reproached herself for having dragged Maravan up here. She could see how uncomfortable he felt. In the snow he was like a cat in the rain.

He was out of place in this landscape. When she thought about how gracefully he moved in his sarong, how elegantly in his long apron, wearing the white forage cap. Here, in his shapeless windcheater, his woolly hat pulled down over his ears, and wearing cheap snow boots, he was as stripped of his dignity as a zoo animal of its freedom.

What pained her most was that he knew all this. He bore it with the same resignation with which he had borne everything since he had decided to get involved with the dirty stuff, as he called it.

She did not fool herself about his feelings for her either. The longer they worked together the more obvious it became that he was in love with her. He had taken what she privately called ‘the incident’ more seriously than she had imagined. She sensed that he had not given up hope that he might win her round again, maybe even for good.

As soon as she was sure what his feelings were, she had started to distance herself from him. She had deliberately refrained from being too friendly, in case he misunderstood her. Her behaviour towards him was cordial but non-committal, and although she sensed this hurt him, the clarity it created was good for their work.

Since Makeda, the relationship had become complicated again, however. Maravan was showing all the symptoms of jealousy. Although she felt sorry for him, she did not see how she could possibly help.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Andrea was feeling particularly pleased about things, because Makeda was here too. She was staying with the other girls who worked for Kull in a nearby apartment building. They had planned to spend as much time together as they could.

Maravan was aware of this. To cheer him up, Andrea had taken him on this trip as soon as they had unpacked their things.

Maravan had dropped back and for a while stood motionless in this fairytale landscape. She had called him, but he had told her gruffly to be quiet. He lingered there as if listening to something. Andrea listened, too, but could hear nothing.

Finally he got going again and made his way towards her. When he arrived he smiled.

‘Beautiful,’ he said.

30

Two of Dalmann’s strengths – luck and a memory for faces – worked in combination to ensure that his stay at Chesa Clara had paid for itself within a few days.

There had not been a winter like this for ages: cold, white and blue, and a volume of snow that nobody had seen up here at this time of year.

Dalmann was sitting on the sun terrace of a mountain restaurant deep down in a valley. He was there with Rolf Schär, the same dentist friend who owned the apartment. It was not a particularly efficient pairing as far as business was concerned, but not totally useless either, because Dalmann knew that Schär could get a much higher rent for the location during this high-season period. This is why he had forced himself to spend some time with him at least once during his stay.

The two men were feeling relaxed as they sat on their bench by the wooden façade of the building, their faces glistening with sun cream in the winter sun, drinking a bottle of Grüner Veltliner and picking at the plate of cold meats on the table in front of them. From time to time one of them would say something, usually what was on their mind at that moment, like elderly people who have known each other for years and have no need for any pretence.

As they watched children sledging beyond the terrace, Schär said, ‘The snow seems much higher when you’re small.’ Dalmann’s attention was distracted by a group of people just arriving. Four men around fifty who looked as though they might be Arabs. They were shown to the neighbouring table, which had been expecting its guests for a while – it was the only one with a reserved sign.

Briefly removing his sunglasses and glancing at the other guests, Dalmann recognized one of them: the right-hand man of Jafar Fajahat, another individual for whom Palucron had once helped broker deals. He was around ten years older than when he had last seen him, but it was definitely the same man.

After Musharaff’s resignation Dalmann had no longer been able to contact Fajahat, and he supposed he had fallen victim to the regime change. But his assistant must have survived; how otherwise could he afford to be here?

If only he could remember his name. Khalid, Khalil, Khalig or something like that. Dalmann resisted the urge to talk to him. Who on earth were the other three?

He tried to catch his gaze, and succeeded after a short while. The man took off his glasses, gave him an enquiring look, and when Dalmann nodded and smiled he stood up and greeted him in English. ‘Herr Dalmann? How nice to see you. Kazi Razzaq, do you remember?’

‘Of course I do.’ For the time being Dalmann avoided mentioning Jafar Fajahat.

Razzaq introduced his three companions, whose names Dalmann made no effort to remember, and he introduced Schär. A short silence ensued, as is usual after these sorts of introductions.

Dalmann broke it. ‘Are you around for a few days?’ he enquired.

The four men nodded.

‘Good, then maybe we can do something together. Which hotel are you in?’

The four men exchanged glances.

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you my card. My mobile number. Call me and we’ll arrange something. I’d really like to.’

Dalmann gave Razzaq his card in the hope that he would feel obliged to give him one in return. But he just thanked Dalmann, put the card away and turned to the waitress in traditional costume who was ready to take their order.

That same evening, however, Razzaq did call. They arranged to meet in the bar of one of the large five-star hotels with a view over the lake. Dalmann knew the barman and had his regular table in a quiet corner not too near the piano.

Having arrived slightly too early, he was now sipping a Campari and soda and nibbling on some warm salted almonds. It was that interval between après-ski and aperitif, Dalmann’s favourite time. Most of the hotel guests were in their rooms, recovering from the day and freshening up for the evening. The pianist was playing soft, sentimental tunes; the waiters had time for a quick chat.

Razzaq arrived punctually and ordered a cola. He was one of those Muslims who did not drink, even when abroad.

Now they were alone, Dalmann enquired about Jafar Fajahat.

‘He’s not working any more. He’s enjoying the fruits of his labour and his grandchildren. He’s got fifteen of them.’

They swapped some old tales and Dalmann let the conversation slowly peter out to give his guest the opportunity to come to the point. Razzaq did not beat about the bush.

‘You know how you’d occasionally put us in touch with women?’

Dalmann corrected him. ‘That’s not my area. What I did was put you in touch with someone who, maybe, occasionally put you in touch with women.’

Razzaq ignored this remark. ‘Would it be possible here too?’

Dalmann leaned back in the small armchair and acted as if he had to consider the matter. Then he said, ‘I’ll see what can be done. When would this be for?’

‘Tomorrow, the day after. We’re here for another six days.’

Dalmann made a mental note of this. He had earned himself the right to ask a question of his own. ‘Do you still work in security and defence?’ he wanted to know. When Razzaq answered yes, he enquired sensitively, ‘Is our government’s change in strategy causing you a major headache?’

‘It’s not only unfair and short-sighted, it’s also very bad for security. And for business.’

That year Pakistan had been the largest importer of arms from Switzerland – 110 million francs’ worth. But at present the Swiss Government was holding back its approval of new exports.

‘Public pressure is immense at the moment. There’s soon going to be a referendum on whether to ban the export of arms. When it fails – and it definitely is going to fail – the situation will ease.’

Then Dalmann started talking about the disused M113 armoured personnel carriers and the perfectly legal possibility of importing these via the United States. He did not neglect to mention the role he could play in such a deal.

Dalmann spent the evening at a reception held by an auction house presenting the best pieces in its forthcoming auction of works by New York expressionists. After that he had dinner – a cheese fondue in a very simple restaurant, with a small, highly international group of acquaintances. A convivial gathering with an old tradition: anybody uttering the slightest word over dinner about business had to buy a bottle of wine as punishment. It was permitted, on the other hand, to arrange subsequent meetings to discuss such matters.

Dalmann had delegated Kazi Razzaq’s request to Schaeffer. Although Dalmann knew Kull, he would not in any circumstances allow himself to be seen with the man.

He had told Schaeffer to come the following morning at ten o’clock. He received him in his dressing gown while having breakfast.

Naturally, his colleague had already eaten breakfast; he asked Lourdes for a cup of tea and an apple, which he once again peeled with that unnerving meticulousness.

‘Almost there,’ Dalmann said. ‘Just give me a moment to thin the blood, separate the platelets, regulate the heart rhythm, and lower the blood pressure, cholesterol and uric acid levels.’

While his boss, in sheer disgust, washed down his collection of medicines with orange juice, Schaeffer used the time to tilt back his head and put drops in each eye.

‘Well?’ Dalmann asked.

Schaeffer dabbed his eyes with a folded handkerchief. ‘Absolutely possible, he says.’

‘With the Pakistani menu, too?’

‘That too.’

Dalmann had charged Schaeffer with finding out whether Kull could also lay on a normal Pakistani menu for five people, served at a normal table with cutlery. The women could look after the erotic side – they would join the men for dessert and then return with them to the hotel. He wanted to broker a deal, not an orgy. He was not running a brothel after all.

‘Time?’

‘The caterers are free the day after tomorrow. But we shall have to let them know in the morning.’

Dalmann manoeuvred the yolk of his fried egg, which he had separated from the white, onto his piece of toast. Out of consideration for his health he did not touch the fried bacon – every other day. It was seriously difficult.

‘That’s decided then,’ he said, putting the piece of toast into his mouth.

31

And so it happened that Maravan, the Tamil, unaware of what was going on behind the scenes, ended up cooking dinner for Razzaq, the Pakistani, a dinner during which a deal was struck that, via a circuitous route, would supply the Sri Lankan army with disused Swiss armoured personnel carriers.

The client wanted to surprise his guest with a classic Pakistani menu. Maravan allowed himself to add a few surprises.

His take on arhar dal, a classic lentil dish, was a ring of dal risotto served with coriander air and lemon foam.

With a little gelatine he turned the nihari, a beef curry cooked on the lowest heat for six hours, into nihari praliné, and combined it with an onion emulsion and onion crisps on rice purée.

The chicken for the biryani was vacuum-packed, cooked at a low temperature and served in a spicy palm-sugar crust made with the biryani spice mixture – accompanied by peppermint air and cinnamon ice cream.

Happy to be cooking something different, Maravan worked with great concentration in the kitchen, which was poorly equipped, but jazzed up with plenty of granite and artificially aged wood.

A certain Herr Schaeffer – a gaunt, stiff man – had met them at the door and given them all the instructions he could. He would be out for the afternoon, he told them, but Frau Lourdes was on hand. The host for the dinner was due to arrive at seven; the guests at half past.

The dinner had been ordered for five people, dessert for ten. As Kull had put it, five women would be joining them for dessert. This should consist of the usual confectionery from the Love Food menu. ‘Right, so the jellied asparagus and ghee penises, and the glazed chick pea, ginger and pepper pussies,’ Andrea had specified as she wrote down the order. ‘And the liquorice, honey and ghee ice lollies.’

Shortly after seven Andrea came into the kitchen. ‘Do you know who the host is? Dalmann.’

The name meant nothing to Maravan.

‘Dalmann from the Huwyler. You know, that rather lewd old bloke at table one.’

He shook his head. ‘Maybe if I saw him.’

But Maravan saw as little of Dalmann that evening as he did the other guests.

The bell rang at half past nine. Maravan could hear laughter and the buzz of conversation. The women had arrived for dessert.

Andrea entered the kitchen and quickly closed the door behind her.

‘Guess who.’

‘Makeda?’

Andrea nodded. After that she did not say a word.

Shortly after dessert the men left with their women. Maravan and Andrea finished too. There was a single coat hanging in the cloakroom. Andrea recognized it as Makeda’s.

Nobody had booked Love Food for New Year’s Eve 2008. On the single hob in his studio’s kitchenette Maravan had cooked a classic Kozhi Kari, a chicken curry recipe Nangay had taught him when he was still a boy, with the usual ingredients plus a few more fenugreek seeds. He also put an extra pinch of cinnamon, as his teacher had always done, in the spice mixture of ground fennel seeds, cardamom seeds and cloves, before adding lemon juice.

Andrea was a work widow, as she called it. Makeda was booked. They had parted company an hour ago. Makeda was wearing a long, black, high-necked dress and it drove Andrea mad to think she would be spending the night with one of the elderly plutocrats who seemed to be everywhere.

Andrea had contributed the drinks for the lonely hearts’ New Year’s Eve party: two bottles of champagne for herself and two bottles of mineral water for Maravan. Sparkling.

She sat on the only chair in the room, Maravan on the bed. The small, round coffee table stood between them.

The room was cold. To satisfy his obsession that it should not smell of food, Maravan had kept all the windows open until shortly before she arrived. It must have been minus fifteen outside. She had to ask him for his blanket, which she now wore around her shoulders like a stole.

They ate with their hands, like the first time. The curry tasted like something from her childhood. And yet they had never eaten curry when she was younger – except for a dish in a restaurant chain that went by the name of ‘Riz Colonial’, a ring of rice with strips of chicken in a yellow sauce with lots of cream and tinned fruit.

She told this to Maravan.

‘Maybe it’s the cinnamon,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of cinnamon in there.’

Exactly, it was the cinnamon. Rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon, one of her favourite dishes as a child. And Christmas biscuits. And Lebkuchen. ‘Is it New Year’s Eve in Sri Lanka too?’

‘In Colombo, before the war, we used to celebrate religious festivals of all faiths. Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Christian. We got the day off school for all of them. On New Year’s Eve we’d be on the streets letting off fireworks.’

‘Wonderful. Do you think it will ever be like that again?’

Marvan thought long and hard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Nothing is ever what it once was.’

Andrea thought about this. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But sometimes it’s even better.’

‘I’ve never had that experience myself.’

‘Isn’t what we’re doing now better than the Huwyler?’

Maravan shrugged his shoulders. ‘The work is, definitely. But I’ve got more worries.’ And he told her about Ulagu, his favourite nephew who had become a child soldier.

‘And there’s nothing you can do about it?’ Andrea asked when he had finished.

‘Yes, I am doing something. But whether it will help…’

‘Why don’t you have a wife?’ Andrea asked after a while.

Maravan gave her a meaningful smile and did not say anything.

She understood. ‘No, Maravan. Get it out of your head. I’m taken.’

‘By a woman who sleeps with men.’

‘For money.’

‘Even worse.’

Andrea became angry. ‘Well, you do things for money that you wouldn’t normally do either.’

Maravan made a movement with his head that was halfway between a nod and a shake.

‘I never know what that means with you lot. Yes or no?’

‘In my culture it’s impolite to say no.’

‘Not exactly easy for a girl then.’ She laughed. ‘And yet you don’t have a girlfriend.’

Maravan remained serious. ‘Back home the parents arrange the marriages.’

‘In the twenty-first century? You’re pulling my leg.’

Maravan shrugged.

‘And you let that happen?’

‘It seems to work.’

Andrea shook her head in disbelief. ‘So why has nobody arranged one for you yet?’

‘I don’t have any parents and I don’t have family here. Nobody who can testify that I’m not divorced or have illegitimate children or am not leading an immoral existence, or that I’m of the right caste.’

‘I thought they abolished the caste system.’

‘They did. But you have to be in the right abolished caste.’

‘Which abolished caste are you in?’

‘You never ask someone that.’

‘How do you find out then?’

‘You ask someone else.’

Andrea laughed and changed the subject. ‘Shall we go outside and watch the fireworks?’

Maravan shook his head. ‘I’m frightened of explosions.’

It had started snowing again. The rockets glowed, swirled and sparkled behind a veil of snowflakes, some of which were tinged green, red or yellow.

The church bells rang out the new year, a year about which the only certainty was that it would last a single second longer than the previous one.

Dalmann was celebrating in one of the Palace Hotels and was now walking beside Schelbert, an investor from northern Germany, through the noisy lobby full of décolletés, miniskirts and stilettos.

‘Ghastly fashion this season,’ Schelbert sighed. ‘How will I recognize the tarts now?’

‘They’re the ones who don’t look like tarts.’