The Chef

37

Maravan was busy most evenings at the moment. But he was able to interrupt his preparations at lunchtime, when he met Sandana. He waited for her outside the travel centre and then they would go to a café, restaurant or snack bar at the station.

They would use this scant hour to tell each other about their respective lives.

Once she asked, ‘If we were in Sri Lanka now, what do you think we’d be doing?’

‘You mean now? Right now?’

Sandana nodded. ‘At half past twelve.’

‘Local time?’

‘Local time.’

‘It would be hot, but it wouldn’t be raining.’

‘So, what are we doing?’

‘We’re on the beach. It’s a little cooler in the sea breeze under the palm trees. The sea is calm. It’s generally calm in February.’

‘Are we alone?’

‘Nobody to be seen for miles.’

‘Why are we in the shade and not in the water?’

‘We don’t have our swimming costumes. Only our sarongs.’

‘You can go in the water with those on.’

‘But they’d become see-through.’

‘Would that bother you?’

‘Looking at you? No.’

‘Let’s go in then.’

On another occasion Maravan told her about his fears for Ugalu. And about Nangay. What she had meant to him. And that he felt partly to blame for her death.

‘Didn’t you say she would have dehydrated without the medicine?’

Maravan nodded.

‘And didn’t your sister say, “One moment she was alive and the next she was dead”?’

They became closer. They rarely touched physically, although they gave each other the hello and goodbye kisses that were normal in this city, although improper in their culture.

She was still sharing a flat with her workmate, a jolly woman from the Berner Oberland, who he had once met when the two of them were leaving the travel centre at the same time. Sandana had no contact with her parents.

One evening in February, Maravan, who had been cooking in Falkengässchen and was able to clock off early, was sitting at his computer surfing the internet. The news from his country was getting more and more depressing.

The army had established a safety zone for refugees, which, according to matching reports from the LTTE and various aid organizations, they were now bombarding. There were many civilian deaths. Whoever was able to flee the conflict zone was doing so, and being immediately interned in refugee camps. Many people were saying that the government forces were on the brink of victory. Maravan and most of his compatriots knew that a victory was not the way forward to peace.

Shortly after eleven o’clock that night there was an insistent ringing at his door.

Through the spyhole he could see a middle-aged Tamil man.

‘What do you want?’ Maravan asked when the man took his finger off the bell for a moment.

‘Open the door!’ the man ordered.

‘Who are you?’

‘Her father. Now open the door or I’ll kick it in!’

Maravan opened the door. He now recognized Sandana’s father, who stormed into the flat.

‘Where is she?’

‘If you’re talking about Sandana, she’s not here.’

‘Of course she’s here.’

With a gesture of his hand Maravan invited him to take a look around. Mahit inspected every room, went into the bathroom and even looked on the balcony.

‘Where is she?’

‘At home, I expect.’

‘She hasn’t been at home for a long time now!’

‘I think she’s staying with a friend.’

‘Ha! Friend! She’s living here!’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘We don’t talk any more!’ He was practically shouting. Then he suddenly calmed down and repeated at normal volume, ‘We don’t talk any more.’ He sounded astonished, as if he had only become aware of this fact just now.

Maravan could see tears welling up in the man’s eyes. He put a hand on his shoulder. The man angrily shook it off.

‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’ He pointed to the chair by his monitor. Mahit sat obediently and put his head in his hands, sobbing gently.

When Maravan brought the tea, Sandana’s father had composed himself. He thanked Maravan and took small sips.

‘Why does she want us to think she’s living here when she’s staying with a friend?’

‘She doesn’t want to marry the man you’ve chosen for her.’

Mahit shook his head in puzzlement. ‘But he’s a good man. My wife and I spent a long time finding him. It wasn’t easy.’

‘Women here want to be able to find their own husbands.’

Mahit flared up again. ‘She’s not from here!’

‘But not from there, either.’

The father nodded and started crying again. This time he made no attempt to wipe away his tears. ‘This bloody war. This shitty, bloody war,’ he sobbed.

When he had calmed down, he finished his tea, apologized and left.

38

Maravan was no longer quite so focused as before. Now, almost every lunchtime he went out for an hour, whereas in the past he would have been busy concentrating on preparing dinner.

‘Just popping out for a bite,’ he would say.

When he returned he was usually quite cheerful, which he had not been for a long time, ever since that evening when he cooked the alternative menu.

Not long afterwards the client had ordered the same menu again and a different woman, but Maravan had refused outright.

‘It’s not meant for that,’ he told Andrea.

‘But the client says it worked brilliantly.’ ‘That wasn’t the intention,’ was Maravan’s answer. And with that he considered the matter closed.

He would not explain what the issue was, and she did not probe him. It was a delicate topic. She did not want to upset him. She was happy that he seemed so jolly lately.

It was only by chance that she discovered the reason for the change in his behaviour. Makeda had a booking with someone attending a UN conference in Geneva, and so Andrea had taken her to the station. After the train left she went into a sandwich bar on the station concourse. And it was there that she saw him.

Maravan was sitting at a small table with a pretty Tamil woman. They had eyes and ears only for each other.

Andrea hesitated for a moment, but then decided she would disturb their idyll after all. She went up to the table and said, ‘I hate to interrupt.’

The girl looked enquiringly, first at her then at Maravan. He had lost his tongue.

‘I’m Andrea, Maravan’s business partner.’ She offered her hand and the young woman took it with a relieved smile.

‘And I’m Sandana.’ She spoke Swiss dialect without a hint of an accent.

As Maravan did not invite her to sit down with them, Andrea left soon afterwards, saying ‘See you later’ to Maravan, and ‘Pleased to have met you’ to Sandana.

Later, in Falkengässchen, she said, ‘Why don’t you take the poor girl to a nicer restaurant?’

‘She works in the travel centre and only has a short lunch break.’

Andrea smiled. ‘Now it’s all making sense: you’re in love.’

Maravan did not look up from his work. He just shook his head and muttered, ‘I’m not.’

‘Well, she is,’ was Andrea’s reply.

The following morning another piece of Kugag-related business news caught the media’s attention. Hans Staffel, one of the Managers of the Year, had been relieved of all duties with immediate effect. ‘Due to differences of opinion regarding the firm’s strategic orientation.’ The commentators thought it was obvious: the CEO’s dismissal was connected to his opaque decision to enter a joint venture with one of the company’s largest competitors.

‘Look! We know him,’ Makeda said, showing Andrea the official portrait which Staffel had got an expensive photographer to produce for the annual report during happier times. Andrea was leafing through the newspapers she had bought while fetching the breakfast croissants. Makeda was watching her; she could not read German.

‘What’s happened to him?’

Andrea read the article. ‘Booted out.’

‘But I thought he was so brilliant.’

‘He screwed things up by getting involved with a Dutch firm.’

‘Wasn’t the guy he came to Falkengässchen with one of those?’

‘What?’

‘A Dutchman.’

Maravan was reading the paper for another reason. More than 10,000 of his compatriots had held a demonstration outside the UN building in Geneva. They were demanding an immediate end to the military offensive.

Over the last few days the news from Sri Lanka was getting ever more catastrophic. The area occupied by the LTTE had shrunk to an enclave of no more than 150 square kilometres, in the middle of which stood the town of Puthukkudiyiruppu. Kilinochchi, the Elephant Pass, and the ports of Mullaitivu and Chalai were in government hands. The Red Cross estimated that besides the roughly 10,000 LTTE soldiers, a further 250,000 people were surrounded and coming repeatedly under fire.

While demonstrations were taking place in Geneva, the government in Colombo was celebrating the sixty-first anniversary of Sri Lankan independence with a military parade. ‘I am confident the Tigers will be completely defeated within a few days,’ President Mahinda Rajapaksa declared. He called on all Sri Lankans who had left the country because of the war to return.

The Government had published not very convincing photographs of a two-storeyed, comfortable-looking bunker that had housed the Tamil commandant Prabhakaran, but from where he had made a hasty departure. A rumour was circulating that he had left the country.

It was not until he put down the paper that Maravan noticed the picture of a man he had let into the apartment in Falkengässchen the previous month, because Andrea had been out buying matches. All he read was the caption: Fired: Manager of the Year Hans Staffel.

Later that morning, when they were still in bed, Makeda said out of the blue, ‘He took photos of him.’

‘Who did?’

‘The Dutch guy. When the bloke who’s got the sack went into the next-door room with Cécile. After a while the Dutch guy stood up, took something from his jacket, opened the door quietly and stayed there until Cécile sent him out.’

‘How do you know he took pictures?’

‘Cécile shouted out, “Ça suffit! Photos cost extra!”’

39

Just for a change, Love Food cooked for a married couple again. The clients were regulars with Esther Dubois, the sex therapist – a sort of arty-crafty couple in their mid-forties who were working very seriously at their relationship. Andrea had no idea where they had got her details from. She suspected they were being passed around by word of mouth among Esther Dubois’s patients, because more and more clients were coming from this source.

They lived in a house with a vegetable garden and the wife wanted Maravan to swear that he would use only organic ingredients. Maravan agreed, although he could not provide a cast-iron guarantee for all the molecular texturizers.

While they were making their preparations, Andrea said, ‘Did you hear Staffel got the sack?’

‘The crisis is sparing nobody.’

‘Makeda said the Dutchman took photos of him while he was shagging.’

‘I don’t want to know what they do behind those doors.’

‘Don’t you see? He photographed him shagging and blackmailed him with the pictures. He’s supposed to have made some pretty strange business decisions all of a sudden, and then started working on something together with a competitor.’

Maravan reacted with a shrug.

‘And guess what nationality these competitors are?’

‘Dutch?’ Maravan guessed.

Maravan was not the only one in love. For the first time in years – how many he could not remember – Dalmann had lost his sick heart, too. It was now in the possession of someone who had little use for it: Makeda, a call girl from Ethiopia and constant companion of Andrea, CEO of Love Food.

He booked her several evenings a week. Not because his sexual appetite was insatiable or his performance in bed impressive; on this matter Dalmann was well aware of his age, his heart and the daily cocktail of medicines. No, he simply felt fantastic in her company. He loved her sense of humour and her sometimes obscure irony. But most of all, he could not get enough of her.

For a large sum of money, therefore, he led an almost conventional relationship with Makeda in his house, watching television and spending hours losing to her at backgammon.

Unlike other girlfriends in the past, she never demanded to be seen in public with him. She was in no doubt that theirs was a purely business relationship.

To begin with he had liked that, but as time went on it bothered him. He would ask whether she liked him just a little bit, and each time she would give him the same answer: ‘Like you a little bit? I absolutely worship you.’

Because she was non-committal he would give her presents. A pearl necklace, a matching pearl bracelet and a midnight-black mink stole.

He even took her to the Huwyler one evening.

Makeda ate her way through the Menu Surprise as if she dined like that every day. And she stuck to champagne all evening, which pained the chef in Huwyler, but pleased the businessman in him. Dalmann still drank wine after the aperitif, leaving the choice to the sommelier.

Word got around the kitchen that evening that Dalmann had a sensational companion. The entire team, one by one, peeked at his table from the serving counter and gave their opinion: dancer, model or tart.

Makeda was a luxury that, strictly speaking, Dalmann could not afford. Shares in the largest bank, where his supposedly safe investments had been made, had not recovered at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The bank, which was being propped up by the state, had just announced a loss of 20 billion francs – a loss never seen before in the country’s economic history. Customers had withdrawn 226 billion francs, and shares had lost almost two thirds of their value over this period. In addition, the American tax authorities were threatening to revoke the bank’s licence if it did not hand over the data relating to a few hundred US citizens suspected of tax evasion. Without a licence in the United States, the largest Swiss bank might as well shut up shop.

On the other hand, the business with Staffel and van Genderen had taken a positive turn. Although the new management, under pressure from shareholders, was desperately trying to rescind the deal between Kugag and hoogteco, he no longer cared as his commission had been paid, and to the right bank.

He was amazed how quickly van Genderen had talked poor old Staffel round; he had no idea how he had managed it. He did have a suspicion, though. The rumour (spread by a gossip columnist for the big daily paper) that Staffel’s wife had filed for divorce gave some indication. Not Dalmann’s problem either.

In a different field, the intermediary and consultancy work was also going beautifully well. That is to say, the business involving his Thai and Pakistani contacts, Waen and Fajahat. The two men had reached an agreement with Carlisle, the products had been sold to the United States and then delivered to Thailand and Pakistan. Dalmann doubted they were still in these countries. Most likely the Thai consignment had made its way unofficially to the Bay of Bengal and been loaded on to LTTE ships; the Pakistani one had probably been shipped officially to Colombo.

Of course, all that was beyond Dalmann’s responsibility. All he had done, and perfectly legally too, was offer up his services and receive an appropriate commission. If he hadn’t done it, somebody else would. This fee had also been deposited at a smaller, but more solid bank.

This supplementary income did not make him rich, but it made his luxuries seem less ill-advised.

40

At about nine o’clock in the evening two small aeroplanes flew from the north towards Colombo. The cockpits were manned by the two Black Air Tigers Col. Rooban and Lt. Col. Siriththiran. They had taken off from a street in the encircled war zone. Rooban had left behind a letter in which he implored the young people to join the Liberation Tigers.

They parted company shortly before reaching the capital. One of the planes flew towards the airbase at Katunayake; the other’s target was the air force command centre in the middle of Colombo.

At 9.20 there was a blackout in Colombo. A few sirens were audible.

Maravan was in a Tamil grocer’s when the news came through. The sound of whooping and clapping suddenly erupted from a room at the back. The owner came into the shop and bellowed, ‘We’ve bombed Katunayake and Colombo! We haven’t lost yet!’

Maravan had picked up some sali rice, long pepper and palm sugar, and was waiting to pay by the cash till. But customers and staff were jabbering away wildly to each other. Katunayake and Colombo! Bombed! And the army’s forever saying the Tigers have been conquered! We haven’t lost yet!

Maravan went over to the shopkeeper. ‘Completely defeated, Rajapaksa said, completely defeated!’ he yelled, his voice cracking.

‘Could I pay, please?’ Maravan said.

‘And they said Prabhakaran had left the country! Not a trace of him. There’s a photo of him with the two pilots on the internet! Ha!’

‘Could I pay, please?’

‘Aren’t you happy?’

‘I’ll be happy when there’s peace.’

The following day Maravan experimented late into the night burning cinnamon bark in his smoker. When he opened the kitchen balcony door to let fresh air in again, he could hear cheering and clapping above him. He went onto the balcony and looked up at the window.

On the kitchen balcony of the flat next to his stood Murugan, a husband and father who smoked on the balcony. He was also looking up.

‘Another air attack?’ Maravan asked.

‘Slumdog Millionaire.’

‘Slumdog millionaire?’

‘A film about a young man from Mumbai who lives in the slums and wins a million on a TV gameshow. It’s cleaning up at the Oscars. And the Ratnams are cheering every time.’

‘But the Ratnams aren’t Indians, are they?’

‘More Indian than Swiss, like all of us.’

Dalmann was concerned with neither the events in and around Sri Lanka nor the Oscar ceremony. He was a man of business and this, dear God, was providing plenty of excitement in itself.

His bank, for whose recovery he sent prayers to heaven every night, had begged the Government’s permission to release the customer details of 300 American citizens accused of tax evasion. This was the nail in the coffin of bank secrecy.

Saab, the Swedish car manufacturer belonging to the ailing General Motors, was bankrupt. Not that this surprised Dalmann – he had never had much time for these four-wheeled understatements for intellectuals – but the fact that the Government had allowed it to happen made him think.

Germany had announced an economic stimulus package of 50 billion euros and pushed up new borrowing to record levels.

And now this.

Schaeffer arrived while he was still in bed, where he would love to have wallowed a while longer in Makeda’s scent.

Dalmann kept him waiting for an hour, then came into the breakfast room showered, shaved and rather too perfumed. His colleague was sitting with a cup of tea and two garlands of apple peel.

‘What’s so urgent?’ was Dalmann’s greeting. He could sense this was no small matter.

‘The anti-arms export crowd.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘They’ve tracked down Waen.’

‘And?’

‘They were given a tip-off that he’d bought armoured howitzers that had been returned to the US.’

‘You know as well as I do there’s nothing illegal about that.’

‘But they’ve found out he’s supplying them to the Tamil Tigers.’

‘That’s his problem.’

‘I’m glad you seem so relaxed about it.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘They’ll publish it in one of their leaflets, one of our journalist friends with a good nose for a story will dig around and it’s not impossible they’ll come up with your name.’

‘In connection with Waen?’

‘In connection with Carlisle. You helped arrange his acquisition.’

‘So what?’ Dalmann sounded unperturbed. But they both knew he could not afford to be named in connection with such a deal.

Schaeffer got up. ‘I just wanted to warn you.’

‘Wait, not so fast.’

Schaeffer sat again.

‘What can we do?’

‘Not a great deal.’

‘But a little?’

Schaeffer pretended to consider this long and hard. ‘We could perhaps ensure the publication taking the lead in this matter is one over which we could exert a modicum of influence.’

Dalmann nodded. There was only one such paper. ‘How do you plan to arrange it?’

‘I’ll give them the tip-off about Carlisle. On the condition they keep you out of it.’

The man was good. He got on your nerves, but he was good. ‘And how are you going to prevent another journalist from researching the story?’

‘Journalists don’t research their colleagues’ exposés. They copy them.’

Schaeffer said goodbye and Dalmann set about his breakfast feeling somewhat reassured.

41

Shortly before eleven o’clock in the morning Andrea rang the bell beside the ‘M’ in the block of flats where Makeda lived. She had been waiting for her in vain all night. Although Makeda had said Dalmann had booked her, it rarely lasted all night.

One of their agreements was that neither of them should ever wait for the other, or ever expect them to come for sure. It should always be a happy surprise when they visited each other. But between them, as between all lovers, there were many agreements. And like all lovers, sometimes they did not stick to them.

Something else they had agreed was to ask no questions. They wanted to be able to keep secrets from each other. Not big ones. Just things that were no business of the other person.

Andrea could not always manage this, however. She never asked directly, but occasionally she would say, more to herself than Makeda, ‘Do I really want to know what you’ve been up to all night?’

Makeda never answered these rhetorical questions. And she never put one to Andrea either.

Makeda’s sleepy voice sounded over the intercom. ‘Yessss?’

‘It’s me, Andrea.’

Makeda pressed the button to open the door, and when the lift arrived at the fourth floor she was waiting for Andrea in the doorway.

Andrea greeted her with a fleeting kiss and went in.

‘Coffee?’ Makeda asked.

Andrea had been livid, but now that she saw her girlfriend standing there, so beautiful, so gracious, so relaxed, her anger dissipated.

‘Why not?’ she said, returning Makeda’s smile.

Makeda made two espressos, put them down on the small table between the armchairs, sat opposite Andrea, and crossed her legs. ‘Dalmann,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

‘All a bit much’ – Andrea copied the gesture – ‘Dalmann. In my opinion.’

‘He pays well and isn’t hard work.’

‘He’s a nasty old bugger who does dodgy business deals. He organized that evening with the Dutchman and the manager when the photos were taken.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The Dutch guy was accompanied by Dalmann’s dogsbody.’

‘Schaeffer? Interesting.’

‘I know this goes against our arrangement, but I really hate the way you spend so much time with Dalmann. He disgusts me.’

‘It’s my job to spend time with men who disgust other women.’

‘There are plenty of others.’

‘He’s one of Kull’s best clients. Good for business, he says.’

Andrea made an unhappy face. ‘Oh Makeda,’ she sighed, ‘it’s so hard.’

Makeda took pity on her. ‘I’ve never fucked him.’

Andrea waited for her to continue.

‘He can’t. He’s got a weak heart. He swallows thousands of pills every day. And drinks like a fish, too.’

‘So what do you do then?’

‘Question not allowed.’

‘I know. So, what?’

‘Talk, eat, watch telly. Like an old married couple.’

‘And that’s it?’

Makeda laughed. ‘Sometimes he wants to watch me getting undressed. And I have to pretend I haven’t noticed. He’s a voyeur.’

‘Disgusting.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s easy money.’

Andrea stood up, went over to Makeda and gave her a passionate kiss.

42

The weekly review Freitag had taken the report by the opponents to the arms exports and exposed the deal involving the decommissioned armed howitzers.

Next to pictures of the howitzers and a diagram of the Bay of Bengal, photos of the American businessman, Carlisle, and his Thai counterpart, Waen, appeared prominently in the report. Details about the two men were sparse, but readers learnt the following. On behalf of the manufacturer – and perfectly legally – Carlisle had acquired the howitzers for next to nothing from the authorities responsible for scrapping or returning them to the country of manufacture. Via the United States he had sold them on to the Thai, Waen, no doubt at a massive profit. Waen had then conveyed them to his country.

This is where the trail of the M109s came to a halt, but it was suspected they had been resold and stored on one of the ‘floating warehouses’, as the ships were called which supplied their customers in the Bay of Bengal. Until the recent fall of the ports Mullaitivu and Chalai, the main customers had been the LTTE.

Satisfied, Dalmann put Freitag beside his breakfast plate and picked up the daily paper. The previous day, just before the first PE lesson, the roof of a sports hall in St Gallen had collapsed under the weight of snow. Nobody had been injured.

Sandana was sitting at counter twelve. Andrea had not recognized her at first glance in her work blouse and the rather stuffy shawl that went with it.

Sitting on the chairs in the travel centre were people waiting with their tickets. They looked up every time there was a buzz and the numbers on the display board changed.

Andrea had taken several non-consecutive tickets, in case she was sent to the wrong counter.

Once again it was her habit of interfering in other people’s lives that had brought her here. Makeda wanted to cook her an Ethiopian dinner when she had an evening off, and had casually mentioned they could also invite Maravan and his girlfriend.

Andrea liked the idea, but was almost certain Maravan would say no. First, because he still refused to call Sandana his girlfriend; and second, because the only reason he did not frown at Andrea’s relationship with Makeda was because he ignored it.

Maravan was becoming depressed by the situation in Sri Lanka. But Andrea also suspected things were not running smoothly with Sandana. And his career as a ‘sex chef’, as he sometimes referred to it bitterly, did not make him happy either.

A dinner with the four of them might help improve the working atmosphere.

She had come here, therefore, to pre-empt Maravan. She wanted to invite Sandana and then present him with a fait accompli.

The very first of her numbers was for counter twelve. Sandana recognized her and even remembered her name. ‘How can I help you?’

‘It’s a private matter,’ Andrea said. ‘My girlfriend’s cooking an Ethiopian dinner tomorrow night and I’d love it if you and Maravan could come over.’

Sandana was slightly flummoxed.

‘Please come.’

‘Does Maravan want me to?’

Andrea did not hesitate for a moment. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I’d love to.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

That afternoon the troughs of ‘Emma’, the winter storm, had moved across the country. An occasional gust of wind made the candles flicker in Andrea’s spacious flat. They were sitting around the dining table; Makeda and Andrea were smoking, Sandana and Maravan drinking tea. They were in that relaxed and cheerful mood a good meal can create.

It was an elegant gathering at Andrea’s that evening. Makeda was wearing a floor-length embroidered tibeb, Sandana a light-blue sari, Andrea a low-cut evening dress, and Maravan had surprised everybody with his suit and tie.

He had declined Andrea’s invitation without hesitation.

‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Sandana’s coming.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Sandana is a decent Tamil girl.’

Andrea smiled. ‘Then it might be smarter if you accompanied her.’

So far he had not regretted coming. He had enjoyed the meal. It was not so different from the food in his country. Spicy and made with onions, garlic, ginger, cardamom, cloves, turmeric, fenugreek, cumin, chilli, nutmeg and cinnamon.

Makeda had cooked with ghee, too. Except it was spiced and called niter kibbeh.

And they had also eaten without cutlery. Even without crockery. The table which had been covered with white paper was laid out with injeras, large flat sourdough breads made from teff, a variety of millet that these days was farmed almost exclusively in Ethiopia. The dishes were put straight onto the breads, and guests would tear pieces off and roll them up as if they were making large edible joints.

‘Sometimes we make a single injera, as large as a tablecloth. But you can’t do it with the stoves here.’

The company was also good. None of Maravan’s fears had materialized. Sandana had not been shocked by the fact that the hosts were a couple, or by Makeda’s profession, which did not remain a secret for long. The three women were very much at ease with each other, like old friends. Maravan relaxed.

Sandana’s liberal attitude had also helped him to discard his reservations about Makeda. The dinner had done its bit, too. Anybody who could cook like that could not be so bad after all.

But at some point the women hit upon a subject which made Maravan feel tense again.

‘Maravan tells me that in your culture it’s the parents who decide who you marry.’ Andrea had asked the question.

‘Unfortunately,’ Sandana sighed.

‘So how do your parents find the right man?’ Makeda asked.

‘Through relatives, friends; sometimes they use specialist agencies, sometimes they use the internet. And when they’ve found a contender the horoscope has to be right, and the caste and so on.’

‘And love?’

‘Love is seen as an unreliable matchmaker.’

‘What about you two?’ Makeda asked.

Sandana looked at Maravan, who was scrutinizing the patch of table in front of him. She shook her head.

A gust of wind shook the window, slightly ruffling the curtain.

‘But here you can marry whoever you like,’ Andrea declared.

‘Fine. If you don’t care about giving your family a bad name and ruining the chances of your siblings marrying.’ After a brief pause Sandana added, ‘And breaking your parents’ hearts.’

‘How about your own heart?’ Andrea asked.

‘That comes second.’

For a short while the only sound was the distant slamming of a shutter that the wind was toying with. Then Makeda asked, ‘What about you? How come you were able to leave home?’

Now Sandana lowered her eyes too. Then she said softly, ‘In my case the heart doesn’t come second.’

In the embarrassing silence that followed Makeda said cheerily, ‘Well, you don’t have to be married to jump into bed with each other.’

‘Then you’d better not get caught. That’s just as bad as marrying outside of your caste. It brings shame to the entire family. Even to those who are back in Sri Lanka.’ After a brief pause, Sandana added bitterly, ‘But if it goes on like this, soon there won’t be anyone left to bring shame to.’

‘More tea or anything else?’ Andrea asked cheerfully.

Maravan gave Sandana an enquiring look. If she said yes, he would have another one, too.

But Sandana did not say yes or no. She said something unexpected: ‘Nobody writes anything about this war, there’s nothing on telly about this war, the politicians don’t talk about this war, and quite clearly this war is not a suitable topic for dinner party conversation!’

Sandana had sat bolt upright in her chair and knitted her beautiful eyebrows. Maravan placed a hand on her shoulder and Andrea wore a guilty expression.

‘It’s a Third World war,’ Makeda said. ‘I was also driven out by a Third World war that people pretended wasn’t happening. These days Third World wars aren’t an issue for the First World.’

‘But they are good business.’ Sandana grabbed her handbag, which was hanging from the back of her chair, briefly rummaged in it and brought out a folded piece of paper. It was the article about the ‘Scrap connection’ which she had torn out of Freitag.

‘Here.’ She gave it to Andrea. ‘They’re happy to sell scrap tanks to Sri Lanka using a roundabout route. But they don’t believe the people fleeing the war are in danger.’

Andrea started reading the article; her girlfriend looked over her shoulder.

‘I know them,’ Makeda said, pointing to the photographs of Waen and Carlisle.

Andrea and Sandana stared at her in astonishment. ‘Those guys? How?’ Andrea asked.

Makeda rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

Maravan stood up and went round to look at the slightly tattered piece of paper. Andrea flattened it out with her hands and Makeda switched on the light above the table. An oriental man with glasses and a beefy American stared back at them.

‘I’m absolutely certain. And do you know who arranged the date?’ Makeda did not wait for anyone to guess. ‘Dalmann and Schaeffer.’

‘I’m really sorry I behaved badly,’ Sandana said. They were standing under a tram shelter on line 12. Sandana had to change here; Maravan had broken his journey to wait with her. It was cold and gusts of wind were still raging.

‘You didn’t behave badly. You were right.’

‘Who are Dalmann and Schaeffer?’

‘Clients.’

‘Yours or Makeda’s?’

‘Both.’

‘Why do you call yourselves Love Food?’

Makeda and Andrea had used the name all evening long, as if it were a brand everybody knew, like McDonald’s or Mövenpick. He wondered why Sandana had not asked this question during the dinner itself. ‘It’s a good name,’ he replied.

Sandana smiled. ‘Come on, Maravan, tell me.’

He looked in the direction where her tram would come from. Nothing. ‘Well, er… I cook these dinners that…’ – he searched for the right word – ‘… stimulate.’

‘Stimulate the appetite?’

Maravan did not know whether she was pulling his leg. ‘Sort of, yes,’ he answered, embarrassed.

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘From Nangay. Everything from Nangay.’

A gust of wind swept through the newspaper box, fluttering the handful of free newspapers still in it.

When she got on her tram, Sandana gave him a shy kiss on the mouth. Before the door shut she said, ‘Will you cook me something too one day?’

Maravan nodded, smiling. The tram left. Sandana stood right at the back and waved to him.