The Chef

43

It was thanks to an unnamed source that Freitag had come across Jafar Fajahat. Its latest edition told readers of the odyssey of some disused armoured personnel carriers via the United States to Pakistan, the biggest arms supplier to the Sri Lankan army.

The article again published photographs of Steven X, Carlisle and Waen. What was new was a portrait of a moustachioed Pakistani called Kazi Razzaq. Freitag reported that he came from the entourage of Jafar Fajahat, which had played a central role in the nuclear smuggling affair.

The captions were fairly sensational: Supplying the Liberation Tigers: Waen. Supplying the Army: Razzaq. Supplying Both: Carlisle.

‘Let’s hope it pans out well,’ Dalmann groaned when Schaeffer brought him the newspaper.

And it did pan out well. Although the daily press picked up the report and it was circulated in the electronic media as well, nobody seemed to be interested in delving any deeper into the matter.

The other news also worked slightly in Dalmann’s favour. In the American state of Alabama a man went on a killing spree, shooting dead eleven people, including his mother, then turned the gun on himself.

The following day a seventeen-year-old boy in Winnenden, a suburb of Stuttgart, shot dead twelve people at his former school, including three passers-by, and finished by shooting himself.

And then the day after that the Swiss government accepted the OECD standard, which signalled the end of bank secrecy, as Dalmann had predicted.

The relocation of some scrap munitions to a war zone pretty much neglected by the media had lost a lot of its newsworthiness.

They met at the rearmost covered bench on platform 8. Sandana had suggested this meeting point; she said she wanted to talk without being disturbed. She also sorted out their lunch: for each of them two pretzel rolls – one cheese, the other ham – a bottle of still mineral water and an apple.

Maravan was there first. A little further along the platform, where the roof finished, the asphalt was shining wet. A light but persistent rain had been falling since the previous night.

There were a lot of passengers on the other side of the tracks, but on his side the platform was empty. The last train had just left; the next would not be arriving for a while. Sandana had left nothing to chance.

Now she arrived, wearing trousers, railway uniform and quilted coat. Maravan got up from the bench; they greeted each other with their usual kisses and sat down.

He gave her a sideways glance. He recognized her expression from the Pongal: rebellious and resigned. She passed him the latest edition of Freitag. ‘Page twelve,’ was all she said.

Maravan read the article and studied the photograph of Kazi Razzaq next to the now familiar ones of Waen and Carlisle. When he had finished he looked at Sandana, who had been watching him expectantly.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Arms smugglers,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘They simply don’t operate according to moral principles.’

‘Yes, I know that, too. But chefs. Chefs should watch out who they’re cooking for.’

It was only now that he realized what she was getting at. ‘You mean because of this Dalmann chap?’

Sandana gave a resolute nod of the head. ‘If he’s involved with the American and Thai man, then he must have something to do with the Pakistani as well.’

Maravan shrugged again, slightly at a loss. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’

Sandana gave him a look of disbelief. ‘Is that all? The man’s involved with individuals who supply the arms that our people are killing each other with, and you cook for him?’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘And now you do?’

Maravan thought about it. ‘I’m a chef,’ he replied eventually.

‘Chefs have consciences too.’

‘A conscience doesn’t pay the bills.’

‘But you can’t sell it either.’

‘Do you know what I do with the money?’ Maravan now sounded tetchy. ‘I support my family and the fight for liberation.’

‘So with the money from the arms smugglers you’re supporting the fight for liberation. Great.’

He stood and looked down at her angrily. But Sandana took his hand and pulled him back onto the bench. He sat and took the sandwich she offered.

For a while they ate in silence. Then he said quietly, ‘He was only a guest once. He’s more of a middleman.’

Sandana placed her hand gently on his forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t know who I’m selling tickets to either.’

‘But if you did?’

Sandana pondered his question. ‘I think I’d refuse.’

Maravan nodded. ‘I think I would, too.’

It is possible Makeda would not have heard anything more about the Pakistan connection if Dalmann had not booked her yet again for one of his ‘normal evenings at home’.

He had asked Lourdes to prepare them a cold supper for two. This usually consisted of a variety of cold meats, cold roast chicken, cooked knuckle of pork, called gnagi, potato salad and green salad. He would accompany this with an ice-cold table wine from the region and round it off with a few bottles of beer. Makeda stuck with champagne.

They ate in the sitting room, did not say very much, channel-hopped for a while and went to bed early.

During their TV dinner on this normal evening at home she picked up one of the newspapers from the coffee table and leafed through it, chewing large mouthfuls of food. Without thinking, she had gone straight past the three photos. It was only a few pages later that she stopped and turned back.

She recognized two of the pictures: Carlisle and Waen. She did not recognize the third. That is to say, she had never seen the picture before, but she had seen the man. He was one of the Pakistanis from the dinner in St Moritz. Now she made out that his name was Kazi Razzaq and that he was an arms dealer.

He sold arms to the Sri Lankan army. And she had also met him at an occasion arranged by Dalmann and his strange colleague Schaeffer.

She looked at Dalmann, who was bent over on the sofa, breathing heavily as he gnawed away at his gnagi. ‘I hope you choke on that,’ she muttered.

Dalmann turned to her with a smile. ‘What did you say, darling?’

‘I hope you enjoy that, honey.’

Keeping to their ritual, she stood suddenly and said, ‘I’ll go up first.’ She kissed him on the forehead, went upstairs to the bedroom and left the door slightly ajar, as if accidentally.

Dalmann followed her quietly and, through the gap in the door, watched her undress tantalizingly slowly and vanish into the bathroom, where she also left the door open. Through this he watched her shower, soap herself, rinse off, dry and moisturize herself thoroughly.

But this time she did not give him any time to scurry out of the bedroom before coming back. She suddenly stepped out of the door, dragged him by his tie to the bed, and shoved him onto the mattress. Giggling, he protested, but she did not leave him alone. ‘Now you’re going to get it good and proper,’ she threatened, undressing him.

She gave it her best shot, and her efforts were crowned with success. But the moment Dalmann was about to penetrate her, he was let down.

She tried again: softly, roughly, intimately, affectionately and finally domineeringly and determinedly. Each time with the same result. Finally she gave up and fell into the pillows, cursing quietly. He could not understand what she had said.

Dalmann went into the bathroom, showered, and came back in pyjamas.

‘These fucking pills,’ he complained. ‘This never used to happen to me.’

‘Then just stop taking them.’

With the expert knowledge and pride of one who has survived surgery, he proceeded to tell her in detail about his stent, which enlarged the narrowed coronary vessel responsible for his heart attack, so as to prevent another blockage. And about pills and powders, which kept his blood pressure within acceptable levels, his heart beating regularly and his circulation unhindered.

Makeda listened, full of sympathy. When he had finished she said. ‘Why don’t we try a Love Menu some time?’

Why not? Dalmann thought, getting up again and fetching a goodnight beer from the fridge.

44

Maravan was sitting at his computer, trying to get through to his sister. Whenever he had to wait he would check the reports from the conflict zone. The front had declined to a tiny coastal strip on the eastern side of the island. There were around 50,000 men, women and children with the LTTE soldiers in this area. They were lacking food, water, protection from the rain, medicines and sanitary facilities. Every rocket and mortar shell was injuring and killing citizens.

Neither of the belligerents heeded the international appeals to allow safe conduct to the refugees or to limit the fighting to areas outside the densely populated refugee zone.

There were no details forthcoming about the conditions there. No journalists were allowed in the war zone.

Finally he got a connection. Maravan’s sister sounded despondent and apathetic. She listed names of friends, relatives and acquaintances who were either dead or missing. The supply situation was terrible. Transports kept on being held up at checkpoints for days. Goods were being confiscated. Sea access to the peninsula was controlled by the Sri Lankan navy.

No trace of Ulagu.

She said she felt ashamed to have to ask him for money again.

He assured her that she did not need to feel ashamed. He almost added that he was ashamed enough himself.

Thevaram and Rathinam, the two LTTE men, had stopped paying unannounced visits to Maravan’s flat. They could now rely on him to make donations without needing to be asked.

‘You’re in a difficult situation,’ Thevaram had told him the last time they had met. ‘You’re running a catering service. For this you need a licence that you haven’t got and are unlikely to get. You draw unemployment benefit, even though you earn enough, more than enough in fact. But you can’t stop taking it, because you’re worried the authorities would ask questions. So you’re forced to take the money. Might it not unburden your conscience if you at least donated that illegally earned money to a good cause? And you’d be helping your nephew into the bargain.’

After that, whenever Maravan was paid his unemployment benefit he would deposit a sealed envelope at the Batticaloa Bazaar, addressed to Th.

Andrea knew nothing of all this. And Maravan would have continued to keep it to himself if Love Food’s planning meetings had gone differently.

Yes, Andrea was now holding planning meetings. He had nothing against this; it had its advantages. It meant they did not have to discuss the calendar and bookings while preparing a dinner or in the car. But it did bother him that these meetings always took place at Andrea’s flat, and that Makeda was there more often. He thought she should keep her private life and work separate, and he also found it awkward discussing financial matters in front of outsiders.

At one such meeting in the office, which was now quite homely, Andrea revealed to him that she was planning to take a fortnight’s holiday with Makeda.

‘Who’s going to stand in for you?’

‘I thought you might ask your girlfriend.’

‘Sandana? Are you crazy?’

‘What do you mean? She’s a pretty girl and she’s no fool, either.’

‘She’s a Tamil woman. Tamil women do not work in the sex industry.’

Up till now Makeda had been silent. But now she laughed. ‘Ethiopian women don’t either.’

‘What about Tamil men?’ Andrea asked.

‘They don’t either,’ Maravan admitted.

‘So why do you do it then?’

‘Because I need the bloody money!’

Andrea got a fright; Maravan never shouted like that. ‘Why don’t we cancel all our bookings, then, and you take the time off too?’ she suggested.

‘I can’t afford to,’ Maravan muttered.

‘But we’ve been earning good money. You must have put enough away for a fortnight.’

It was in response to this that Maravan disclosed his situation.

Both women listened in silence. Eventually Andrea said, ‘That means you’re being blackmailed.’

‘Not just that. They’re helping me as well.’

‘How?’

Maravan told them about Ugalu. How he had signed up to be a Black Tiger and how the two men had stopped him from being accepted.

‘And you believe them?’ Makeda asked.

He did not reply.

‘I wouldn’t trust anyone who sends children to war.’

Maravan still said nothing.

‘Men,’ Makeda said, sticking her fingers down her throat. ‘Sorry, Maravan. Men and war and money. Makes me sick.’

Andrea took her cue. ‘And yet you spend all night with a man whose business contacts are flogging arms to the Liberation Tigers and the Sri Lankan army.’

Makeda stood up without saying a word and left the room. Andrea stayed seated defiantly.

‘Dalmann?’ Maravan asked after a while.

‘Of course.’

‘He’s involved with the Pakistani, too?’

Andrea nodded. ‘You too. You cooked for him.’

‘In St Moritz.’ It did not sound like a question. It was the confirmation of an unpleasant suspicion. ‘But I didn’t know.’

‘Now you do. And so does Makeda. So what now?’

‘I won’t cook for him any more.’

‘OK. What else?’

Makeda had come back into the room unnoticed. She was wearing her coat, scarf and gloves.

‘What about you?’ Andrea asked. ‘What are you going to do with Dalmann now?’

‘Just wait.’ She kissed Andrea on the cheek, patted Maravan’s head and left.

45

A cold and stormy night, rain mixed with snow. It was a five-minute walk to the tram stop. Maravan had put his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, pulled his woolly hat down and hunched his shoulders.

So it was true. Dalmann was involved with people supplying arms to the army and the Liberation Tigers. Why would he have anything to do with them if he was not caught up in their deals? Sandana was right: the money he was sending his family may have been coming from the profits made by someone helping Maravan’s compatriots to kill each other. And the money he sent the LTTE possibly came from the LTTE, who in turn were getting it from people like Maravan.

Everything was churning around inside his head. He had reached the tram stop, but he continued walking. The idea of sitting in a tram now, as if nothing were wrong, put him into a panic.

There was nobody on the streets. Cars drove past at long intervals. The houses were dark with closed shutters and curtains. Maravan walked quickly with long, sweeping strides. Like a criminal on the run, he thought. And he felt like one, too.

It took him almost an hour to get home, soaked through and out of breath. He lit his oil burner, put on a sarong and fresh shirt, rang the temple bell and did his puja.

When he had finished he knew what he had to do. The very next day he would go to Andrea and resign. It was not enough just to refuse to work for Dalmann. There were many Dalmanns in such circles. If he wanted to be sure of not getting his hands dirty he had to end it.

He would tell Thevaram and Rathinam he needed his unemployment benefit again because he was giving up his catering service with immediate effect.

It was past one o’clock in the morning, but Maravan was too unsettled to go to bed. He turned on the computer and started accessing the websites covering the civil war.

The LTTE had declared a unilateral ceasefire. The Sri Lankan defence minister called this ‘a joke’. ‘They should give themselves up,’ he said. ‘They’re not fighting us, they’re running away from us.’

The defence ministry website had put up a ‘Final Countdown’, so you could see how many square kilometres the Liberation Tigers still had to go. And the thousands of refugees packed in tightly with them. The figure was not even thirty.

One of the pro-government websites published a photo as proof that the LTTE had reneged on their promise and were still recruiting child soldiers. Two soldiers were standing in the luxuriant green of monsoon vegetation. They wore camouflage gear, had assault rifles slung over their shoulders and stared impassively at the camera. Palms and banana plants formed a dense wall in the background. A path had been cut straight through it. Tank tracks had ploughed up the soft ground.

At the soldiers’ feet the bodies of four boys were leaning against an overturned tree trunk. Their heads were slumped on their shoulders as if they had nodded off. Their combat gear was of a slightly different pattern from that of the soldiers.

Maravan enlarged the picture. He let out a loud moan.

Ulagu was one of the four.

Maravan spent the rest of the night in front of his domestic shrine, praying, meditating and dozing. At half past four he sat at his monitor and dialled the number of the shop in Jaffna. It was eight o’clock there now, it would be open.

He kept on getting the message that all lines were busy and that he should try again later. After half an hour the shopkeeper answered.

Maravan asked him to send for his sister. The man would not agree until Maravan had promised him a 5,000-rupee tip when he next sent money. He should call back in two hours, he said.

They were two hours of torture. He kept on picturing Ulagu in his mind. As a frightened little boy who always needed a bit of time before he would trust somebody. As a serious young lad who never wanted to play or muck around, but just wanted to know everything about cooking. He had only ever seen Ulagu laughing when he had managed to do something difficult, while preparing food or cooking. Or when he tried something and it tasted just right.

Maravan had never met a child like Ulagu, who knew exactly what he wanted to be at such an early age – and was so convinced he would become it one day.

Precisely two hours later he rang again. The shopkeeper answered and put his sister on immediately.

‘Ragini?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a muffled voice.

‘Ragini,’ he sobbed.

‘Maravan,’ she sobbed.

They wept together at a distance of 8,000 kilometres, to the static accompaniment of the World Wide Web.

46

Andrea caught up with Makeda that evening and persuaded her to come back. Maravan had already left, and they had made up. But this morning they had already started bickering again.

Andrea had made breakfast in bed and, when they had got all nice and cosy, said, ‘From now on the name Dalmann is taboo, OK?’

Makeda smiled and replied, ‘It’s not that easy. He wants a Love Menu.’

Andrea looked at her, aghast.

‘I hope you told him there’s no way that’s going to happen.’

‘No, I didn’t. It all goes through Kull, you know that.’

‘Then I’ll tell Kull.’ Andrea had put her half-eaten croissant onto the plate and crossed her arms.

Makeda continued to eat calmly. ‘He’s not going to accept it just like that. Dalmann’s an important client, he says. An important go-between for other clients.’

‘And I’m an important service provider.’

Makeda put an arm around her. ‘Come on, babe, don’t be so unprofessional. He won’t manage it, despite all Maravan’s artistry.’

‘But he’ll have a go,’ Andrea sulked.

‘Hopefully,’ Makeda said determinedly.

‘What do you expect to happen?’

‘That he kicks the bucket in the middle of it.’

Andrea looked at her girlfriend in horror. Makeda laughed and gave her a kiss.

At that moment the doorbell rang.

‘I’m not expecting anyone.’ Andrea made no move to get up.

It rang again. And again. Andrea got up in fury. She threw on her kimono and stomped to the door. ‘Yes?’ she barked into the intercom.

‘It’s me, Maravan.’ He was already at the door to her flat. She opened it and let him in.

‘What do you look like?’

Maravan’s hair was dishevelled. He was unshaven, which, for him, meant it looked as if he had a three-day beard. Dark shadows hung below his eyes and his expression had changed. Something had been extinguished.

‘What’s happened?’

Instead of answering he just shook his head. ‘I’m stopping,’ he spluttered.

She knew exactly what he meant, but still asked, ‘What do you mean, you’re stopping?’

‘From now on I won’t be cooking for Love Food any more.’

Makeda was now standing at the bedroom door. She had wrapped a sheet around her and was smoking.

‘Your nephew?’ she asked.

He sunk his head.

Makeda went up to him and took him in her arms. Andrea saw his shoulders begin to twitch. The twitching spread to his back as well. Suddenly a sound burst out from his chest. A high-pitched, plaintive, drawn-out sound that seemed at odds with this tall, quiet man.

Now Makeda’s expression crumpled too. Her eyes filled with tears and she buried her weeping face in his shoulder.

An hour later Maravan had calmed down enough for them to allow him to leave.

‘We’ll speak about stopping another time,’ Andrea said at her front door.

‘There’s nothing more to say.’

‘At least that solves the Dalmann problem,’ Makeda remarked.

‘What problem?’

‘Dalmann wanted a Love Menu,’ Andrea explained, ‘with Makeda. At his house.’

Maravan left. But on the landing he turned round again and came back. ‘After Dalmann, I’m stopping.’

47

‘If someone meets an unnatural death, their restless soul has no peace and forever haunts our world as a ghost.’

‘Do you believe that?’ Sandana asked.

They had arrived at the highest point in the city reachable by tram and from there gone for a walk in the nearby woods. It was cold and there was snow at 800 metres. Maravan had hoped to find snow, because ever since his winter walk in the Engadin Valley he would sometimes long for that white silence. But everything was green or brown. It was only when the wind tore open the high layer of fog that he caught a glimpse of the shimmering white hills and woods.

‘That’s what I was taught. I never doubted our religion. I don’t know anybody who does.’

‘I do. If you grow up here you learn to have your doubts.’

With her quilted coat Sandana was wearing a pink woolly hat pulled down tight over her head. It made her look like a child. This impression was reinforced by the fact that, despite the seriousness of the subject they were discussing, she kept on opening her mouth wide to exhale, gazing in fascination at the cloud of steam.

Maravan thought about it. ‘Must be difficult.’

‘Having doubts?’

He nodded.

‘Believing isn’t easy either.’

An elderly couple were coming the other way. The woman had been nagging the man, but now went quiet. Maravan and Sandana interrupted their conversation as well. As they passed each other, all four of them said ‘Grüezi’, according to the unwritten law of forest walkers.

They came to a fork. Without wavering Maravan plumped for the path that went upwards, towards the snow.

They continued walking at the same pace. The effort increased the gaps, first between sentences, then between individual words.

‘Everyone says the war will be over soon.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Maravan sighed.

‘Lost,’ she added.

‘But over at least.’

‘Will you go back?’

Maravan stopped. ‘In the past I was sure I would. But now, without Nangay and Ulagu… What about you?’

‘Back? I’m from here.’

The path led to a clearing, curving slightly. When they reached the middle, they suddenly saw a deer on the path. Terrified, it turned its head towards them, then ran away. It stopped, absolutely still, at the highest point of the slope and looked down at them.

‘Ulagu, maybe,’ Sandana said.

He looked at her in astonishment and saw she was smiling. He put his hands together in front of his face and bowed towards the deer. Sandana copied him.

Snow was now starting to fall from the white sky above the clearing.