The Chef

8

In May Maravan admitted to his family that he was out of work. He had no choice; his sister was begging him for far more money than he could spare. In Jaffna there were rice and sugar shortages. Even if Maravan had been working, what was available there on the black market would still have been beyond his means.

Nonetheless, he said he would rustle up some money somehow, and promised to call again the following day. But the next day he could not contact his sister. In the Batticaloa Bazaar he learned that Brigadier Balraj, the hero of the Elephant Pass Offensive, had died. Three days of national mourning had been declared, which many people in Jaffna were also observing.

He finally got through on the fourth day and had to tell his sister that he could not send more than 200 francs, scarcely 20,000 rupees. She was furious and reproachful – he had never known her to react like that before. It was only then that he came clean about his situation.

The month of Vaikasi was not exactly packed with festivals, and he had taken no bookings as a chef for family parties either. Job-hunting was a depressing process; not even hospital kitchens or factory canteens were interested in him.

If he had been in regular work, perhaps his romantic problems would not have bothered him so much. He would not have had to doze away his days in his flat, a lonely foreigner.

He was not merely lamenting a failed love affair. It had been the first time he had forged a personal relationship with anyone from this country. He had no friends, neither Swiss nor Tamil. He realized now that something was missing from his life.

Such was Maravan’s mood as he drank tea on the cushions, in the same place where he had sat that evening with Andrea. The air was mild, the window open, the noises of summer resonated outside: music, the cries of children playing, teenagers laughing in doorways, dogs barking.

The doorbell rang. It was Andrea.

It had not been easy coming here. At first she was certain she never wanted to see him again. What occurred that night had profoundly shocked her. She had asked herself repeatedly how on earth it had happened.

The fact that Maravan had been fired the next morning made it easier for her to keep out of his way. She was, of course, sorry that she had been the real reason for his dismissal – she was sure this was the case. But she also felt that her act of solidarity had gone some way towards making amends. After all, her outburst had resulted in a summary dismissal too.

But she could not stop wondering how things had gone so far that night. The answer she found most palatable was that it must have been something to do with the food. Although this was pretty unlikely, it was an explanation that would not force her to rethink her whole life from scratch.

The more she allowed herself to recollect the atmosphere of that evening, the more detailed the reconstruction of her feelings and emotions, the surer she became that she must have been under the influence of something.

And yet… she had been perfectly conscious of everything. She had not been drugged or defenceless. On the contrary, she had taken the lead and he had followed. He had been willing, yes, but he had followed. It had been an evening and a night in which her senses had been arrested more intensely than ever before. She was loathe to admit it, but if events had been triggered by something beyond her control then it was all a little less complicated.

This was why, in the end, she had gone to see him on this unexpectedly beautiful May evening. She would turn up unannounced so he would not be able to make a fuss. She wanted to keep her visit as businesslike and as short as possible. In fact, she had given herself a small chance of avoiding the encounter altogether: if he was not home, then that was fate.

The newspaper she usually hid behind on tram journeys carried a report about the secret destruction of documents by the Government under pressure from the United States. They were plans for gas centrifuges which potentially could be used for the manufacture of nuclear bombs. The documents had been seized in a sensational case involving the smuggling of nuclear material.

Andrea read the story without much interest and peered out of the window, which was etched with amateurish graffiti, at the relatively empty street. Rush hour was over and the traffic of people on their way out for the evening had not yet begun. The tram was half empty, too. An overweight teenage girl had sat down opposite her and was patiently unravelling the earphones of her iPod.

A group of young, second-generation Tamil girls were standing outside Theodorstrasse 94, laughing and chatting in broad Swiss dialect. When they saw Andrea approach they lowered their voices and switched language. They made way for her and greeted her politely. As soon as she had disappeared into the stairwell, Andrea could hear them talking in Swiss German again.

The house smelled of stewed onions and spices. On the first-floor landing she paused, uncertain whether to go on or turn back. The door to one of the flats opened and a woman in a sari peeped out. She nodded to Andrea and Andrea nodded back. She had no choice but to continue. This was fate, too.

When she reached Maravan’s door, she waited a moment before pressing the buzzer. She heard the bell ring inside the flat, but no footsteps. Maybe he’s not here, she hoped. But then the key turned in the lock and he was standing in front of her.

He wore a white T-shirt with ironed creases on the sleeves, a simple blue-and-red striped sarong and sandals. Andrea had never seen him with such bags under his eyes, to match his bluish-black stubble.

He was smiling now. He seemed so happy that she regretted not having turned back on the landing. She could see that he was wondering whether or not to embrace her, so she made the decision for him by offering her hand.

‘May I come in?’

He showed her into his flat. It was just as she had remembered it: tidy and well ventilated. In the sitting room the clay lamp was burning before the domestic shrine. As on the last occasion there was no music. Noises drifted through the window from the street.

A teapot and cup stood on the low table. She could see from the cushion at one end that Maravan had been sitting there. He invited her to sit opposite.

‘Would you mind if I sat here instead?’

She pointed to the chair in front of his computer.

‘Be my guest,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Like some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m not staying long. I just wanted to ask you something.’

She sat on the chair. Maravan stood in front of her. He looked nice. Neat, slim, well proportioned. But he elicited no feelings in her except sympathy and kindness. It was ludicrous that she had leapt into bed with him.

‘Don’t you have another chair?’

‘In the kitchen.’

‘Aren’t you going to fetch it?’

‘In my culture it is impolite to sit at the same height as one’s superiors.’

‘I’m not your superior.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, you are.’

‘Nonsense. Get a chair and sit down.’

Maravan sat on the floor.

Andrea shook her head and asked her question: ‘What was in the food?’

‘You mean the ingredients?’

‘Only the ones that produced that effect.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He was a bad liar. Until then Andrea had harboured doubts about her theory. But now he was acting as if he had been caught red-handed, so she was quite sure. ‘You understand perfectly well.’

‘I made the meal with traditional ingredients. There was nothing in there that didn’t belong.’

‘Maravan, I know that’s not true. I’m absolutely certain. I know myself and my body. Something about that meal wasn’t right.’

He was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head stubbornly.

‘These are ancient recipes. All I did was to modernize the preparation a little. I swear to you there was nothing in there.’

Andrea got up and paced back and forth between the shrine and the window. It was getting dark, the sky above the tiled roofs had turned orange; there were no voices to be heard from the street any more.

She turned from the window and thrust herself in front of him. ‘Get up, Maravan.’

He stood and lowered his eyes.

‘Look at me.’

‘In my culture it is impolite to look someone in the eyes.’

‘In my culture it is impolite to put something in a woman’s food to make her sleep with you.’

He looked at her. ‘I didn’t put anything in your food.’

‘Let me tell you a secret, Maravan: I don’t sleep with men. They don’t turn me on. They’ve never turned me on. When I was a teenager I slept with a boy twice because I thought that was what you did. But after that second time I already knew I’d never do it again.’

She paused for a moment. ‘I don’t sleep with men, Maravan. I sleep with women.’

He cast her a horrified look.

‘Do you understand now?’

He nodded.

‘So, what was in the food?’

Maravan took his time. Then he said, ‘Ayurveda is a type of medicine which is many thousands of years old. It has eight disciplines. The eighth is called Vajikarana. It’s all about aphrodisiacs. This includes certain food dishes. My great-aunt Nangay is a wise woman; she knows how to prepare such dishes. I got my recipes from her. But the way in which they were prepared was all my own invention.’

By the time Andrea left that evening, she had been initiated into the aphrodisiac secrets of milk and urad lentils, saffron and palm sugar, almonds and sesame oil, saffron ghee and long pepper, cardamom and cinnamon, asparagus and liquorice ghee.

She had given him a moderate ticking-off, even going so far as to describe his behaviour as ‘Ayurvedic date rape’, and she left his flat without saying goodbye. But now she felt more relieved than troubled. A couple of tram stops before she got off, when Andrea was able to look back at the whole affair with a little distance, she could not help laughing out loud.

A young man opposite her smiled back.

Their meeting had also brought Maravan some consolation. Now he could deal with the reasons for her rejection. He even felt a little pride at having been the only man for whom, for a night, she had betrayed her natural inclinations. And – if he were being honest – a little hope, too.

The following day he sent his sister 10,000 rupees to give him an excuse for calling her, and then he asked her to arrange a time for him to speak with Nangay. He would have to wait two more days.

When he finally got through to Nangay, she sounded weak and exhausted.

‘Are you taking your medicine, mami?’ he asked. He used the traditional polite form of the second person and called her mami: aunt.

‘Yes, yes. Is that why you’re calling?’

‘Partly.’

‘Why else?’

Maravan did not really know where to begin. She pre-empted him.

‘If it doesn’t work the first time, that’s perfectly normal. Sometimes it takes weeks, months. Tell them they have to be patient.’

‘It did work the first time.’

For a while she said nothing. Then, ‘That happens if both people believe strongly enough.’

‘But the woman didn’t believe. She didn’t even know.’

‘Then she loves the man.’

Maravan did not answer.

‘Are you still there, Maravan?’

‘Yes.’

Nangay asked quietly, ‘Is she a Shudra, at least?’

‘Yes, mami.’ The lie was excusable, he thought. Shudra was the servant caste. And Andrea was an employee in the service industry, after all.

When his sister came on again, he asked, ‘Is she really taking her medicine?’

‘How can she?’ She sounded annoyed. ‘We haven’t even got enough money for rice and sugar.’

After the conversation Maravan sat in front of the screen for a good while. He was now convinced that the rapid effect of the food must be down to his molecular cooking.