The Chef

19

For Maravan, being fully booked meant that he spent the entire day and half of the night in the kitchen. At six in the morning he would begin preparing for the following day; shortly after midday Andrea would come by with the estate and they would start loading the thermoboxes and other kitchen equipment.

It was hard work and a little monotonous, because he had to cook exactly the same menu every time. But Maravan enjoyed the independence, the recognition and Andrea’s company. Day by day they became closer, albeit not in the way he had hoped, unfortunately. They became colleagues who enjoyed working together, and perhaps they were well on the way to becoming friends.

One of those lunchtimes Andrea brought up a bundle of post that had been sticking out of his overflowing box. Among the flyers and brochures (multiple quantities of which had been stuffed through the slot to deliver their load more quickly) was an airmail letter addressed to Maravan in a child’s hand. It came from his nephew Ulagu and ran:

Dear Uncle,

I hope you are well. We are not so well. Here there are many who fled to Jaffna before the war. Often there is not enough food for us all. People say we’re going to lose the war, and they’re worried about what will happen afterwards. But Nangay says it can’t get any worse.

I’m writing this letter to you because of Nangay. She’s in a very bad way, but does not want you to know. She’s very thin, drinks only water all day long and does it in her bed every night. The doctor says she’ll dehydrate if she doesn’t get her medicine. He’s written down for me what she’s got and what the medicine’s called. Maybe you can get it there and send it to us. I don’t want Nangay to dehydrate.

I send you my best wishes and thanks. I hope that the war’s over soon and you can come back. Or I’ll come to you and work as a chef. I can already cook quite well.

Your nephew,

Ulagu

Ulagu was the eldest son of Maravan’s youngest sister Ragini. He was eleven when Maravan left the country and he was the person Maravan had found it most difficult to say goodbye to. Maravan had been just like Ulagu when he was a boy – quiet, dreamy and slightly secretive. And like Maravan he wanted to be a chef and spent a lot of time with Nangay in the kitchen.

Because of Ulagu, Maravan sometimes felt that he had left a part of himself behind. Thanks to Ulagu it was still there.

‘Bad news?’ Andrea had watched him read the letter while she carried out the equipment on to the landing.

Maravan nodded. ‘My nephew says that my grandmother’s in a very bad way.’

‘The cook?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

Maravan read from the note enclosed with the letter: ‘Diabetes insipidus.’

‘My grandmother’s had diabetes for years,’ Andrea said to console him. ‘You can live with it till you’re ancient.’

‘It isn’t really diabetes, it’s just called that. You drink the whole time, but you can’t retain the water and over time you dehydrate.’

‘Can it be treated?’

‘It can. But they can’t get the medicine.’

‘Well, you must get hold of it here, then.’

‘I will.’

The waiting room was small and overcrowded. Almost all the patients were asylum seekers. Most were Tamils, though there was a handful of Eritreans and Iraqis. Over the last few years Dr Kerner had become the doctor for refugees, more by chance than intention. It had all started when he employed a Tamil assistant. The word had soon got around the Tamil diaspora that Tamil was spoken at Dr Kerner’s. The first Africans came later, and now the Iraqis as well.

Maravan had waited an hour before getting a seat. Now there were only four more patients in front of him.

He had come in the hope of obtaining a prescription. Maybe he would be able to send Nangay the medicine. Although it was getting more and more difficult, there were still ways. He would have to rely on the services of the LTTE, but he could accept that. After all, Nangay’s life was at stake.

The last patient before Maravan was called in, an elderly Tamil lady. She stood up, bowed with her hands together before the image of Shiva on the wall, and followed the assistant.

On the wall of Dr Kerner’s waiting room Shiva, the Buddha, a crucifix and a hand-written verse from the Koran hung side by side peacefully. Not every patient was happy with this arrangement, but as far as the doctor was concerned they could stay away if they didn’t like it.

A long time passed before Maravan could hear the assistant saying goodbye to the woman, offering a few comforting words. Just before six o’clock he was led into the consulting room.

Dr Kerner could have been around fifty. He had unruly white hair and tired eyes set in a youthful face. He wore an open doctor’s coat and a stethoscope, more to inspire confidence than out of necessity. When Maravan came in, he looked up from his patient file, pointed to the chair by his desk and continued reading the patient history. Maravan had been to see him some time ago because of a burn he had suffered while handling a frying pan in a professional kitchen.

‘It’s not about me,’ Maravan explained when the assistant had left. ‘It’s about my grandmother in Jaffna.’

He told the doctor about Nangay’s illness and the difficulty of obtaining the medicine.

Dr Kerner listened, nodding all the while as if he had heard the story long ago. ‘And now you want a prescription,’ he said before Maravan had even finished.

He nodded.

‘Are your great aunt’s circulation, blood pressure and coronary arteries all OK?’

‘She has a strong heart,’ Maravan said. ‘“If only my heart weren’t so strong,” she always says, “‘I’d have stopped being a burden to you long ago.”’

Dr Kerner took his prescription pad. While he was writing, he said, ‘It’s an expensive medicine.’ He tore off the sheet and pushed it across his desk. ‘A repeat prescription for a year. How are you going to get the medicine to your great aunt?’

‘By courier to Colombo and from there…’ – Maravan shrugged – ‘somehow.’

Dr Kerner thought for a moment, his chin in his hand. ‘An acquaintance of mine works for Médecins Sans Frontières. You know the Sri Lankan government has instructed all aid organizations to leave the north by the end of the month. She’s flying to Colombo tomorrow morning to help the delegation with their move. I could ask her whether she’d take the medicine with her. What do you think?’

20

This was the time when Hindus were celebrating Navarathiri, the struggle of good against evil.

When the gods felt themselves powerless against the forces of evil, they each broke off a part of their divine power and used it to fashion another goddess: Kali. In a terrible battle lasting nine days and nights she defeated the demon Mahishasura.

When the anniversary of this battle comes around, Hindus pray for nine days to Saraswati, the goddess of learning, Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, and Kali, the goddess of power.

Maravan had bookings every day and evening during Navarathiri. The only thing he was capable of doing when he got home late and tired was to make his puja – the daily prayer before the domestic shrine – a little longer and more celebratory, and offer up to the goddesses some of the food he had put aside for them. At the very least he needed to thank Lakshmi for the fact that he had sufficient money to send a regular sum back home and hardly any more debts.

On the tenth day, however, he got his own way. On Vijayadasami, the night of victory, he went to the temple as he had done every year since he could remember.

He had brought it to Andrea’s attention several weeks previously, and she had marked the date in her diary with a thick pen. But a few days later she had come to him and said casually, ‘I had to take a booking on the day of that unpronounceable festival of yours. Is that awful?’

‘On Vijayadasami?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Otherwise they couldn’t have done it for three weeks.’

‘Then cancel again.’

‘I can’t do that now.’

‘You’ll have to do the cooking then.’

Andrea did cancel, and these fledgling business partners had their first argument.

It had rained heavily overnight. A filthy grey stratus of low cloud lay over the lowlands for the entire day. But it was almost twenty degrees, warm and dry. Singing, drumming and clapping hands behind the vehicle carrying the image of Kali, the procession moved across the car park by the industrial building, which was where the temple stood, and which had been cleared of cars for the occasion.

Maravan had joined the procession. In contrast to many other men who were in traditional dress, he wore a suit, white shirt and tie. Only the sign of blessing that the priest had painted on his forehead indicated that he was not a detached onlooker.

‘Where’s your wife?’ a voice next to him asked. It was the young Tamil woman he had knocked over in the tram. She had raised her head and was giving him a searching look. What was her name? Sandana?

‘Hello Sandana. Vanakkam, welcome. I don’t have a wife.’

‘But my mother saw her. In your flat.’

‘When was your mother in my flat?’

‘She came to fetch modhakam for the temple.’

Now he remembered. That was why he thought he had seen the woman before.

‘Oh, that was Andrea. She’s not my wife. We work together. I cook and she looks after the organization and service side.’

‘She’s not a Tamil.’

‘No, she was born here.’

‘So was I. But I’m still a Tamil.’

‘I think she’s Swiss. Why does it interest you?’

Her dark skin became a little darker. But she did not avert her gaze. ‘I only have to look at you…’

The procession had reached the entrance to the temple. The crowd formed a semicircle around the statue of Kali. In the throng Maravan was pressed up against Sandana. She lost her balance for a split second and held on to him tightly. He could feel her warm hand on his wrist, which she held a little longer than necessary.

‘Kali, Kali! Why won’t you help us?’ sobbed a woman. She thrust her hands out to the goddess in supplication and then slapped them in front of her face. Two women beside her took hold of her and led her away.

When Maravan turned back to Sandana he saw her mother dragging the girl away, while giving her a good talking to.

21

The financial crisis had hit Europe. Britain had nationalized Bradford & Bingley, the Benelux states had bought 49 per cent of the financial company Fortis. The Danish bank, Roskilde, was only able to survive thanks to its competitors. The Icelandic government had taken over the third-largest bank, Glitnir, and shortly afterwards had put all banks under state control and issued urgent warnings that the country was in danger of going bankrupt.

European governments made 1 trillion euros available to the financial sector.

The Swiss government also announced that, if necessary, it would take further measures to stabilize the financial system and safeguard the deposits of bank customers.

The crisis had not yet hit the Huwyler. Except in the person of Eric Dalmann.

He was sitting with his investment adviser, Fred Keller, at table one as usual, but this evening it was on his guest’s bill. Not because things had got that bad, but because it was time Keller felt in his own wallet the damage he had caused.

For Keller had invested a substantial chunk of his venture capital – as Dalmann, with a wink, liked to call that portion of his money which he invested more speculatively – in the American subprime market. Dalmann did not reproach him for this; after all, Keller was an investor happy to take risks. What he did hold against Keller, however, was the fact that the latter had advised him to sit out the crisis when it was still in its infancy. The second crude blunder was that he had conducted all of this business via Lehman Brothers. The third, that the share of the capital which had been left in Europe had chiefly been invested in bonds in Icelandic krona.

And the fourth, that a considerable proportion of the non-speculative remainder of his fortune was in financial stocks – shares in the largest Swiss bank.

It had thus been a fairly silent meal up until now. They were eating the starter of the Menu Surprise, truffled quail mousse with essence of quail and apple crystals: Dalmann in his greedy, thoughtless fashion, Keller with a little more care and good manners.

‘Nobody could have seen it coming,’ he stressed. He had uttered this sentence once already, before the waiter had served the dish. But Dalmann had not reacted.

Now he did. ‘So why’s it so full in here, then?’ he snapped. ‘All this lot are perfectly relaxed. Who’s been advising them?’

‘Maybe they have a lower share of risk capital. It’s the client who determines the proportion of risk capital. The client says what percentage of his capital he wants to invest conservatively and how much a bit more dynamically.’

‘Dynamically!’ Dalmann spluttered, catapulting a tiny piece of quail mousse onto the plate of his adviser. With a stony expression Keller looked at his starter, only half finished, and put down his knife and fork side by side on the plate.

Dalmann had emptied his plate and also put down his cutlery. ‘So let’s talk about conservative investments. UBS, for example.’

‘But they were blue chips. Nobody -’

Dalmann interrupted him: ‘Are they going down? Are they going up?’

‘Up in the long term.’

‘In the long term I’m going to be dead.’

At that moment Huwyler came to the table. Before he could open his mouth, Dalmann said, ‘No real sign of the crisis in here, is there?’

‘People always have to eat,’ Huwyler replied. Not for the first time that evening.

‘And quality knows no crisis,’ Dalmann added.

‘That’s what I always say,’ Huwyler said, grinning.

‘I know. What’s the next course?’

‘A surprise. That’s why the menu is called Surprise.’

‘Oh come on, tell me. I’ve had enough surprises today already.’

Huwyler hesitated. ‘Breton lobster,’ he said.

‘How’s it done?’

‘That’s the surprise.’

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘That’s why you got rid of those cloches, so you can see what’s being served.’

Huwyler took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Do you miss the cloches, then?’

‘I thought that they enhanced the food.’

‘And I thought it didn’t need any enhancing.’

Huwyler was saved by the waiter who came to clear the plates.

It was not exactly a life and death scenario for Dalmann, but he still had some serious problems.

Many of his Russian business friends for whom he had brokered contacts and created an agreeable business climate here were feeling the crisis and staying away.

Then there was the Liechtenstein affair. German tax investigators had paid an informant for the bank details of hundreds of German nationals with accounts at the Landesbank. This not only had a negative impact on Dalmann’s brokering contacts in Liechtenstein, but it also put pressure on bank secrecy in Switzerland and thus made life more difficult for his activities as intermediary and consultant.

And then the subject of destroying documents in the nuclear smuggling affair also kept on flaring up. Each time with the risk that the name Palucron and Dalmann’s former role as a director there would appear in the press.

All this would have been more bearable without his health worries as well. Although he had made a good recovery since his heart attack, he was not the man he used to be. The incident had reminded him of his mortality and taken away some of his joie de vivre. Although he continued to do all the things that Anton Hottinger, his friend and doctor, had always forbidden him, he now did them with a bad conscience. This was something that had never troubled him before, certainly not in relation to his lifestyle. He had once heard that the vices you indulged in with a bad conscience were far unhealthier than all the others.

This is why recently he had started working systematically on his conscience rather than his vices. Up until now it had not brought him any noticeable improvement.

22

Until recently Andrea had resisted taking over Dagmar’s bedroom. She wanted to keep open the option of having a flatmate. But Love Food was now going so well that she could afford to live here alone. So now she was using the room as an office.

She had not found it easy to remove the last traces of Dagmar: the bits of Sellotape which had attached stills from her favourite films to the wall. Dagmar was a cinema freak. She loved difficult art-house movies in incomprehensible languages, owned a collection of Swedish silent movies, and was an expert on post-revolutionary Russian cinema. This passion had been the cause of many crises in their relationship. Not only because Andrea’s taste in films was completely different, but mainly because their jobs allowed them so little time off together. Dagmar was a dental hygienist, and Andrea did not want to spend each one of the few free evenings she had with her girlfriend watching films about social issues.

But Dagmar’s obsession was also part of the reason why Andrea was so fascinated with her. She dressed, made herself up and styled her hair like a silent film star, smoked with a long cigarette holder before they both gave up together, and arranged her bedroom like a star’s dressing room from the 1920s. The fact that Andrea liked to look slightly glamorous was a vestige of her relationship with Dagmar.

Now the room had been freshly painted and furnished with office gear: a desk with PC and telephone, and an adjustable swivel chair. Everything apart from the telephone and computer came from a second-hand shop near Maravan’s flat.

The only thing that still reminded her of Dagmar was a forgotten rock crystal prism, which hung from a long piece of string in front of one of the two windows, and occasionally refracted the rays of the morning sun into its spectral colours, scattering them into the room as colourful patches of light.

Andrea did not really need an office; a few telephone numbers, two files and a diary would have sufficed for the administrative side of Love Food. But it made the whole thing more professional. With an office, Love Food became a company and her job became a career.

Another reason for not keeping the room spare was that the few female visitors who stayed the night slept in her bed. She was living the life of a single woman and had no intention of entering into another serious relationship so soon. Love Food did not allow her any time to feel lonely.

She was sitting in this office, watching the colourful patches of light dance on the walls, when Herr Mellinger, her first ever customer, called. She was slightly surprised. Although quite a few couples booked Love Food a second time, until now everything had come via the practice of Esther Dubois, the therapist. It was a new thing for someone to contact her directly.

It was not long before Andrea discovered the reason.

Slightly embarrassed, Herr Mellinger cleared his throat and then came to the point: ‘Do you also do, erm, discreet dinners?’

‘If we weren’t discreet we would have to shut up shop.’

‘No sure, I mean, erm, discreet as far as Frau Doctor Dubois is concerned?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I mean, do you also do those dinners without her knowledge?’

Andrea thought for a moment. Then she decided she would not recklessly jeopardize their business relationship with Esther, who took a 10 per cent cut. ‘I don’t think that would be fair. And it might compromise the success of the therapy.’

‘Not as part of the therapy.’ Now Mellinger sounded rather impatient.

And when Andrea still failed to understand, he became more specific: ‘Not my wife. Do you understand?’

Andrea understood. But if Esther found out…

‘I’ll pay double.’

But then again, who would tell Esther? Certainly not Mellinger.

She therefore agreed and arranged a date.

The sitting room in the three-roomed maisonette was on the first floor, which was accessed via a spiral staircase. It was stuffed full of pink kitsch: cushions, dolls, cuddly toys, porcelain trinkets, pictures, blankets, wall hangings, feather boas, tutus, glitz, glimmer, fashion jewellery.

‘I collect pink things,’ Alina had explained when she showed Andrea into the room. She was a short blonde woman, very sweet if you liked that type. And Mellinger obviously did. The flat certainly had not been cheap. It was new, in a good part of town, and the interior was expensive.

‘Shall we stick to first names? You can’t be that much older than me,’ Alina said.

Andrea agreed. By her reckoning she was even a little younger.

‘I’ll let you get on. Please make yourselves at home,’ Alina had said, absenting herself for the afternoon. ‘I’d just get in your way.’ Andrea and Maravan dragged the round table, the cushions and the cloths up the spiral staircase. These were no longer Maravan’s private possessions: Love Food had acquired them.

‘Not really apt, I fear,’ Andrea said to Maravan, pointing at all the pink.

‘On the contrary: for us Hindus pink is the colour of the heart chakra. Green and pink. The centre of love, kaadhal.’

Andrea set about preparing the room, Maravan retired to the kitchen.

Later, while Andrea watched him intertwine the crunchy and elastic strips of urad lentils – something else he performed with greater craftsmanship each time – he said, shaking his head, more to himself than to her, ‘It’s strange, she’s so young and yet she’s got these problems already.’

Andrea had not filled him in about the particular circumstances of this job and its fee. She did not say anything now either, and, unless it became necessary, had no intention of doing so later.

He would never have known if it had not been for that spiral staircase.

Andrea was carrying the tray with the ghee spheres upstairs. Halfway up she trod on the hem of her sari. Rather than dropping the tray and holding on to the rail, she tried to regain her balance without using her hands and twisted her ankle.

She just about managed to serve the dish and hobble back into the kitchen. But then she sat on a chair and examined her ankle. It was already a bit swollen. Maravan had to fill in for her.

He carried the tray with the tea and sweetmeats up the stairs and knocked.

‘Come in,’ a man’s voice called.

Maravan entered the room. The candlelight gave a golden gleam to the sea of pink. Alina was slumped back on the cushions. When she realized that it was not Andrea she covered her breasts with her arm and let out an ‘Oh!’ which was more amused than shocked.

The man was sitting with his back to the door. Now he turned his head and said, ‘Hee, hee.’ He was naked to the waist as well.

Maravan recognized him. It was Herr Mellinger, the first Love Food client. He wondered for a moment whether he ought to go out again and give the two of them the opportunity to put on a few clothes.

‘Don’t mind us,’ Alina said. ‘We’re feeling pretty hot already.’

Maravan put the tray onto the table and cleared away the crockery from the previous course. He tried not to look at either of them, but he could not ignore a pair of men’s trousers and some pink lingerie which were strewn beside the table.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he asked Andrea in the kitchen.

‘This time you didn’t ask if they were married.’

‘Because I thought I could take that for granted.’

‘Why’s it so important?’

‘If they’re married, this is perfectly normal. Now it’s something else. Now it’s improper.’

Andrea looked as if she was struggling to come to a decision. Then she said, ‘That’s why it’s better paid. Like all improper things.’