The Chef Page 8

  She shocked him with the description of her night of passion. Although she did not go into detail, she told him more than was appropriate to the moral sensitivities of a faithful Hindu. She finished off with the question: ‘And do you know when she left?’

  He cleared his throat: ‘Judging by your tone I imagine it must have been late.’

  ‘Half past two – this afternoon! Two-thirty.’ She shot him a look of triumph.

  ‘And why do you think the food was responsible? It could have been down to you as well.’

  Andrea shook her head emphatically. ‘Franziska doesn’t sleep with women, Maravan. Never!’

  She helped him load the equipment into her Golf and drove him home. For a brief half-hour he was able to imagine that part of his dream had come true: he and his partner Andrea ferrying the catering equipment back to the firm’s headquarters after a successful job. He was pleased that she was lost in her thoughts, too, and did not break the spell of his reverie with conversation.

  After everything had been put away in his flat, she made no move to leave. They stood on the tiny kitchen balcony, Andrea leaning against the railings with a cigarette. She did not inhale the smoke, and hastily stubbed it out soon afterwards, as if she were trying to nullify the drags she had taken. It had become noticeably cooler, but the rain had stopped a few hours earlier. From open windows came the music, chit-chat and laughter of Maravan’s Tamil neighbours.

  Down in the inner courtyard a dealer was concluding a rapid, silent transaction. Then both parties vanished.

  ‘What’s your greatest dream?’ Andrea asked.

  ‘Going back home, and peace.’

  ‘No restaurant?’

  ‘Sure. But in Colombo.’

  ‘Until then?’

  Maravan straightened himself, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘A restaurant here.’

  ‘And how are you going to finance that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Catering?’

  Andrea looked up at him. ‘Exactly.’

  He looked amazed. ‘Do you think it might work?’

  ‘If you cook as you did for me.’

  Maravan laughed weakly. ‘I see. What about the customers?’

  ‘I’ll worry about them.’

  ‘And what do you get out of it?’

  ‘Half.’

  Andrea had a business plan and a little money. Eighteen months previously one of her mother’s sisters had died childless, and had passed her inheritance to her four nieces and nephews. Apart from some savings, the legacy was a chalet with a few holiday apartments in a winter spa town in the Alpine foothills, where snow was not guaranteed and where the woman had spent half her life. The beneficiaries did not hesitate to sell the chalet. After deductions, each of them had received about 80,000 francs, of which Andrea only had about half left, because of her frequent changes of jobs. She wanted to invest some of it in Love Food, as she was now calling the company.

  She would obtain the equipment Maravan needed – in particular the rotary evaporator. She would buy a stock of cutlery and crockery. She would take care of drumming up custom. She would swap her Golf for an estate. She would be responsible for the administration and service side and put up the initial business capital.

  Maravan would provide the know-how.

  Seen like that, Maravan had to admit that fifty-fifty was more than fair.

  A Love Dinner for two would cost 1,000 francs, plus drinks, primarily champagne on the advice of the maestro, which they would be able to purchase wholesale and sell at restaurant prices.

  Maravan was in agreement with everything. It may not have been the sort of catering he had envisaged, but in his culture there was nothing objectionable about the idea of dinners to enhance the love lives of married couples – Andrea’s imagined clientele. And the prospect of spending a lot of time with Andrea made him happy.

  ‘Why are you so keen on this?’ he asked. ‘You’d find another job easily.’

  ‘It’s something new,’ she replied.

  A rocket soared above the roofs, slowing down by the second, stopped for a moment, then plummeted back to earth in red strands that burnt themselves out. People were celebrating the first of August. And the founding of Love Food.

  15

  This was the second time that Maravan had cooked in Andrea’s flat, but they had already developed a sort of routine. He knew where to find everything, and she no longer had to ask any questions when laying the table and decorating the room. They went about their work like a real team.

  The guest that evening was Esther Dubois, a psychologist Andrea had met in a club some time back. She had been there with her husband, although this had not prevented her from making blatant advances towards Andrea.

  Esther Dubois was a renowned sex therapist, who for a number of years wrote a well-regarded advice column in a magazine for women over forty. She was over forty too, had dyed her prematurely greying hair flaming red, and was a regular in the society pages.

  Andrea had contacted her at her practice and had little trouble in persuading her to come. ‘To an exciting culinary-sexual therapeutic experiment,’ as she had put it.

  She arrived half an hour late with a fat bunch of white arum lilies, because they suited the theme of the evening so well, she said. Andrea introduced Maravan with the following words, ‘This is Sri Maravan, a great guru of erotic cuisine.’

  She had not cleared the ‘Sri’ or the ‘guru’ with Maravan beforehand, and from his reaction she concluded that maybe she should have done. He held out his hand to the guest with a shy smile, then returned to his work.

  ‘How exciting!’ Esther Dubois said as Andrea showed her into the darkened room bathed in candlelight. She immediately made herself comfortable on the cushions and asked, ‘No incense? No music?’

  ‘Sri Maravan believes that both of these are distractions. One from the aroma of the food, the other from the pounding of the heart.’ This line had not been cleared with him either. She took the temple bell and rang it. ‘This is all he allows me.’

  The door opened: Maravan brought in a tray with two champagne glasses and two small plates of mini chapattis. While the two women clinked glasses, he drizzled the curry leaf, cinnamon and coconut oil essence on to the small chapattis.

  ‘No chemistry, I hope,’ Esther Dubois remarked.

  ‘Cooking is both chemistry and physics,’ Maravan replied politely.

  She took the chapatti, sniffed it, closed her eyes, bit off a piece, chewed solemnly, and popped her eyes open again. ‘An incomparable piece of chemistry and physics.’

  The therapist, normally a chatty woman, hardly said a word during the entire dinner. She restricted herself to making all sorts of sighing and moaning sounds, rolling her eyes and fanning herself theatrically. At one point she said, ‘Do you know what the sexiest thing about this is? Eating with your hands.’

  And when she had polished off the last of the glazed hearts with a contented sigh, she asked, ‘What now? Your handsome guru?’

  But the handsome guru had already gone.

  This third dinner had the same effect on Andrea. It was a wonderful evening and wonderful night, even though Esther Dubois as a person left her cold. She found her too intellectual and somewhat too broad-minded. Andrea did not like these bi women in open relationships with their husbands, who could ring up around midnight and say, ‘I’m not coming back tonight, hon. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’

  Anyway, the following morning she was happy that Esther had got up so early and had made a dash for it before breakfast, like an unfaithful husband.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me,’ Esther said when she came back into the bedroom and kissed her on the forehead. The promise was in reference to a short business chat during their night of passion. Andrea was pretty sure that she would keep to it.

  ‘Does it always work?’ Esther had asked with a sleepy voice.

  ‘It does with me. Even with a man once!’

  ‘I didn’t know you
slept with men too.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Extraordinary. What does he put in it?’

  ‘They’re ancient Ayurvedic aphrodisiac recipes. But he cooks them in his own very particular way.’

  ‘Do you know how many of my patients would give their right arm for a meal like that?’

  ‘Send them over,’ was all Andrea replied, snuggling up in the duvet and finally going to sleep.

  16

  Dalmann was convinced that Schaeffer was trying to expose him to ridicule. The tracksuit he had brought him was red with neon-yellow arms. ‘Couldn’t you find anything more conspicuous?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m told that the more expressive colours are preferable at this time of year. Not least for safety considerations.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I took some expert advice,’ his colleague said, rather piqued.

  Dalmann had put on the outfit, but in all honesty he did not care for it. None of the others looked any better in theirs, which were either too tight or too big. Nor did he care for the way they tried to atone for the sins of previous decades: slaves to their fitness machines, bright red in the face and out of breath.

  Dalmann was sitting on an ergometer, pedalling without much effort. In a slot in front of the handlebars was a sheet of paper detailing his personal fitness programme. He was skipping the other exercises, concentrating instead on the ergometer. This allowed him to regulate his exertions and sit down at the same time. The doctor at the health farm had told him to do the exercises every day, but never push it to the limit. Dalmann had strictly observed the latter piece of advice.

  They had inserted a stent, a tiny tube which expanded the constricted heart vessel that had been responsible for the infarction. It had not been a particularly invasive procedure; he had come through it well and now just had to complete this tiresome health farm treatment and take some medicine to regulate his blood clotting so that the tube stayed open. Apart from that he was supposed to lead a healthier lifestyle, watch what he ate and drank, and – the thing he found most difficult of all – give up smoking.

  In the past he had always said, ‘I’d rather be dead than go to a health farm.’ Now, however, he did not find it so awful. It was like a luxury hotel with a slightly more professional wellness centre. Admittedly, the guests were older and more delicate, and the only thing they talked about was their health. But he did not have to talk to them, did he? Every other day Schaeffer came with his briefcase and they spent a few hours working in Dalmann’s suite.

  His pulse had risen above ninety. Dalmann again lowered his leisurely pedalling rate a touch, then a touch more, finally stopping altogether and getting off.

  In the changing room he put on the white dressing gown with the large hotel logo embroidered on the chest, went to the kiosk, bought the most important papers, and shuffled towards the lift which took him to his floor.

  The newspapers carried stories about the resignation of Pervez Musharraf. Dalmann wondered what effect that would have on his Pakistani connection.

  He was going to have a shower, put on some normal clothes and allow himself a cigarette on the balcony. His non-smoking suite was full of no smoking signs.

  But when he came back into the living room it was so dark he had to turn on the lights. Low-lying storm clouds had turned the gloomy summer’s day into night. Dalmann opened the balcony door. The rain that sprayed in from the balcony darkened the light-beige fitted carpet.

  September 2008

  17

  National banks around the world were pumping billions into the financial markets to ensure liquidity. Ten large banks set up a fund of 70 billion dollars to prevent international panic on the stock markets. And Lehman Brothers, the fourth largest American investment bank, had become insolvent.

  Perhaps not the best time to start a company, Andrea thought, after Esther Dubois had hung up.

  She had kept to her word and only two days after the dinner had telephoned to book an appointment for a ‘patient couple’. Andrea had said yes, but now doubts were starting to emerge. She sat in the conservatory, in the creaky rattan chair which she had picked up with Dagmar at a flea market and painted green, and lit a cigarette.

  When she thought about it, her life seemed to be a long series of rash decisions. She was easily enthused and quickly bored. Education, career choice, relationships, jobs – all by chance, spontaneous and changeable. Was that what she really wanted? To invest a large proportion of the money she had left in a catering service providing erotic dinners, which could not even operate legitimately?

  She had made enquiries. She fulfilled all the requirements to obtain the police authorization to run a catering firm. That would be sorted out within a month. But the hygiene legislation presented an almost insurmountable obstacle. They would never be able to satisfy the endless regulations concerning kitchens and equipment, neither in her kitchen nor in Maravan’s, no matter how squeaky clean they were. Even if they could meet the standards, the sites would have to be visited and checked by the commercial arm of the police, the building inspection department, the food inspection authority and fire service. On top of this, as an asylum seeker Maravan was not allowed to undertake any freelance work. She could not employ him as a chef either, only as a kitchen help – provided she got the authorization from the office for employment – and would have to pass herself off as the chef. It was all too complicated for a project which might fail. And who would pay back her investment if she could not obtain a licence? If she really wanted to see whether it would work in practice there was only one option: she would have to do it unofficially. At least to begin with.

  But she did not need any of this. A week after her summary dismissal from the Huwyler she had already found another job. Not as stylish and gastronomic perhaps, but the pay was no worse and it had a younger, nicer clientele. It was called Mastroianni, an Italian restaurant right in the middle of the city’s club scene. Even if she resigned from there – which she was planning to do because she found the hours too late – she would quickly find something else.

  She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and pulled down the blinds of the west-facing window. It was a warm summer’s day and the afternoon sun would otherwise soon heat up the conservatory. The light filtering through the faded brown material gave the room an old-fashioned feel with its cobbled-together furniture and two dusty indoor palms. Andrea sat back down and indulged in the fantasy that she was part of an old yellowed photograph.

  Maybe it would have been better to keep her distance from Maravan after she had discovered his secret. That evening with him had preyed on her mind. She had needed to know for certain that it really had all been down to the food.

  But what about the convincing result of the experiment with Franziska, who had been uncontactable since that night? Was that not proof enough for her? Even so, it was no reason to question her whole existence and personality. And certainly no reason to share her work and future with the very man who had laid a trap for her. Even though she did not hold it against him, it was something that would always stand between them.

  She took a cigarette out of the packet with its bold death warning. When Dagmar still lived here, smoking was prohibited throughout the flat. The two of them had given up together. But after they split up, Andrea had started again and allowed herself to smoke in the conservatory. She did not have a garden, after all.

  The cultural differences between her and Maravan would soon lead to problems, too. The ‘Sri’ and ‘guru’ had already caused a slight upset. ‘Please don’t introduce me as Sri and guru,’ he had said politely but firmly. ‘If my people knew that I was letting myself be called those things I would be finished.’

  No, it was a bad idea, whichever way you looked at it.

  She put her cigarette in the ashtray and watched the smoke rise in a thin, vertical line until it was disturbed by the fronds of a palm leaf.

  Maybe it was this image which inspired her to do it after
all.

  Oh, just this once, she thought, they could give it a go.

  The shutters were closed in Maravan’s sitting room, but all doors and windows were open to allow a slight draught. Wearing only a sarong, Maravan was sitting in the half darkness in front of his screen, reading the news from his native country.

  The Sri Lankan government had ordered all United Nations and other aid organizations to leave the northern provinces by the end of the month. Almost one quarter of a million Tamils were on the run. A humanitarian crisis was waiting to happen.

  A few of the Liberation Tigers’ planes had attacked the air base and police headquarters in Vavuniya, a district which the Sri Lankan government had declared liberated a long time ago. With the help of the artillery, the Tigers had destroyed the radar system, anti-aircraft guns and the munitions depot, and killed countless soldiers.

  In retaliation the Sri Lankan army was bombarding the A9 highway and the surrounding villages in the Mu’rika’ndi district. Traffic had been paralysed on the A9 in the direction of the Oamanthai checkpoint. Relief supplies and medicines were no longer getting past the checkpoints.

  This meant that Maravan needed more money. Increasingly, his family had to buy on the black market, where prices rose every day. Especially for medicines.

  On top of this, Ori the moneylender charged steep penalties for defaulting on interest payments and was merciless in exacting them. And the organizations close to the LTTE were doubling their contributions because – how often had this been claimed? – they were in a decisive stage of the war of liberation.

  Maravan was still jobless and the little that he earned in addition to his unemployment benefit by making modhakam was nowhere near enough to cover all his debts.

  He was in a pretty desperate situation, therefore, when Andrea called and told him about Love Food’s first commission. He did not hesitate for a second.

  His only question was: ‘Are they married?’

  ‘For thirty years,’ Andrea replied, rather amused.