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  That was that as far as Maravan was concerned.

  18

  From the kitchen you could see the city, the lake and the hills opposite. Maravan was standing beside a snow-white kitchen island under a huge stainless-steel extractor fan which made nothing more than a quiet humming sound, like the air conditioning in a luxury hotel. The large dining table with twelve stackable chairs, also white, was not laid. The dinner was to be served in the sitting room next door, which was vast and full of art. It, too, had a glass front with a view of the roof terrace and a panorama of the city. With these sorts of dinners – Andrea called them Love Menus – the presence of the cook in the same room was naturally undesirable.

  Maravan found the situation rather embarrassing, as clearly did the hostess, Frau Mellinger. She was closer to sixty than fifty, very soignée, and slightly stiff, maybe just today and because of the occasion. She kept finding excuses to enter the kitchen, where she would cover her eyes affectedly and call out, ‘I’m not looking! I’m not looking!’

  Herr Mellinger had retired to his study. He also seemed to find the whole thing awkward. He was a gaunt man in his sixties, with short-cropped white hair, dressed in black and wearing black-rimmed spectacles. He had made a brief appearance, greeting Maravan with an embarrassed cough. When Andrea entered the kitchen immediately afterwards, his disgruntled expression brightened. Then he apologized and muttered, ‘I’ll leave you now to do your magic.’

  Only Andrea felt no embarrassment about the affair. She moved around this gigantic penthouse totally naturally, as if it were her own, and wore her golden-yellow sari with total self-assurance. Although Maravan always thought there was something not quite right about European women in saris, they somehow looked authentic on Andrea with her long, shiny, black hair, despite her snow-white complexion.

  The menu was the tried and trusted one:

  Mini chapattis with essence of curry leaf, cardamom and coconut oil

  Urad lentil ribbons in two consistencies

  Ladies’ fingers curry on sali rice with garlic foam

  Poussin curry on sashtika rice with coriander foam

  Churaa varai on nivara rice with mint foam

  Frozen saffron and almond foam with saffron textures

  Sweet and spicy spheres of cardamom, cinnamon and ghee

  Glazed chickpea, ginger and pepper vulvas

  Jellied asparagus and ghee phalluses

  Liquorice, honey and ghee ice lollies

  Andrea had persuaded him to introduce a couple of creative innovations. She suggested they serve the asparagus-and-ghee jellies in the form of penises, rather than asparagus spears. And the glazed hearts became pussies, as she called them. Maravan thought this was too explicit and had made a fuss. But Andrea said, ‘I’ve seen pictures of erotic frescoes which your ancestors painted on the Sigiriya rock fifteen hundred years ago. So don’t play the prude with me.’

  Maravan gave in. But in shame he covered his sweetmeats with baking paper, in case Frau Mellinger unexpectedly popped into the kitchen again.

  If Love Food were to have an official company logo, Andrea thought it would have to be a temple bell. She was sitting with Maravan in the kitchen, listening out for the ring from the room where the Mellingers were giving their relationship a fresh impetus. She kept on thinking she had heard something, rushed out to listen at the door, and came back empty-handed.

  ‘What are we going to do if it doesn’t work?’ Maravan asked.

  ‘It will work,’ Andrea replied determinedly. ‘And even if it doesn’t, we wouldn’t find out. Nobody’s going to admit that they’ve spent well over a thousand francs on an erotically stimulating dinner that hasn’t worked.’

  When she had served the champagne and appetizers, she came back giggling. ‘She’s wrapped up in flowing cloths, see-through ones,’ she reported.

  After the lentil ribbons she told him, ‘I presented the starters as “man and woman”, and he asked, “Which one’s the man, the soft or hard one?”’

  Embarrassed, Maravan said nothing.

  ‘Of course, I said, “Both.”’ Andrea paused for effect. ‘And she said, “I hope so.”’

  The gaps between the courses became longer. From time to time Andrea went onto the roof terrace for a cigarette. It was dark now, the lights of the city were reflected in the lake, the suburbs sprinkled the hills with dots of light.

  After the main course the temple bell remained silent. Maravan was getting nervous. The next course was the trickiest as far as timing was concerned. He had to cook the spheres for five minutes in algin water, rinse them with cold water, inject them with ghee, and then put them in the oven for about twenty minutes at sixty degrees. He could not allow half an hour to pass before dessert, and so ten minutes after Andrea had served the curries he had made the spheres, cooked them, injected them with ghee and rinsed them in cold water. He was afraid that they might collapse if they did not go in the oven soon.

  ‘Please go and check,’ he now asked her a second time.

  She went out, wondering whether she should knock or clear her throat. But halfway to the door she heard noises coming from the room that made the decision for her.

  She returned to the kitchen and said, ‘Job done. I think they’ll pass on dessert.’

  After this first job Andrea’s doubts had evaporated. The feedback the Mellingers gave their therapist was so positive that already the next day Esther Dubois was holding out the prospect of further bookings. The net income after deducting the raw materials and the cost price of the champagne was almost 1,400 francs. The work was easy, she did not have to put up with a boss, and Maravan was a quiet, polite and unassuming work colleague.

  But what tipped the scales was that Love Food had been her idea. It could not have happened had she not come up with the notion of using the Tamil asylum-seeker’s culinary arts of seduction for the purposes of sexual therapy. And you also had to have the right contacts to market such an idea.

  One of the things about her career that had bored Andrea was the lack of creativity. She had endless ideas, but never the opportunity to put them into practice. With Love Food this had changed radically. The idea was her baby, she was proud of it. And if it also brought in money, then she saw no reason why she should give it up.

  Soon afterwards, when Esther Dubois requested a booking for another couple, she said yes immediately. Maravan had no reservations either. Apart from the question: ‘Are they married?’

  Most clients were couples over the age of forty from income groups that allowed for the existence of such problems, as well as the therapy to treat them. All at once Maravan gained an insight into a layer of society he had never been in contact with before, apart from at a great distance as a chef at luxury hotels in southern India and Sri Lanka. He entered houses in which the cost of a chair or a tap could have met the financial needs of his relatives back home for many months.

  He moved around their kitchens like a member of the household, even though he felt like a blind passenger in an alien spaceship.

  Maravan had believed that, with every year he spent in this country, the mentality and culture of its inhabitants was becoming more familiar. But now he had glimpsed behind the scenes, he realized just how foreign these people and their problems were. The way they spoke, the way they lived, the way they dressed, what they considered important – he found all of this strange.

  He would rather have kept his distance. It troubled him that he was forced to intrude into the intimacy of these people. In the past he had found it disturbing enough that they did not seem to think it was important to keep their private lives private. They kissed in public, on the tram they spoke about the most personal things, schoolgirls dressed like prostitutes, and in the papers, on the television, in the cinema, in music, it was all about sex.

  He did not want to know, see or hear any of that. Not because he was a prude. Where he came from they venerated the female as the fundamental power of the world. His gods had penises and his goddes
ses had breasts and vaginas. The mothers of his gods were not virgins. No, he did not have a troubled relationship with sexuality. It played an important role in his culture, religion and medicine. But here he found it embarrassing. And he also guessed why: because in spite of the fact that it was everywhere, deep down these people found it embarrassing.

  But business was going well. Only four weeks after the Mellingers, Love Food had five bookings in a single week. A fortnight later they were fully booked for the first time.

  At the end of September they shared a net profit of 17,000 francs. Tax-free.

  October 2008

  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 re
gular 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.’