The Chef (11 page)

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.

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.

That was that as far as Maravan was concerned.

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:

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.