Authors: Martin Suter
‘You know how you’d occasionally put us in touch with women?’
Dalmann corrected him. ‘That’s not my area. What I did was put you in touch with someone who, maybe, occasionally put you in touch with women.’
Razzaq ignored this remark. ‘Would it be possible here too?’
Dalmann leaned back in the small armchair and acted as if he had to consider the matter. Then he said, ‘I’ll see what can be done. When would this be for?’
‘Tomorrow, the day after. We’re here for another six days.’
Dalmann made a mental note of this. He had earned himself the right to ask a question of his own. ‘Do you still work in security and defence?’ he wanted to know. When Razzaq answered
yes, he enquired sensitively, ‘Is our government’s change in strategy causing you a major headache?’
‘It’s not only unfair and short-sighted, it’s also very bad for security. And for business.’
That year Pakistan had been the largest importer of arms from Switzerland – 110 million francs’ worth. But at present the Swiss Government was holding back its approval of new
exports.
‘Public pressure is immense at the moment. There’s soon going to be a referendum on whether to ban the export of arms. When it fails – and it definitely
is
going to
fail – the situation will ease.’
Then Dalmann started talking about the disused M113 armoured personnel carriers and the perfectly legal possibility of importing these via the United States. He did not neglect to mention the
role he could play in such a deal.
Dalmann spent the evening at a reception held by an auction house presenting the best pieces in its forthcoming auction of works by New York expressionists. After that he had dinner – a
cheese fondue in a very simple restaurant, with a small, highly international group of acquaintances. A convivial gathering with an old tradition: anybody uttering the slightest word over dinner
about business had to buy a bottle of wine as punishment. It was permitted, on the other hand, to arrange subsequent meetings to discuss such matters.
Dalmann had delegated Kazi Razzaq’s request to Schaeffer. Although Dalmann knew Kull, he would not in any circumstances allow himself to be seen with the man.
He had told Schaeffer to come the following morning at ten o’clock. He received him in his dressing gown while having breakfast.
Naturally, his colleague had already eaten breakfast; he asked Lourdes for a cup of tea and an apple, which he once again peeled with that unnerving meticulousness.
‘Almost there,’ Dalmann said. ‘Just give me a moment to thin the blood, separate the platelets, regulate the heart rhythm, and lower the blood pressure,
cholesterol and uric acid levels.’
While his boss, in sheer disgust, washed down his collection of medicines with orange juice, Schaeffer used the time to tilt back his head and put drops in each eye.
‘Well?’ Dalmann asked.
Schaeffer dabbed his eyes with a folded handkerchief. ‘Absolutely possible, he says.’
‘With the Pakistani menu, too?’
‘That too.’
Dalmann had charged Schaeffer with finding out whether Kull could also lay on a normal Pakistani menu for five people, served at a normal table with cutlery. The women could look after the
erotic side – they would join the men for dessert and then return with them to the hotel. He wanted to broker a deal, not an orgy. He was not running a brothel after all.
‘Time?’
‘The caterers are free the day after tomorrow. But we shall have to let them know in the morning.’
Dalmann manoeuvred the yolk of his fried egg, which he had separated from the white, onto his piece of toast. Out of consideration for his health he did not touch the fried bacon – every
other day. It was seriously difficult.
‘That’s decided then,’ he said, putting the piece of toast into his mouth.
And so it happened that Maravan, the Tamil, unaware of what was going on behind the scenes, ended up cooking dinner for Razzaq, the Pakistani, a dinner during which a deal was
struck that, via a circuitous route, would supply the Sri Lankan army with disused Swiss armoured personnel carriers.
The client wanted to surprise his guest with a classic Pakistani menu. Maravan allowed himself to add a few surprises.
His take on
arhar
dal, a classic lentil dish, was a ring of dal risotto served with coriander air and lemon foam.
With a little gelatine he turned the
nihari
, a beef curry cooked on the lowest heat for six hours, into
nihari praliné
, and combined it with an onion emulsion and onion
crisps on rice purée.
The chicken for the biryani was vacuum-packed, cooked at a low temperature and served in a spicy palm-sugar crust made with the biryani spice mixture – accompanied by peppermint air and
cinnamon ice cream.
Happy to be cooking something different, Maravan worked with great concentration in the kitchen, which was poorly equipped, but jazzed up with plenty of granite and artificially aged wood.
A certain Herr Schaeffer – a gaunt, stiff man – had met them at the door and given them all the instructions he could. He would be out for the afternoon, he told them, but Frau
Lourdes was on hand. The host for the dinner was due to arrive at seven; the guests at half past.
The dinner had been ordered for five people, dessert for ten. As Kull had put it, five women would be joining them for dessert. This should consist of the usual confectionery from the Love Food
menu. ‘Right, so the jellied asparagus and ghee penises, and the glazed chick pea, ginger and pepper pussies,’ Andrea had specified as she wrote down the order. ‘And the
liquorice, honey and ghee ice lollies.’
Shortly after seven Andrea came into the kitchen. ‘Do you know who the host is? Dalmann.’
The name meant nothing to Maravan.
‘Dalmann from the Huwyler. You know, that rather lewd old bloke at table one.’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe if I saw him.’
But Maravan saw as little of Dalmann that evening as he did the other guests.
The bell rang at half past nine. Maravan could hear laughter and the buzz of conversation. The women had arrived for dessert.
Andrea entered the kitchen and quickly closed the door behind her.
‘Guess who.’
‘Makeda?’
Andrea nodded. After that she did not say a word.
Shortly after dessert the men left with their women. Maravan and Andrea finished too. There was a single coat hanging in the cloakroom. Andrea recognized it as Makeda’s.
Nobody had booked Love Food for New Year’s Eve 2008. On the single hob in his studio’s kitchenette Maravan had cooked a classic
Kozhi Kari
, a chicken curry
recipe Nangay had taught him when he was still a boy, with the usual ingredients plus a few more fenugreek seeds. He also put an extra pinch of cinnamon, as his teacher had always done, in the
spice mixture of ground fennel seeds, cardamom seeds and cloves, before adding lemon juice.
Andrea was a work widow, as she called it. Makeda was booked. They had parted company an hour ago. Makeda was wearing a long, black, high-necked dress and it drove Andrea mad to think she would
be spending the night with one of the elderly plutocrats who seemed to be everywhere.
Andrea had contributed the drinks for the lonely hearts’ New Year’s Eve party: two bottles of champagne for herself and two bottles of mineral water for Maravan. Sparkling.
She sat on the only chair in the room, Maravan on the bed. The small, round coffee table stood between them.
The room was cold. To satisfy his obsession that it should not smell of food, Maravan had kept all the windows open until shortly before she arrived. It must have been minus fifteen outside. She
had to ask him for his blanket, which she now wore around her shoulders like a stole.
They ate with their hands, like the first time. The curry tasted like something from her childhood. And yet they had never eaten curry when she was younger – except for a dish in a
restaurant chain that went by the name of ‘Riz Colonial’, a ring of rice with strips of chicken in a yellow sauce with lots of cream and tinned fruit.
She told this to Maravan.
‘Maybe it’s the cinnamon,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of cinnamon in there.’
Exactly, it was the cinnamon. Rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon, one of her favourite dishes as a child. And Christmas biscuits. And
Lebkuchen
. ‘Is it New Year’s Eve in
Sri Lanka too?’
‘In Colombo, before the war, we used to celebrate religious festivals of all faiths. Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Christian. We got the day off school for all of them. On New Year’s
Eve we’d be on the streets letting off fireworks.’
‘Wonderful. Do you think it will ever be like that again?’
Marvan thought long and hard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Nothing is ever what it once was.’
Andrea thought about this. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But sometimes it’s even better.’
‘I’ve never had that experience myself.’
‘Isn’t what we’re doing now better than the Huwyler?’
Maravan shrugged his shoulders. ‘The work is, definitely. But I’ve got more worries.’ And he told her about Ulagu, his favourite nephew who had become a child soldier.
‘And there’s nothing you can do about it?’ Andrea asked when he had finished.
‘Yes, I am doing something. But whether it will help . . .’
‘Why don’t you have a wife?’ Andrea asked after a while.
Maravan gave her a meaningful smile and did not say anything.
She understood. ‘No, Maravan. Get it out of your head. I’m taken.’
‘By a woman who sleeps with men.’
‘For money.’
‘Even worse.’
Andrea became angry. ‘Well, you do things for money that you wouldn’t normally do either.’
Maravan made a movement with his head that was halfway between a nod and a shake.
‘I never know what that means with you lot. Yes or no?’
‘In my culture it’s impolite to say no.’
‘Not exactly easy for a girl then.’ She laughed. ‘And yet you don’t have a girlfriend.’
Maravan remained serious. ‘Back home the parents arrange the marriages.’
‘In the twenty-first century? You’re pulling my leg.’
Maravan shrugged.
‘And you let that happen?’
‘It seems to work.’
Andrea shook her head in disbelief. ‘So why has nobody arranged one for you yet?’
‘I don’t have any parents and I don’t have family here. Nobody who can testify that I’m not divorced or have illegitimate children or am not leading an immoral existence,
or that I’m of the right caste.’
‘I thought they abolished the caste system.’
‘They did. But you have to be in the right abolished caste.’
‘Which abolished caste are you in?’
‘You never ask someone that.’
‘How do you find out then?’
‘You ask someone else.’
Andrea laughed and changed the subject. ‘Shall we go outside and watch the fireworks?’
Maravan shook his head. ‘I’m frightened of explosions.’
It had started snowing again. The rockets glowed, swirled and sparkled behind a veil of snowflakes, some of which were tinged green, red or yellow.
The church bells rang out the new year, a year about which the only certainty was that it would last a single second longer than the previous one.
Dalmann was celebrating in one of the Palace Hotels and was now walking beside Schelbert, an investor from northern Germany, through the noisy lobby full of décolletés, miniskirts
and stilettos.
‘Ghastly fashion this season,’ Schelbert sighed. ‘How will I recognize the tarts now?’
‘They’re the ones who don’t look like tarts.’
It was not long before Andrea saw Herr Schaeffer again.
They were making their final preparations for a Love Food menu for four people in Falkengässchen. She was just about to light the candles when she realized her lighter had run out of fuel
and she could not find the box of matches she usually had to hand for such an eventuality.
The kitchen had no gas stove, and there were no lighters or matches in the drawers. She looked through the furniture in the other rooms, but found nothing.
‘I’m just going to pop to the bar opposite,’ she said to Maravan, slipping her coat over her sari. She went down in the lift, crossed the street and got a book of matches from
the barman. When she left the bar she could see the two of them coming, more than a quarter of an hour early. She ran to the door and just got there before they did. She went up, threw her coat
onto a kitchen chair, and asked Maravan to let the guests in while she lit the candles.
She had recognized one of them: Schaeffer, Dalmann’s dogsbody. She thought she knew the other man, too.
When the candles were alight and the man had greeted her in a thick Dutch accent, she remembered where she had seen him before: in the Huwyler. Schaeffer had shown him the way, but had not come
up with him.
Having checked to see he was the first to arrive, the Dutchman was shown the room where dinner would be served, whistled his approval, and insisted on waiting for his guest in the sitting
room.
The other man arrived before the women. Andrea had seen him at the Huwyler, too. He was a slightly portly chap in his late forties with a hedgehog haircut. He was wearing a dark blue business
suit with trousers that were slightly too short, and he looked embarrassed.
‘How exciting!’ he said several times as the two of them were taken into the room. Just like Esther Dubois before the first test dinner.
It would have been easy to cancel, and now Staffel regretted not having done so. He felt the same as he had done with his first cigarette aged fifteen. His parents had said
they would give him 10,000 francs by the time he was twenty if he had never smoked. He was still convinced it was this agreement that had caused his moment of weakness back then. He had got away
with it; they never found out. Nor the other times. And he had wisely invested the 10,000 francs in hardware and software while studying engineering.
There was one other occasion when he had felt like this: in Denver about eight years ago. Not wanting to appear dull, he had gone with the other guys to a table-dancing club. He must have drunk
far too much and had woken up in his hotel room at five o’clock the following morning next to a fake blonde whose perfume he was only able to eradicate from his suit using an express cleaning
service.