The Chef (12 page)

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
goddesses 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.

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?’

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.

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.