The Chef (13 page)

And the fourth, that a considerable proportion of the non-speculative remainder of his fortune was in financial stocks – shares in the largest Swiss bank.

It had thus been a fairly silent meal up until now. They were eating the starter of the
Menu Surprise
, truffled quail mousse with essence of quail and apple crystals: Dalmann in his
greedy, thoughtless fashion, Keller with a little more care and good manners.

‘Nobody could have seen it coming,’ he stressed. He had uttered this sentence once already, before the waiter had served the dish. But Dalmann had not reacted.

Now he did. ‘So why’s it so full in here, then?’ he snapped. ‘All this lot are perfectly relaxed. Who’s been advising them?’

‘Maybe they have a lower share of risk capital. It’s the client who determines the proportion of risk capital. The client says what percentage of his capital he wants to invest
conservatively and how much a bit more dynamically.’

‘Dynamically!’ Dalmann spluttered, catapulting a tiny piece of quail mousse onto the plate of his adviser. With a stony expression Keller looked at his starter, only half finished,
and put down his knife and fork side by side on the plate.

Dalmann had emptied his plate and also put down his cutlery. ‘So let’s talk about conservative investments. UBS, for example.’

‘But they were blue chips. Nobody –’

Dalmann interrupted him: ‘Are they going down? Are they going up?’

‘Up in the long term.’

‘In the long term I’m going to be dead.’

At that moment Huwyler came to the table. Before he could open his mouth, Dalmann said, ‘No real sign of the crisis in here, is there?’

‘People always have to eat,’ Huwyler replied. Not for the first time that evening.

‘And quality knows no crisis,’ Dalmann added.

‘That’s what I always say,’ Huwyler said, grinning.

‘I know. What’s the next course?’

‘A surprise. That’s why the menu is called
Surprise
.’

‘Oh come on, tell me. I’ve had enough surprises today already.’

Huwyler hesitated. ‘Breton lobster,’ he said.

‘How’s it done?’

‘That’s the surprise.’

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘That’s why you got rid of those cloches, so you can see what’s being served.’

Huwyler took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Do you miss the cloches, then?’

‘I thought that they enhanced the food.’

‘And I thought it didn’t need any enhancing.’

Huwyler was saved by the waiter who came to clear the plates.

It was not exactly a life and death scenario for Dalmann, but he still had some serious problems.

Many of his Russian business friends for whom he had brokered contacts and created an agreeable business climate here were feeling the crisis and staying away.

Then there was the Liechtenstein affair. German tax investigators had paid an informant for the bank details of hundreds of German nationals with accounts at the Landesbank. This not only had a
negative impact on Dalmann’s brokering contacts in Liechtenstein, but it also put pressure on bank secrecy in Switzerland and thus made life more difficult for his activities as intermediary
and consultant.

And then the subject of destroying documents in the nuclear smuggling affair also kept on flaring up. Each time with the risk that the name Palucron and Dalmann’s former role as a director
there would appear in the press.

All this would have been more bearable without his health worries as well. Although he had made a good recovery since his heart attack, he was not the man he used to be. The incident had
reminded him of his mortality and taken away some of his
joie de vivre
. Although he continued to do all the things that Anton Hottinger, his friend and doctor, had always forbidden him, he
now did them with a bad conscience. This was something that had never troubled him before, certainly not in relation to his lifestyle. He had once heard that the vices you indulged in with a bad
conscience were far unhealthier than all the others.

This is why recently he had started working systematically on his conscience rather than his vices. Up until now it had not brought him any noticeable improvement.

Until recently Andrea had resisted taking over Dagmar’s bedroom. She wanted to keep open the option of having a flatmate. But Love Food was now going so well that she
could afford to live here alone. So now she was using the room as an office.

She had not found it easy to remove the last traces of Dagmar: the bits of Sellotape which had attached stills from her favourite films to the wall. Dagmar was a cinema freak. She loved
difficult art-house movies in incomprehensible languages, owned a collection of Swedish silent movies, and was an expert on post-revolutionary Russian cinema. This passion had been the cause of
many crises in their relationship. Not only because Andrea’s taste in films was completely different, but mainly because their jobs allowed them so little time off together. Dagmar was a
dental hygienist, and Andrea did not want to spend each one of the few free evenings she had with her girlfriend watching films about social issues.

But Dagmar’s obsession was also part of the reason why Andrea was so fascinated with her. She dressed, made herself up and styled her hair like a silent film star, smoked with a long
cigarette holder before they both gave up together, and arranged her bedroom like a star’s dressing room from the 1920s. The fact that Andrea liked to look slightly glamorous was a vestige of
her relationship with Dagmar.

Now the room had been freshly painted and furnished with office gear: a desk with PC and telephone, and an adjustable swivel chair. Everything apart from the telephone and computer came from a
second-hand shop near Maravan’s flat.

The only thing that still reminded her of Dagmar was a forgotten rock crystal prism, which hung from a long piece of string in front of one of the two windows, and occasionally refracted the
rays of the morning sun into its spectral colours, scattering them into the room as colourful patches of light.

Andrea did not really need an office; a few telephone numbers, two files and a diary would have sufficed for the administrative side of Love Food. But it made the whole thing more professional.
With an office, Love Food became a company and her job became a career.

Another reason for not keeping the room spare was that the few female visitors who stayed the night slept in her bed. She was living the life of a single woman and had no intention of entering
into another serious relationship so soon. Love Food did not allow her any time to feel lonely.

She was sitting in this office, watching the colourful patches of light dance on the walls, when Herr Mellinger, her first ever customer, called. She was slightly surprised. Although quite a few
couples booked Love Food a second time, until now everything had come via the practice of Esther Dubois, the therapist. It was a new thing for someone to contact her directly.

It was not long before Andrea discovered the reason.

Slightly embarrassed, Herr Mellinger cleared his throat and then came to the point: ‘Do you also do, erm, discreet dinners?’

‘If we weren’t discreet we would have to shut up shop.’

‘No sure, I mean, erm, discreet as far as Frau Doctor Dubois is concerned?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I mean, do you also do those dinners without her knowledge?’

Andrea thought for a moment. Then she decided she would not recklessly jeopardize their business relationship with Esther, who took a 10 per cent cut. ‘I don’t think that would be
fair. And it might compromise the success of the therapy.’

‘Not as part of the therapy.’ Now Mellinger sounded rather impatient.

And when Andrea still failed to understand, he became more specific: ‘Not my wife. Do you understand?’

Andrea understood. But if Esther found out . . .

‘I’ll pay double.’

But then again, who would tell Esther? Certainly not Mellinger.

She therefore agreed and arranged a date.

The sitting room in the three-roomed maisonette was on the first floor, which was accessed via a spiral staircase. It was stuffed full of pink kitsch: cushions, dolls, cuddly
toys, porcelain trinkets, pictures, blankets, wall hangings, feather boas, tutus, glitz, glimmer, fashion jewellery.

‘I collect pink things,’ Alina had explained when she showed Andrea into the room. She was a short blonde woman, very sweet if you liked that type. And Mellinger obviously did. The
flat certainly had not been cheap. It was new, in a good part of town, and the interior was expensive.

‘Shall we stick to first names? You can’t be that much older than me,’ Alina said.

Andrea agreed. By her reckoning she was even a little younger.

‘I’ll let you get on. Please make yourselves at home,’ Alina had said, absenting herself for the afternoon. ‘I’d just get in your way.’ Andrea and Maravan
dragged the round table, the cushions and the cloths up the spiral staircase. These were no longer Maravan’s private possessions: Love Food had acquired them.

‘Not really apt, I fear,’ Andrea said to Maravan, pointing at all the pink.

‘On the contrary: for us Hindus pink is the colour of the heart chakra. Green and pink. The centre of love,
kaadhal
.’

Andrea set about preparing the room, Maravan retired to the kitchen.

Later, while Andrea watched him intertwine the crunchy and elastic strips of urad lentils – something else he performed with greater craftsmanship each time – he said, shaking his
head, more to himself than to her, ‘It’s strange, she’s so young and yet she’s got these problems already.’

Andrea had not filled him in about the particular circumstances of this job and its fee. She did not say anything now either, and, unless it became necessary, had no intention of doing so
later.

He would never have known if it had not been for that spiral staircase.

Andrea was carrying the tray with the ghee spheres upstairs. Halfway up she trod on the hem of her sari. Rather than dropping the tray and holding on to the rail, she tried to regain her balance
without using her hands and twisted her ankle.

She just about managed to serve the dish and hobble back into the kitchen. But then she sat on a chair and examined her ankle. It was already a bit swollen. Maravan had to fill in for her.

He carried the tray with the tea and sweetmeats up the stairs and knocked.

‘Come in,’ a man’s voice called.

Maravan entered the room. The candlelight gave a golden gleam to the sea of pink. Alina was slumped back on the cushions. When she realized that it was not Andrea she covered her breasts with
her arm and let out an ‘Oh!’ which was more amused than shocked.

The man was sitting with his back to the door. Now he turned his head and said, ‘Hee, hee.’ He was naked to the waist as well.

Maravan recognized him. It was Herr Mellinger, the first Love Food client. He wondered for a moment whether he ought to go out again and give the two of them the opportunity to put on a few
clothes.

‘Don’t mind us,’ Alina said. ‘We’re feeling pretty hot already.’

Maravan put the tray onto the table and cleared away the crockery from the previous course. He tried not to look at either of them, but he could not ignore a pair of men’s trousers and
some pink lingerie which were strewn beside the table.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he asked Andrea in the kitchen.

‘This time you didn’t ask if they were married.’

‘Because I thought I could take that for granted.’

‘Why’s it so important?’

‘If they’re married, this is perfectly normal. Now it’s something else. Now it’s improper.’

Andrea looked as if she was struggling to come to a decision. Then she said, ‘That’s why it’s better paid. Like all improper things.’

Barack Obama had won the election at a canter. From next year, the United States would be governed for the first time in its history by a black president. The world marvelled
and Europe applauded, almost more enthusiastically than the country which had elected him.

It was only those in Dalmann’s circles, both national and international, who were sceptical. They had feared the Democrats might win, as they had worried during the previous two elections
as well. They found the Republicans’ economic, foreign and in particular their fiscal policy more predictable and compatible.

‘Bad news,’ was Dalmann’s reply when Schaeffer woke him with confirmation of what had been looming the night before: the European economy had now officially slipped into
recession. The GDP of the Eurozone had fallen for the second quarter in succession.

For Dalmann this was the signal to turn his attention again to those business areas from which he had been gradually distancing himself in the last few years.

In the bar of the Imperial Hotel four men were sitting having drinks. The pianist was playing golden oldies, discreetly, but loud enough to allow private conversations to take
place at the tables.

The men had eaten and drunk well at the Huwyler and were now allowing themselves a nightcap. Until the women arrived.

Four inconspicuous figures in dark suits: two Europeans, one American and an Asian. The last of these was about fifty and wore large, round glasses. As was the custom in Thailand, everybody
called him by his nickname. His was Waen: glasses.

They talked in English, one with a Thai accent, two with Swiss twangs, and one with a drawl from the southern states.

The American’s name was Steven X. Carlisle. Steve owned a small import-export firm in Memphis. Besides other things, he was an intermediary for the buying and selling of new and used
products from his country’s armouries. Waen’s company, which had its headquarters in Bangkok, also worked in this field.

The two other men were Eric Dalmann and Hermann Schaeffer, his colleague.

This was the first time that Steve and Waen had met. Dalmann had arranged the meeting and the two of them had hit it off instantly. Before dinner they had done some serious work in
Dalmann’s office and all were happy with the result.