The Chef (17 page)

‘All I can say is that I felt brilliant the following morning. And – just between us chaps – I haven’t had a shag like that in a long time.’

‘As I said, my heart.’

Neller raised both hands. ‘I’m just telling you, Eric. Just telling you.’

Dalmann had no intention of following up his friend’s tip. But he would happily bear it in mind if he ever needed anything really special for someone.

They changed the subject and went on chatting for a while. When Huwyler accompanied them to a taxi with an umbrella, snow had settled on the entryway. And large, heavy flakes of snow were still
falling.

On the evening when they had been celebrating their year-end results and the Manager of the Year award, Dalmann had come to the table, congratulated Staffel and said,
‘Thanks to you I’ve won a large bet.’

‘A bet?’ Staffel asked.

‘I bet that it would be you.’

‘Well, that was quite a gamble. I hope the wager wasn’t too high.’

‘Six bottles of Cheval Blanc ’97. But there was no risk. I hope you have a good dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your evening, you’ve deserved it.’

‘Isn’t that the chap who came over last time and knew more than I did?’ Staffel’s wife had whispered to her husband the moment Dalmann left their table. ‘Do you
know who he is now?’

Staffel had enquired, but could not say much about him. Dalmann was a lawyer, but did not practise as one. He sat on a number of boards and worked as a consultant and intermediary. He forged
business relationships, brought people together, stepped in sometimes, too, if a post had to be refilled informally, and obviously had such good contacts in the media that he could get certain
snippets of inside information if necessary.

Staffel ought to get to know Dalmann better.

As the year came to a close, it was difficult to say which was greater: relief that it was over or worry about what the next year would bring.

The state of the global markets was cataclysmic: the Swiss stock exchange had experienced its worst year since 1974; the DAX had collapsed by 40 per cent; the Dow Jones had lost more than a
third of its value; the Nikkei registered similar losses; the stock exchange in Shanghai had plummeted by 65 per cent; and Russia had put all these in the shade with a fall in stocks of 72 per
cent.

It was the last of these that had a particularly visible impact on Kull’s sector. The Russians had been good clients in the last few years. Usually, over the holiday period, a large
proportion of his team’s work would be shifted to St Moritz and he would have to call in extra staff to meet the demand. But this year the advance bookings suggested there would be little
need for that.

By contrast, the Love Food business had been going so well that Kull wanted to make it available in the Engadin Valley as well. To be on the safe side he had already booked the duo for a few
days.

For Dalmann, the holiday period in St Moritz was the most important business event of the year. It provided an opportunity to meet people with whom it was impossible to have
personal contact throughout the rest of the year. He could revive old connections and secure new ones. A multitude of social occasions made it possible to come together in an informal, relaxed
atmosphere, get closer to people personally, and pave the way for new deals or maintain old ones.

Up in the mountains the crisis had made itself felt, too, but it was as Dalmann had expected: the quality guests still came this year. The crisis had the advantage of separating the wheat from
the chaff.

He stayed as usual in the Chesa Clara, in a five-room apartment on the top floor. A dentist friend had built the house at the beginning of the 1990s; since then Dalmann had rented every year
during the Christmas holidays. It was a considerable expense, but one which had always paid off in the past. He hoped it would this time, too.

The apartment was slightly over-furnished and fitted with old walnut doors and pine panelling, which had been collected from a variety of ancient houses. It was roomy enough for Dalmann and two
guests, and also had a small staff flat where Lourdes stayed. She did the housework and also made breakfast here. She did not have to cook, because he always ate out and never invited people over
to dinner. Apart from his legendary hangover breakfast on New Year’s Day: open house from eleven o’clock until dusk.

He rarely engaged in any sporting activities these days. In the past he had been an excellent skier, but now he would only put on skis to make it up to those mountain restaurants that were not
accessible on foot. Otherwise he preferred to take gentle walks to culinary destinations. Or go to the same establishments by horse-drawn sleigh.

It was Maravan’s first time in the mountains. Throughout the entire journey he was silent and sceptical, sitting in the passenger seat of Andrea’s packed estate
car. When the hills around them became taller and more rugged, the roads narrower and lined with snow, when it actually started snowing, he regretted agreeing to go on this adventure.

When they reached their destination, he was disappointed to see just another town, no more beautiful than the one they had left, but smaller, colder, wedged between mountains and with more
snow.

Where they were staying was not much nicer than Theodorstrasse, either. Each of them had a tiny studio in a block of flats with a view of another block.

Shortly after their arrival, however, Andrea knocked on Maravan’s door and persuaded him to come on an excursion. They drove further along the valley, southwards.

They stopped in a village called Maloja. ‘If we continued on this road for about an hour you’d see palm trees.’

‘Let’s go on then,’ he suggested, half-seriously.

Andrea laughed and walked in front.

The path soon became narrow, bounded by walls of snow. Maravan found it difficult to keep up. He was wearing clunky rubber and nylon boots without any grip. He had bought them in the same cheap
department store that he bought everything, save for those items he needed for his kitchen. His trousers were so tight they would not go over the tops of his boots; he had to stuff them inside,
which must have looked ridiculous. He could not be absolutely sure, however, because where he was staying there was no mirror in which he could see his feet.

The firs that lined the path were heavily laden with snow. Now and then some fell to the ground. This was followed by a trickle of white glitter from the branches relieved of their burden.

All he could hear was the crunching of their shoes. When Andrea stopped and waited for him, he stopped too. That was the first time he heard silence.

It was a silence that engulfed everything. A silence that became more powerful every second.

He had never been so aware just how remorselessly his entire life had been full of noise. The chitter-chatter of his family, the hooting of the traffic, the wind in the palms, the crashing of
waves in the Indian Ocean, the explosions of the civil war, the clattering in kitchens, the sing-song of the temple, the rattle of the trams, the droning of traffic, the chitter-chatter of his
thoughts.

Now, all of a sudden, there was silence. Like a jewel. Like a luxury item people like him had no right to.

‘What’s wrong?’ Andrea asked. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Shh!’ he said, putting his forefinger to his lips.

But the silence had vanished, like a timid animal.

Andrea reproached herself for having dragged Maravan up here. She could see how uncomfortable he felt. In the snow he was like a cat in the rain.

He was out of place in this landscape. When she thought about how gracefully he moved in his sarong, how elegantly in his long apron, wearing the white forage cap. Here, in his shapeless
windcheater, his woolly hat pulled down over his ears, and wearing cheap snow boots, he was as stripped of his dignity as a zoo animal of its freedom.

What pained her most was that he knew all this. He bore it with the same resignation with which he had borne everything since he had decided to get involved with the dirty stuff, as he called
it.

She did not fool herself about his feelings for her either. The longer they worked together the more obvious it became that he was in love with her. He had taken what she privately called
‘the incident’ more seriously than she had imagined. She sensed that he had not given up hope that he might win her round again, maybe even for good.

As soon as she was sure what his feelings were, she had started to distance herself from him. She had deliberately refrained from being too friendly, in case he misunderstood her. Her behaviour
towards him was cordial but non-committal, and although she sensed this hurt him, the clarity it created was good for their work.

Since Makeda, the relationship had become complicated again, however. Maravan was showing all the symptoms of jealousy. Although she felt sorry for him, she did not see how she could possibly
help.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Andrea was feeling particularly pleased about things, because Makeda was here too. She was staying with the other girls who worked for Kull in a nearby apartment
building. They had planned to spend as much time together as they could.

Maravan was aware of this. To cheer him up, Andrea had taken him on this trip as soon as they had unpacked their things.

Maravan had dropped back and for a while stood motionless in this fairytale landscape. She had called him, but he had told her gruffly to be quiet. He lingered there as if
listening to something. Andrea listened, too, but could hear nothing.

Finally he got going again and made his way towards her. When he arrived he smiled.

‘Beautiful,’ he said.

Two of Dalmann’s strengths – luck and a memory for faces – worked in combination to ensure that his stay at Chesa Clara had paid for itself within a few
days.

There had not been a winter like this for ages: cold, white and blue, and a volume of snow that nobody had seen up here at this time of year.

Dalmann was sitting on the sun terrace of a mountain restaurant deep down in a valley. He was there with Rolf Schär, the same dentist friend who owned the apartment. It was not a
particularly efficient pairing as far as business was concerned, but not totally useless either, because Dalmann knew that Schär could get a much higher rent for the location during this
high-season period. This is why he had forced himself to spend some time with him at least once during his stay.

The two men were feeling relaxed as they sat on their bench by the wooden façade of the building, their faces glistening with sun cream in the winter sun, drinking a bottle of Grüner
Veltliner and picking at the plate of cold meats on the table in front of them. From time to time one of them would say something, usually what was on their mind at that moment, like elderly people
who have known each other for years and have no need for any pretence.

As they watched children sledging beyond the terrace, Schär said, ‘The snow seems much higher when you’re small.’ Dalmann’s attention was distracted by a group of
people just arriving. Four men around fifty who looked as though they might be Arabs. They were shown to the neighbouring table, which had been expecting its guests for a while – it was the
only one with a reserved sign.

Briefly removing his sunglasses and glancing at the other guests, Dalmann recognized one of them: the right-hand man of Jafar Fajahat, another individual for whom Palucron had once helped broker
deals. He was around ten years older than when he had last seen him, but it was definitely the same man.

After Musharaff’s resignation Dalmann had no longer been able to contact Fajahat, and he supposed he had fallen victim to the regime change. But his assistant must have survived; how
otherwise could he afford to be here?

If only he could remember his name. Khalid, Khalil, Khalig or something like that. Dalmann resisted the urge to talk to him. Who on earth were the other three?

He tried to catch his gaze, and succeeded after a short while. The man took off his glasses, gave him an enquiring look, and when Dalmann nodded and smiled he stood up and greeted him in
English. ‘Herr Dalmann? How nice to see you. Kazi Razzaq, do you remember?’

‘Of course I do.’ For the time being Dalmann avoided mentioning Jafar Fajahat.

Razzaq introduced his three companions, whose names Dalmann made no effort to remember, and he introduced Schär. A short silence ensued, as is usual after these sorts of introductions.

Dalmann broke it. ‘Are you around for a few days?’ he enquired.

The four men nodded.

‘Good, then maybe we can do something together. Which hotel are you in?’

The four men exchanged glances.

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you my card. My mobile number. Call me and we’ll arrange something. I’d really like to.’

Dalmann gave Razzaq his card in the hope that he would feel obliged to give him one in return. But he just thanked Dalmann, put the card away and turned to the waitress in traditional costume
who was ready to take their order.

That same evening, however, Razzaq did call. They arranged to meet in the bar of one of the large five-star hotels with a view over the lake. Dalmann knew the barman and had his regular table in
a quiet corner not too near the piano.

Having arrived slightly too early, he was now sipping a Campari and soda and nibbling on some warm salted almonds. It was that interval between après-ski and aperitif, Dalmann’s
favourite time. Most of the hotel guests were in their rooms, recovering from the day and freshening up for the evening. The pianist was playing soft, sentimental tunes; the waiters had time for a
quick chat.

Razzaq arrived punctually and ordered a cola. He was one of those Muslims who did not drink, even when abroad.

Now they were alone, Dalmann enquired about Jafar Fajahat.

‘He’s not working any more. He’s enjoying the fruits of his labour and his grandchildren. He’s got fifteen of them.’

They swapped some old tales and Dalmann let the conversation slowly peter out to give his guest the opportunity to come to the point. Razzaq did not beat about the bush.