The Chef (23 page)

And they had also eaten without cutlery. Even without crockery. The table which had been covered with white paper was laid out with
injeras
, large flat sourdough breads made from teff,
a variety of millet that these days was farmed almost exclusively in Ethiopia. The dishes were put straight onto the breads, and guests would tear pieces off and roll them up as if they were making
large edible joints.

‘Sometimes we make a single
injera
, as large as a tablecloth. But you can’t do it with the stoves here.’

The company was also good. None of Maravan’s fears had materialized. Sandana had not been shocked by the fact that the hosts were a couple, or by Makeda’s profession, which did not
remain a secret for long. The three women were very much at ease with each other, like old friends. Maravan relaxed.

Sandana’s liberal attitude had also helped him to discard his reservations about Makeda. The dinner had done its bit, too. Anybody who could cook like that could not be so bad after
all.

But at some point the women hit upon a subject which made Maravan feel tense again.

‘Maravan tells me that in your culture it’s the parents who decide who you marry.’ Andrea had asked the question.

‘Unfortunately,’ Sandana sighed.

‘So how do your parents find the right man?’ Makeda asked.

‘Through relatives, friends; sometimes they use specialist agencies, sometimes they use the internet. And when they’ve found a contender the horoscope has to be right, and the caste
and so on.’

‘And love?’

‘Love is seen as an unreliable matchmaker.’

‘What about you two?’ Makeda asked.

Sandana looked at Maravan, who was scrutinizing the patch of table in front of him. She shook her head.

A gust of wind shook the window, slightly ruffling the curtain.

‘But here you can marry whoever you like,’ Andrea declared.

‘Fine. If you don’t care about giving your family a bad name and ruining the chances of your siblings marrying.’ After a brief pause Sandana added, ‘And breaking your
parents’ hearts.’

‘How about your own heart?’ Andrea asked.

‘That comes second.’

For a short while the only sound was the distant slamming of a shutter that the wind was toying with. Then Makeda asked, ‘What about you? How come you were able to leave home?’

Now Sandana lowered her eyes too. Then she said softly, ‘In my case the heart doesn’t come second.’

In the embarrassing silence that followed Makeda said cheerily, ‘Well, you don’t have to be married to jump into bed with each other.’

‘Then you’d better not get caught. That’s just as bad as marrying outside of your caste. It brings shame to the entire family. Even to those who are back in Sri Lanka.’
After a brief pause, Sandana added bitterly, ‘But if it goes on like this, soon there won’t be anyone left to bring shame to.’

‘More tea or anything else?’ Andrea asked cheerfully.

Maravan gave Sandana an enquiring look. If she said yes, he would have another one, too.

But Sandana did not say yes or no. She said something unexpected: ‘Nobody writes anything about this war, there’s nothing on telly about this war, the politicians don’t talk
about this war, and quite clearly this war is not a suitable topic for dinner party conversation!’

Sandana had sat bolt upright in her chair and knitted her beautiful eyebrows. Maravan placed a hand on her shoulder and Andrea wore a guilty expression.

‘It’s a Third World war,’ Makeda said. ‘I was also driven out by a Third World war that people pretended wasn’t happening. These days Third World wars aren’t
an issue for the First World.’

‘But they are good business.’ Sandana grabbed her handbag, which was hanging from the back of her chair, briefly rummaged in it and brought out a folded piece of paper. It was the
article about the ‘Scrap connection’ which she had torn out of
Freitag
.

‘Here.’ She gave it to Andrea. ‘They’re happy to sell scrap tanks to Sri Lanka using a roundabout route. But they don’t believe the people fleeing the war are in
danger.’

Andrea started reading the article; her girlfriend looked over her shoulder.

‘I know them,’ Makeda said, pointing to the photographs of Waen and Carlisle.

Andrea and Sandana stared at her in astonishment. ‘Those guys? How?’ Andrea asked.

Makeda rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

Maravan stood up and went round to look at the slightly tattered piece of paper. Andrea flattened it out with her hands and Makeda switched on the light above the table. An oriental man with
glasses and a beefy American stared back at them.

‘I’m absolutely certain. And do you know who arranged the date?’ Makeda did not wait for anyone to guess. ‘Dalmann and Schaeffer.’

‘I’m really sorry I behaved badly,’ Sandana said. They were standing under a tram shelter on line 12. Sandana had to change here; Maravan had broken his
journey to wait with her. It was cold and gusts of wind were still raging.

‘You didn’t behave badly. You were right.’

‘Who are Dalmann and Schaeffer?’

‘Clients.’

‘Yours or Makeda’s?’

‘Both.’

‘Why do you call yourselves Love Food?’

Makeda and Andrea had used the name all evening long, as if it were a brand everybody knew, like McDonald’s or Mövenpick. He wondered why Sandana had not asked this question during
the dinner itself. ‘It’s a good name,’ he replied.

Sandana smiled. ‘Come on, Maravan, tell me.’

He looked in the direction where her tram would come from. Nothing. ‘Well, er . . . I cook these dinners that . . .’ – he searched for the right word – ‘. . .
stimulate.’

‘Stimulate the appetite?’

Maravan did not know whether she was pulling his leg. ‘Sort of, yes,’ he answered, embarrassed.

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘From Nangay. Everything from Nangay.’

A gust of wind swept through the newspaper box, fluttering the handful of free newspapers still in it.

When she got on her tram, Sandana gave him a shy kiss on the mouth. Before the door shut she said, ‘Will you cook me something too one day?’

Maravan nodded, smiling. The tram left. Sandana stood right at the back and waved to him.

It was thanks to an unnamed source that
Freitag
had come across Jafar Fajahat. Its latest edition told readers of the odyssey of some disused armoured personnel
carriers via the United States to Pakistan, the biggest arms supplier to the Sri Lankan army.

The article again published photographs of Steven X, Carlisle and Waen. What was new was a portrait of a moustachioed Pakistani called Kazi Razzaq.
Freitag
reported that he came from
the entourage of Jafar Fajahat, which had played a central role in the nuclear smuggling affair.

The captions were fairly sensational:
Supplying the Liberation Tigers: Waen. Supplying the Army: Razzaq. Supplying Both: Carlisle
.

‘Let’s hope it pans out well,’ Dalmann groaned when Schaeffer brought him the newspaper.

And it did pan out well. Although the daily press picked up the report and it was circulated in the electronic media as well, nobody seemed to be interested in delving any
deeper into the matter.

The other news also worked slightly in Dalmann’s favour. In the American state of Alabama a man went on a killing spree, shooting dead eleven people, including his mother, then turned the
gun on himself.

The following day a seventeen-year-old boy in Winnenden, a suburb of Stuttgart, shot dead twelve people at his former school, including three passers-by, and finished by shooting himself.

And then the day after that the Swiss government accepted the OECD standard, which signalled the end of bank secrecy, as Dalmann had predicted.

The relocation of some scrap munitions to a war zone pretty much neglected by the media had lost a lot of its newsworthiness.

They met at the rearmost covered bench on platform 8. Sandana had suggested this meeting point; she said she wanted to talk without being disturbed. She also sorted out their
lunch: for each of them two pretzel rolls – one cheese, the other ham – a bottle of still mineral water and an apple.

Maravan was there first. A little further along the platform, where the roof finished, the asphalt was shining wet. A light but persistent rain had been falling since the previous night.

There were a lot of passengers on the other side of the tracks, but on his side the platform was empty. The last train had just left; the next would not be arriving for a while. Sandana had left
nothing to chance.

Now she arrived, wearing trousers, railway uniform and quilted coat. Maravan got up from the bench; they greeted each other with their usual kisses and sat down.

He gave her a sideways glance. He recognized her expression from the Pongal: rebellious and resigned. She passed him the latest edition of
Freitag.
‘Page twelve,’ was all
she said.

Maravan read the article and studied the photograph of Kazi Razzaq next to the now familiar ones of Waen and Carlisle. When he had finished he looked at Sandana, who had been watching him
expectantly.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Arms smugglers,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘They simply don’t operate according to moral principles.’

‘Yes, I know that, too. But chefs. Chefs should watch out who they’re cooking for.’

It was only now that he realized what she was getting at. ‘You mean because of this Dalmann chap?’

Sandana gave a resolute nod of the head. ‘If he’s involved with the American and Thai man, then he must have something to do with the Pakistani as well.’

Maravan shrugged again, slightly at a loss. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’

Sandana gave him a look of disbelief. ‘Is that all? The man’s involved with individuals who supply the arms that our people are killing each other with, and you cook for
him?’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘And now you do?’

Maravan thought about it. ‘I’m a chef,’ he replied eventually.

‘Chefs have consciences too.’

‘A conscience doesn’t pay the bills.’

‘But you can’t sell it either.’

‘Do you know what I do with the money?’ Maravan now sounded tetchy. ‘I support my family and the fight for liberation.’

‘So with the money from the arms smugglers you’re supporting the fight for liberation. Great.’

He stood and looked down at her angrily. But Sandana took his hand and pulled him back onto the bench. He sat and took the sandwich she offered.

For a while they ate in silence. Then he said quietly, ‘He was only a guest once. He’s more of a middleman.’

Sandana placed her hand gently on his forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t know who I’m selling tickets to either.’

‘But if you did?’

Sandana pondered his question. ‘I think I’d refuse.’

Maravan nodded. ‘I think I would, too.’

It is possible Makeda would not have heard anything more about the Pakistan connection if Dalmann had not booked her yet again for one of his ‘normal evenings at
home’.

He had asked Lourdes to prepare them a cold supper for two. This usually consisted of a variety of cold meats, cold roast chicken, cooked knuckle of pork, called
gnagi
, potato salad and
green salad. He would accompany this with an ice-cold table wine from the region and round it off with a few bottles of beer. Makeda stuck with champagne.

They ate in the sitting room, did not say very much, channel-hopped for a while and went to bed early.

During their TV dinner on this normal evening at home she picked up one of the newspapers from the coffee table and leafed through it, chewing large mouthfuls of food. Without thinking, she had
gone straight past the three photos. It was only a few pages later that she stopped and turned back.

She recognized two of the pictures: Carlisle and Waen. She did not recognize the third. That is to say, she had never seen the picture before, but she had seen the man. He was one of the
Pakistanis from the dinner in St Moritz. Now she made out that his name was Kazi Razzaq and that he was an arms dealer.

He sold arms to the Sri Lankan army. And she had also met him at an occasion arranged by Dalmann and his strange colleague Schaeffer.

She looked at Dalmann, who was bent over on the sofa, breathing heavily as he gnawed away at his
gnagi
. ‘I hope you choke on that,’ she muttered.

Dalmann turned to her with a smile. ‘What did you say, darling?’

‘I hope you enjoy that, honey.’

Keeping to their ritual, she stood suddenly and said, ‘I’ll go up first.’ She kissed him on the forehead, went upstairs to the bedroom and left the door
slightly ajar, as if accidentally.

Dalmann followed her quietly and, through the gap in the door, watched her undress tantalizingly slowly and vanish into the bathroom, where she also left the door open. Through this he watched
her shower, soap herself, rinse off, dry and moisturize herself thoroughly.

But this time she did not give him any time to scurry out of the bedroom before coming back. She suddenly stepped out of the door, dragged him by his tie to the bed, and shoved him onto the
mattress. Giggling, he protested, but she did not leave him alone. ‘Now you’re going to get it good and proper,’ she threatened, undressing him.

She gave it her best shot, and her efforts were crowned with success. But the moment Dalmann was about to penetrate her, he was let down.

She tried again: softly, roughly, intimately, affectionately and finally domineeringly and determinedly. Each time with the same result. Finally she gave up and fell into the pillows, cursing
quietly. He could not understand what she had said.

Dalmann went into the bathroom, showered, and came back in pyjamas.

‘These fucking pills,’ he complained. ‘This never used to happen to me.’

‘Then just stop taking them.’

With the expert knowledge and pride of one who has survived surgery, he proceeded to tell her in detail about his stent, which enlarged the narrowed coronary vessel responsible for his heart
attack, so as to prevent another blockage. And about pills and powders, which kept his blood pressure within acceptable levels, his heart beating regularly and his circulation unhindered.