The Chef (19 page)

He had got away with this incident as well. Béatrice had never found out.

He would make sure this evening remained under wraps, too.

Dalmann had been in touch shortly after their second meeting in the Huwyler. He said he was a friend of van Genderen, who just happened to be in the country at the moment and would like to meet
him.

Of course, Staffel knew who van Genderen was. The Number Two at hoogteco, a large supplier in the renewable energies sector. There could be no harm in having an informal meeting with this major
Dutch competitor.

They had agreed, therefore, to have a drink in Dalmann’s beautiful house overlooking the lake. The two men hit it off and arranged to have dinner the following evening.

They had enjoyed an excellent Japanese meal, spoken hardly a word about business, and laughed a lot. Van Genderen had a more inexhaustible repertoire of jokes than anybody he had come across
since Hofer, a former comrade of his at military training school.

As the evening went on the anecdotes became more risqué, and then they started talking about risqué matters in general – which is how they arranged the dinner that, in van
Genderen’s words, was ‘spicy in every way’.

Now that he was being served champagne in a luxury apartment in the old town by a pretty Indian girl – or was she not Indian? – talking Swiss German, Staffel was already feeling
slightly queasy. And jittery too.

He would go along with it until it got too colourful and then stop. That way nothing could happen.

This time it was no surprise that Makeda was one of the party. She had told Andrea beforehand.

Just before the new year they had their first argument. Andrea had said, ‘Please stop it. I’m earning enough for two.’

‘Am I hearing you right?’ Makeda said. She burst out laughing, then sighed.

‘Why?’ Andrea said.

‘Hearing that coming from you of all people. It’s what men say: “Come, let me save you from this life. You can move in with me and cook for me and wash my socks.” Are you
crazy?’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘You’re earning enough for two. And what about the other fourteen? My family in Addis Ababa?’

They had dropped the subject, but Andrea kept asking her what job she had on that evening. She found it bothered her less if she knew. It put it on a different level: a professional one.

On the other hand, it was not that simple at the Love Food dinners. Andrea knew from experience how randy they made you feel. How could Makeda keep a professional distance? And how could Andrea
ever mention the incident with Maravan to Makeda? Although they had told each other many intimate things, she had kept quiet about that.

A few days after the Staffel and van Genderen dinner, Thevaram and Rathinam were in touch again. They had news for Maravan and asked whether they could come round.

Every previous meeting had cost money. So Maravan took 1,000 francs from behind the Lakshmi shrine and waited for the bell to ring.

The news was a job. Maravan had been asked to cook the Pongal menu for the TCA, the Tamil Cultural Association.

Pongal was the festival in which Tamils offered their thanks for the harvest. An important festival and a nice job.

Thevaram suggested a fee of 1,000 francs, which, of course, Maravan would donate to the good cause. He would then be able to earn money from the commissions that would surely come his way as a
result.

Maravan was totally fed up with his sleazy work – one customer had recently called him a sex chef – and the attraction of cooking a normal Tamil celebratory meal for normal Tamil
compatriots was so great that he said yes.

‘What about Ulagu? Have you heard anything?’

Thevaram and Rathinam exchanged glances. ‘Oh yes,’ Rathinam said, ‘he was rejected.’

‘As a soldier?’ Maravan’s blood raced to his head.

‘No, as a Black Tiger.’

When the two had left Maravan put the 1,000 francs behind the shrine again.

On a gas ring, rice, lentils, palm sugar and ginger were cooking in a new clay pot, around which fresh turmeric and ginger had been tied. The families were sitting in a
semicircle by the cooker. Everybody had new clothes on; the women and girls adorned with flowers were wearing colourful saris or Punjabis.

Suddenly the contents of the pot frothed over the edge, causing the blue gas flame below to flicker yellow.

‘
Pongalo Pongal!
’ the guests shouted.

Maravan had made the rice pudding, but he could not take part in the boiling-over ceremony. Since the previous day he had been working in the community centre kitchen.

The Tamil Cultural Association had rented and decorated a room there. A few women had been seconded from the Association management to give Maravan a hand. They did it voluntarily, but with
little commitment. Given the number of people they were expecting, Maravan had also called up Gnanam, his compatriot who lived above him in the mansard and worked as a kitchen help. He needed
someone with experience, so he would have to pay for him out of his own pocket.

The ventilation system in the kitchen worked poorly and the room had no windows. There was a strong smell of lentils, rice, ghee, chilli, cardamom, cinnamon and
hing
, an essential
ingredient of many Pongal recipes and a strange herb which only lost its foul smell when cooked, hence its other name: devil’s dung.

Maravan cooked four classic vegetarian recipes:
Avial
, a paste made from two different types of lentil, and coconut with
hing
and mixed vegetables. Lemon rice with lentils,
mustard seeds, turmeric and
hing
.
Parangikkai puli kuzhambu
, a spicy, sweet-and-sour pumpkin dish with onions, tomatoes and lots of tamarind.
Sakkarai pongal
, a rice
pudding with almonds and cashews, lentils, saffron and cardamom.

He was just about to roast the almonds and cashew nuts in a heavy iron frying pan when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. Maravan turned his head with exaggerated haste to show how busy he was
and how inopportune the interruption.

Sandana was standing beside him. ‘Can I help?’

He thought about it briefly, then handed her his cooking spoon. ‘Keep on stirring them around, they mustn’t blacken. When they’ve all turned golden-yellow put them in this bowl
and . . . erm . . . call me.’

He hurried to his assistant at the next pot, checked everything was OK, gave a few instructions and moved on to the next.

When he was a child he had seen a Chinese artist in a circus spinning plates on the tops of bendy poles. One to start with, then two, then more until there were about twenty or thirty – he
was not so good at counting back then. She had her hands full trying to keep the plates spinning, running between the dancing poles, and always managed to prevent a teetering plate from crashing to
the ground at the very last moment.

This is how he felt now as the only chef between a dozen pans, the contents of which could lose their balance at any time.

However, he always spent a bit longer next to Sandana.

Pongal is a joyful festival. People look forward to a new beginning and put the past behind them. But here, in the purpose-built community centre on this cold, stormy
fourteenth of January 2009, very little of the light-heartedness and confidence that usually accompanied this occasion was palpable.

Almost all those present had family or friends they had to worry about. The Sri Lankan army was at the gates of Mullaitivu, the LTTE was engaged in a fierce fightback, and the civil population
was trying in vain to flee.

Many of those at the festival had not been in contact with their relatives for a long time. It was quieter in the hall than in previous years. The faces were more serious and the prayers more
ardent.

Maravan had not had any news from his family, either. A rumour was circulating that the shop in Jaffna through which the Batticaoloa Bazaar maintained contact and transferred money had been
closed after a raid. It was not the first time; in the past it had always been able to resume its activities after a little bribe. But each time it had taken a few days.

Maravan was sitting at one of the long tables covered with rolls of paper. It was only half full now and the table decoration was askew and full of holes. Some of the guests who had already left
had taken flowers with them.

The reason Maravan stayed behind was sitting two tables away, surrounded by parents, aunts, uncles, siblings and friends. Sandana kept looking over at him, but gave no sign he should come and
join them.

Several times he had been on the verge of going up to them to ask whether they had enjoyed the meal. He was the chef, after all. That is what chefs do.

But what then? Supposing they said it was nice and thanked him for asking, but did not invite him to sit with them? The thought of standing by their table like a lemon, looking for a way to make
a dignified exit, was what kept him at his own table, which was becoming emptier and emptier.

He noticed an argument had started at Sandana’s table, an angry exchange of words with her parents. Sandana’s eyebrows, which were practically straight, formed a continuous line with
the spot above the bridge of her nose.

Now she stood up and, ignoring the calls of her parents, walked to his table.

‘Don’t look over,’ she said, sitting next to him.

Her
pottu
, the spot on the forehead, was still creased by wrinkles of anger.

‘An altercation?’

‘Culture clash.’ She tried to laugh.

‘I see.’

‘Say something to me. I don’t want them to think we’ve got nothing to say to each other.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Maravan realized how stupid the question was, and added, ‘I’m not so good at talking.’

‘What are you good at?’

‘Cooking.’

‘Talk to me about cooking then.’

‘I must have been about five when I first watched my great-aunt making
puttu
. She transformed rice and lentils into flour, grated coconut into milk, then worked everything into a
dough, and from this made lots of little balls, which she transformed with steam, coconut milk and palm sugar into sweet fake banyan figs. It was then that I learnt that cooking is transformation
and nothing more. Cold into warm, hard into soft, sour into sweet. That’s why I became a cook. Because I’m fascinated by the process of transformation.’

‘You’re a wonderful cook.’

‘Today was nothing. I’d like to go on from here. Keep on transforming what’s already been transformed. Take the thing that’s been turned from hard to soft and transform
it into something crunchy. Or something foamy. Or something melting. Do you understand? I want . . .’ – he searched for the right words – ‘. . . I want to turn what’s
familiar into something new. What’s expected into something surprising.’ He was astonished by his flow of words, and especially by what he was saying. He had never been able to express
it so well before.

‘We’re going now,’ a voice said from behind them. Sandana’s father had approached their table unnoticed.

‘Father, this is Maravan. He did the cooking for all of us today. Maravan, this is my father, Mahit.’

Maravan stood up and made to shake the man’s hand. But the latter ignored the gesture, merely repeating, ‘We’re going now.’

‘Fine. I’ll come later.’

‘No, you’re going to come
now
, with us.’

‘I’m twenty-two, father.’

‘You’re coming with us.’

Maravan watched Sandana battling with herself. In the end she raised her shoulders, dropped them again and said, ‘Another time, then.’ And followed her father.

Maravan was practising making drinks. Not all
Love Menu
diners were content just to have champagne and wine. They asked for cocktails and aperitifs. Maravan’s
ambition would not allow him to serve mere Camparis or Bloody Marys.

He was currently mixing thick coconut milk with crushed ice, arrack, ginger ale, white tea,
xanthan
and guar. He was going to freeze the pastel-yellow mass for twelve hours at minus
twenty degrees, and then serve it on china spoons, together with some pop rocks, as an explosive arrack confection. As with all his alcoholic creations, Andrea would be the guinea pig.

The doorbell rang. Maravan glanced at his watch: almost half past ten at night. He looked through the spyhole – nobody. He picked up the antiquated intercom handset and called out,
‘Yes?’

He could detect a woman’s voice through the static hissing and crackling. But he could not understand what she was saying. ‘Louder, please!’ he shouted. Now he was able to make
out a word which might have been ‘Andrea’. Andrea? At this time? Without having called him first?

He pressed the button to open the door and waited at the entrance to his flat. He could hear soft, rapid steps on the stairs. Then he saw his late guest: Sandana.

She was wearing western clothes: jeans, sweater and the quilted coat he recognized from their first meeting. He thought she looked better in traditional clothes.

He invited her to come in. It was only then that he noticed she was carrying a travel bag. She put it down and greeted him in the Swiss style, with three kisses. It was meant to be totally
natural, but she did it rather awkwardly.

‘Can I stay the night here?’ was the first thing she asked.

He must have looked so surprised that she added, ‘On the sofa or the floor, I don’t care.’

Maravan knew Hindu Tamil families very well, and he could see an avalanche of consequences ready to descend on him. ‘Why aren’t you staying at home?’

‘I’ve moved out.’

‘I’ll give you some money for a hotel.’

‘I’ve got money.’

Maravan recalled her telling him that she worked in a railway travel centre.

Sandana looked at him beseechingly. ‘You don’t have to sleep with me.’

He smiled. ‘Thank God!’

Sandana remained serious. ‘But you have to say you did.’

He helped her out of her coat and showed her into the kitchen. ‘Just let me finish off what I’m doing here, then you can tell me everything.’ He turned the mixer on again, let
it run for a few moments, and poured its contents into a flexible form.