The Chef (6 page)

‘A little more than three years.’

‘So how come you speak such good German?’

Maravan shrugged. ‘We’ve learnt to adapt. This includes learning languages.’ After a brief pause he uttered the classic example of Swiss dialect:
‘
Chuchichäschtli
.’

Andrea laughed. ‘So why Switzerland?’

‘There were many Swiss people in the Ayurveda resorts in Kerala and in the hotels in Sri Lanka. I always found them friendly.’

‘Here too?’

Maravan thought about it. ‘Here Tamils are treated better than back home. There’s almost 45,000 of us over here. Tea?’

‘Why not?’

He removed the dirty crockery.

‘Do you mind me just sitting here and being waited on?’

‘It’s your day off,’ he replied, dashing into the kitchen.

A short while later he returned with a tray carrying a tea service. ‘White tea. Made with the silver tips of tea leaves from the Highlands near Dimbula,’ he explained, going back
into the kitchen and bringing out a plate of sweetmeats for each of them. An ice lolly with sprinkles of green, surrounded by small asparagus with tips a toxic shade of green and dark-red,
heart-shaped biscuits.

‘I don’t think I can eat any more.’

‘You can always eat sweetmeats.’

He was right. The lolly tasted of liquorice, pistachios and honey, like something you might find at a funfair. The asparagus could be eaten like jelly babies and had an intense flavour of
– asparagus. The hearts were sweet and spicy, with the aroma of an Indian market, and tasted – she could find no better word to describe it – frivolous.

All of a sudden she was aware of the silence that had descended on the room. The wind had also stopped blowing sheets of rain against the window. Something made her say, ‘Would you show me
some photos of your family?’

Without saying a word, Maravan stood up, helped her to her feet, and took her into his bedroom, to the wall with the photographs.

‘My brothers and sisters and some of their children. My parents – they died in 1983, their car was set on fire.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they were Tamils.’

Andrea put her hand on his shoulder and said nothing.

‘And the old lady is Na . . .’

‘Nangay.’

‘She looks like a wise woman.’

‘She is.’

Another silence. Andrea’s gaze wandered to the window. In the weak light that seeped out from the bedroom into the darkness, she could see snowflakes dancing. ‘It’s
snowing.’

Maravan glanced at the window and then drew the curtains. He looked at her uncertainly as he stood there.

Andrea felt full and satisfied. And yet there was still a tiny hunger niggling away at her. Only now did she realize what it was she was after.

She went up to him, took his head between her hands and kissed him on the mouth.

The following morning the news broke that the country’s largest bank had to write off a further 19 billion francs, and borrow 15 billion more. It cost the bank’s
president his job. It was to be a bad day for Maravan too.

He had slipped out of the bedroom before six o’clock and made egg hoppers with
sothi
and coconut chutney. When he left the kitchen with the tray he almost crashed into Andrea. She
was fully dressed.

He could think of nothing better to say than ‘Hoppers?’

‘Thanks, but I’m not really the breakfast type.’

‘Oh,’ was all he replied. The two of them looked at each other for a while without saying anything. It was Andrea who broke the silence.

‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks for the fantastic dinner.’

‘Thanks for coming. Are you on early today?’

‘No, late.’

‘See you this afternoon, then.’

Andrea hesitated, as if there was something else she wanted to get off her chest. ‘Maravan . . .’ she began. But she thought better of it, kissed him stiffly on both cheeks, and
left.

From his window he watched her exit the building and trudge over to the tram stop, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets. A dismal day, but the street was dry.

Maravan went into the kitchen and did those same chores that were his responsibility at the Huwyler: scrubbing, washing and putting away the pots and pans.

It was the first time he had slept with a woman since fleeing Sri Lanka. And even the times before that he could count on one hand. Three times in southern India, twice in Sri Lanka; four of
them were prostitutes, one a tourist. She was from England, around forty years old, and had told him her name was Caroline. But the tag on her suitcase had said Jennifer Hill.

This was also the first time he had felt good about it afterwards. No bad conscience. Without feeling the need to stand under the shower for hours. He was not surprised; it was the first time it
had had anything to do with love.

Which is why Andrea’s behaviour hit him particularly hard. Had he just experienced what other single Tamil men had told him about? Had he been exploited for a little bit of exotic
amusement?

The morning was so gloomy he had to turn on the light to clean the rotary evaporator. He packed away the equipment, well padded in fresh clothes and the clean Turkish towel in his gym bag.

When he left the house it was raining again. It was still early and he wanted to be the first one there, straight after Frau Keller. She ran the administrative side of the
Huwyler and worked normal office hours. She unlocked the delivery entrance at 8.15 on the dot. That would give Maravan enough time to put the rotary evaporator back in its place.

But then his bad luck started. He was standing at the back of the carriage, deep in thought about the night before and Andrea’s strange behaviour, when suddenly the tram braked sharply,
making a high-pitched screech, and came to an abrupt halt.

Maravan had not been holding on. He tried to stop himself from falling and in the process knocked into a young woman who had tried to steady herself by holding the back of a seat. Both of them
tumbled over.

A few passengers screamed, then it went quiet. Ahead of them Maravan heard a car beeping its horn persistently.

He got to his feet and helped the woman up. An old man who was sitting down mumbled, ‘Typical,’ shaking his head.

The young woman had a
pottu
on her forehead. She was wearing a light-green Punjabi under a quilted windcheater.

‘Are you all right?’ Maravan asked in Tamil.

‘I think so,’ she replied, inspecting herself. From the right knee down her Punjabi had been dirtied by the muck left by passengers’ wet shoes on the floor. The lightweight
material of her gold-embroidered trousers was sticking to her lower leg and gave her modest appearance a touch of inappropriate vulgarity. Maravan took a packet of tissues from his coat pocket and
gave them to her.

While she was attempting to wipe at least some of the dirt from her soiled rayon dress, Maravan unzipped his gym bag and surreptitiously checked the glass flask rolled up in the Turkish towel.
It was undamaged. He was so relieved he tore out a page of the notebook he used for recipe ideas and wrote down his address and telephone number for the young woman. In case she had to get the
Punjabi dry-cleaned.

She read the note and put it in her bag. ‘Sandana,’ she said. ‘I’m Sandana.’

They said no more after that. Sandana kept her head bowed, and Maravan could only see the beginnings of a centre parting under her hood. And the ends of her eyelashes.

The passengers were getting restless. One young man at the front of the carriage opened the ventilation pane above the window and shouted, ‘Oi! There’s people in here who’ve
got to get to work!’

Shortly afterwards came an announcement from the control room: ‘There’s been a collision in Blechstrasse. Tramline twelve is suspended in both directions. The service will be
replaced by buses, but passengers should expect delays.’

The doors of the tram carriage were still closed. Police and ambulance sirens got louder and louder, before stopping abruptly beside the tram.

Again it was the young man who had voiced his protest through the ventilation window. He took the matter in hand, opened the emergency exit and got off. The other passengers followed him,
tentatively at first, but then ever more quickly. The carriage was empty within less than a minute.

Maravan and Sandana were the last to get out. At the doors Maravan said, ‘I’ve got to hurry. I’m late already. Goodbye!’

‘
Meendum Santhipom
,’ she repeated. A delivery van had smashed into the front of the tram. One paramedic was bent over the open passenger window. Another was holding a drip
bottle, from which a tube stretched through the window. Fire engine sirens were wailing in the distance. They were coming to free the driver from the wreck.

Maravan was the last to arrive at the Huwyler. He was almost late for his shift. Now there was no chance he could discreetly put the rotary evaporator back in its place. But he
did have a plan B. When somebody needed it, they would shout, ‘Maravan! Rotary evaporator!’ because he was responsible for fetching delicate equipment. He would leave the door of his
locker ajar, and on the way to the equipment store would pass by the changing room and fetch it.

The chefs greeted him with suggestive remarks. They all knew Andrea had been to his flat the previous evening. ‘Hope you didn’t make it too hot for her – the curry I
mean,’ one said with a smirk. Another: ‘They say a real curry burns twice. Wouldn’t hurt that ice-cold arse of hers.’

Maravan made an effort to smile and not answer back. But the atmosphere remained edgy. Even Huwyler made an unusually early appearance in the kitchen, getting in the way and referring to him as
‘our spicy tiger’.

Maravan peeled potatoes, thinking, ‘If only you knew, if only you knew,’ when Fink suddenly yelled across the kitchen, ‘Kandan! Rotary evaporator!’

Kandan had not even touched the rotary evaporator before. He froze, as did Maravan.

‘Off you go. What’s up?’ Fink asked, casting a brief sideways glance at Maravan.

Kandan got moving.

Maravan’s brain was turning over feverishly. Should he wait until Kandan came back empty-handed, and hope that Fink would send him instead? Or should he just go with him, fetch the thing,
and hope that Kandan did not give the game away? Or should he say, quite calmly, ‘The rotary evaporator’s in my locker. I borrowed it’?

He continued peeling his potatoes and waited to see what would happen.

It was some time before Kandan came back. ‘It’s not there,’ he stammered.

‘Not where?’

‘Not where it usually is.’

Maravan missed his cue. Fink hurried past him, past Kandan, and disappeared behind the door that led to the equipment store and staff changing rooms. Kandan followed him.

Maravan put the peeler and potatoes to one side and headed in the same direction, instinctively wiping his hands on his apron.

He could hear Fink cursing in the equipment store as he opened and closed cupboard doors and drawers. Maravan passed the store, went into the staff changing room, opened his locker and unpacked
the rotary evaporator.

Behind him he heard Huwyler’s voice: ‘Today is the first of the month, so you’ve been paid. We’re now going to see whether this machine’s still in perfect working
order. If so, Frau Keller will pay you the share of the extra month’s salary you’re due. If not, we’ll repair it and take the cost out of what we owe you.’

The rotary evaporator
was
still in perfect working order, which meant that Maravan left the Huwyler with just over 600 francs in cash. While he was packing his
belongings, the boss stood beside him to ensure he didn’t try to steal anything.

As Maravan was about to leave, Huwyler said, ‘You’ll see. Summary dismissal from the Huwyler won’t make it easy finding another kitchen job. You should count yourself lucky
I’m not reporting you to the police. Otherwise it would be straight back to Sri Lanka.’

Andrea started her shift at four o’clock that afternoon. She did not know which she was dreading most: seeing Maravan or the rest of the team. But when she had changed and started setting
the tables, nobody made any comments. Even during the briefing from the
chef de service
nobody mentioned her invitation to Maravan’s flat the day before. And nobody said a word when
she made her first appearance in the kitchen either.

It also looked as if she had been spared an encounter with Maravan. He must have been busy in the back of the kitchen, because she was never able to see him from where she was standing. He would
be off-duty in an hour’s time; she could easily keep out of his way until then.

The second time she went into the kitchen she noticed that Kandan was cleaning the pans, in the very spot where she had expected to find Maravan. That must mean he was prepping vegetables, as he
did every evening.

But it was one of the
commis
who was cutting the juliennes for the
entremetier
. And doing it far less skilfully than Maravan.

It was still remarkably quiet in the kitchen, but now she noticed a few curious looks in her direction.

‘Where’s Maravan, by the way?’ she asked Bandini, the
announceur
, who was standing next to her making notes on a menu sheet.

‘Fired,’ he muttered without looking up. ‘On the spot.’

‘Why?’ Her question came out louder than she had intended.

‘He borrowed the rotary evaporator. A thing like that costs over 5,000 francs.’

‘Borrowed?’

‘Without asking.’

Andrea let her gaze wander around the kitchen. Everybody hard at work, very deliberately. And in the middle of it all, blasé and autocratic, Huwyler in his silly black outfit.

Andrea tapped a knife against the side of a glass, as if she were about to propose a toast. ‘I want to say something!’ she shouted.

All heads turned in her direction.

‘Maravan has more talent in his little finger than all of you in this kitchen put together!’

Then, seized by that impulse which had got her into trouble so often in the past, she added, ‘That goes for the bedroom, too.’