The Chef (7 page)

A glorious April day. A procession of almost 2,000 children in colourful costumes and uniforms thronged through the city centre to the sound of marching music. Bringing up the
rear of the parade was a horse and cart with a cotton-wool snowman, which was due to be burned ceremonially the following evening at six o’clock.

A little way outside the city a few hundred Tamils, also in colourful clothes, had assembled in their temple. They were here to celebrate the new year, which on this occasion coincided with the
childrens’ Sechseläuten procession.

They were sitting on the floor of the temple, chatting and listening to the predictions for the coming year, while the children played.

Maravan turned off the mixer, wiped his eyes with his sleeve and poured the contents of the glass container into the bowl with the paste of red onions, mustard seeds and curry
leaves.

In an industrial-sized, stainless-steel bowl were some strips of green mango in their juice. Having combined them with grated coconut, yoghurt, green chillies and salt, Maravan now added the
paste mixture, and poured over the ghee spiced with chillies and mustard seeds.

The neem blossom
pachadi
was ready. Using an old recipe, he had made it out of the bitter flowers of the neem tree, the sweet nectar of the male palmyra blossom, sour tamarind juice and
spicy chilli flesh. A neem blossom
pachadi
should taste like life itself: bitter, sweet, sour and spicy.

After the ceremony the temple-goers would eat both
pachadis
on an empty stomach and then wish one another Puthaandu Vazhthugal: Happy New Year.

Huwyler had given Maravan the choice of a reference or a confirmation of employment. The former would mention Maravan’s summary dismissal and give the reason for it (misappropriation of a
valuable piece of kitchen equipment); the latter would note only the length of his employment and job description.

Maravan had opted for the confirmation of employment. But whenever he went for interviews they were always surprised that this was all he had to show for more than six months of working at the
Huwyler. Afterwards he would either hear no more or get a rejection letter.

He went on the dole. At the end of the month he would get just over 2,000 francs. Plus whatever he earned unofficially.

This temple job was the first one of its kind, however. And it was badly paid, too. They had appealed to his community spirit and had expected him to do it for nothing, a sort of voluntary piece
of community work. Finally they had agreed on the symbolic sum of fifty francs. The priest had promised to mention his name to the congregation. Maravan hoped that this publicity and the quality of
the food would make him known as a chef.

The Sri Lankan diaspora was a closed society. Bent on preserving its culture and protecting it from the influences of the asylum country. Although the Tamils were very well integrated
professionally, they shut themselves off socially. But Maravan was not a particularly active member of this community. He had not made any use of the services available to newcomers, except for the
German course. He would go to the temple for the most important festivals, but otherwise he kept his distance. Now that he was trying to earn an income as a private chef, however, he lacked the
necessary contacts within the diaspora.

The Tamil Hindus celebrated many religious and family festivals, plus ceremonies to mark the coming of age, marriage and pregnancy. They never scrimped on any of these occasions, and they all
involved food.

Cooking for the New Year’s celebration was a start at least. And – who could say? – word might get out in Swiss circles that there was someone who could deliver fine Indian,
Sri Lankan and Ayurvedic food to your door. One day, maybe, in the posh part of town, you would find a delivery van – a turmeric-yellow Citroën Jumper, perhaps – emblazoned with
the words ‘Maravan Catering’.

And there was another dream he had: Maravan’s. The only place to go for avant-garde subcontinental cuisine. Fifty covers maximum, a small culinary temple paying homage to the aromas,
tastes and textures of southern India and Sri Lanka.

And when Maravan’s had made him fairly well off, and peace reigned in Sri Lanka, he would go back and continue with the restaurant in Colombo.

There was always a woman in these dreams. But now she was no longer just a shadow, now she had taken shape and form: Andrea. She would supervise the service staff for the catering firm and work
as maître d’ at Maravan’s. Later, in Colombo, she would just look after the house and family, like a proper Tamil wife.

But he had heard nothing from Andrea since that Tuesday morning. He had neither her address nor telephone number. After a week without any news he swallowed his pride and rang the Huwyler. She
doesn’t work here any more, Frau Keller told him.

‘Could you give me her address or telephone number?’ he asked.

‘If she wanted you to call her, she’d have given you her number herself,’ Frau Keller said, and hung up.

Maravan carried the bowls outside. By the entrance to the temple a large table had been set up under a colourful baldachin. Two women took the
pachadis
from him and started putting
small portions on to plastic plates. Maravan helped them.

They were not even halfway finished when the temple door opened, the faithful streamed out, and each looked for their own pair of shoes among the mass by the temple entrance.
‘
Puthaandu Vazhthugal
,’ they said to one another.

Maravan continued dividing up the
pachadis
, while the women arranged the plates. He focused on his work, but also listened with all the curiosity and anxiety of an artist to the
comments at a private view. He did not hear anything negative, but very little praise, either. Cheerfully and without thinking, the congregation wolfed down all that he had prepared with such
love.

He knew a few of the faces, but not many. Maravan’s activities in the diaspora were limited to observing the most important festivals and contact with his fellow tenants in the block of
flats, some of whom he would occasionally invite over as tasters. He would also pop into the Tamil shops and exchange a few words with the owners or customers. But otherwise he kept himself to
himself. Not just because his work and lavish hobby scarcely left him any time. There was another reason: he wanted to keep his distance from the LTTE. They played an important role within the
Tamil asylum population, from whom they obtained their funds for the fight for independence.

Maravan was not a militant. He did not believe in the independent state of Tamil Eelam. He would never say it aloud, but in his opinion the Liberation Tigers were making reconciliation more
difficult and forestalling a return – maybe for generations – for all those who were freezing here and doing menial work. He didn’t want to help finance that.

‘
Puthaandu Vazhthugal
,’ a voice said.

A young woman was standing in front of him. She wore a red sari with a broad golden braid and was as beautiful as only a young Tamil woman can be. Her shining, parted hair was set high on her
forehead, her thick, barely arched eyebrows leaving exactly enough room for the red dot in the middle. The black of her pupils was only just distinguishable from the black of her irises, her nose
was fine and straight, and below this a full mouth smiled a little shyly and a little expectantly.

‘Did you get to work on time, then?’ she asked.

Now he recognized her. The young woman on the tram. He had not noticed how beautiful she was when she was wearing the chunky quilted coat with the hood.

‘How about you? Did the stains come out?’

‘Thanks to my mother.’ She pointed to a plump woman in a wine-red sari standing next to her. ‘This is the man who knocked me over,’ she said.

The mother simply nodded, looked from Maravan to her daughter and then back again. ‘Let’s go, your father’s waiting.’

It was only now that Maravan noticed the daughter was carrying two plates and the mother just one.

‘
Meendum Santhipom
,’ she said.

‘Goodbye,’ Maravan replied. ‘Sandana, isn’t it?’

‘Maravan, isn’t it?’

In May Maravan admitted to his family that he was out of work. He had no choice; his sister was begging him for far more money than he could spare. In Jaffna there were rice
and sugar shortages. Even if Maravan had been working, what was available there on the black market would still have been beyond his means.

Nonetheless, he said he would rustle up some money somehow, and promised to call again the following day. But the next day he could not contact his sister. In the Batticaloa Bazaar he learned
that Brigadier Balraj, the hero of the Elephant Pass Offensive, had died. Three days of national mourning had been declared, which many people in Jaffna were also observing.

He finally got through on the fourth day and had to tell his sister that he could not send more than 200 francs, scarcely 20,000 rupees. She was furious and reproachful – he had never
known her to react like that before. It was only then that he came clean about his situation.

The month of Vaikasi was not exactly packed with festivals, and he had taken no bookings as a chef for family parties either. Job-hunting was a depressing process; not even
hospital kitchens or factory canteens were interested in him.

If he had been in regular work, perhaps his romantic problems would not have bothered him so much. He would not have had to doze away his days in his flat, a lonely foreigner.

He was not merely lamenting a failed love affair. It had been the first time he had forged a personal relationship with anyone from this country. He had no friends, neither Swiss nor Tamil. He
realized now that something was missing from his life.

Such was Maravan’s mood as he drank tea on the cushions, in the same place where he had sat that evening with Andrea. The air was mild, the window open, the noises of summer resonated
outside: music, the cries of children playing, teenagers laughing in doorways, dogs barking.

The doorbell rang. It was Andrea.

It had not been easy coming here. At first she was certain she never wanted to see him again. What occurred that night had profoundly shocked her. She had asked herself
repeatedly how on earth it had happened.

The fact that Maravan had been fired the next morning made it easier for her to keep out of his way. She was, of course, sorry that she had been the real reason for his dismissal – she was
sure this was the case. But she also felt that her act of solidarity had gone some way towards making amends. After all, her outburst had resulted in a summary dismissal too.

But she could not stop wondering how things had gone so far that night. The answer she found most palatable was that it must have been something to do with the food. Although this was pretty
unlikely, it was an explanation that would not force her to rethink her whole life from scratch.

The more she allowed herself to recollect the atmosphere of that evening, the more detailed the reconstruction of her feelings and emotions, the surer she became that she must have been under
the influence of something.

And yet . . . she had been perfectly conscious of everything. She had not been drugged or defenceless. On the contrary, she had taken the lead and he had followed. He had been willing, yes, but
he had followed. It had been an evening and a night in which her senses had been arrested more intensely than ever before. She was loathe to admit it, but if events had been triggered by something
beyond her control then it was all a little less complicated.

This was why, in the end, she had gone to see him on this unexpectedly beautiful May evening. She would turn up unannounced so he would not be able to make a fuss. She wanted to keep her visit
as businesslike and as short as possible. In fact, she had given herself a small chance of avoiding the encounter altogether: if he was not home, then that was fate.

The newspaper she usually hid behind on tram journeys carried a report about the secret destruction of documents by the Government under pressure from the United States. They were plans for gas
centrifuges which potentially could be used for the manufacture of nuclear bombs. The documents had been seized in a sensational case involving the smuggling of nuclear material.

Andrea read the story without much interest and peered out of the window, which was etched with amateurish graffiti, at the relatively empty street. Rush hour was over and the traffic of people
on their way out for the evening had not yet begun. The tram was half empty, too. An overweight teenage girl had sat down opposite her and was patiently unravelling the earphones of her iPod.

A group of young, second-generation Tamil girls were standing outside Theodorstrasse 94, laughing and chatting in broad Swiss dialect. When they saw Andrea approach they lowered their voices and
switched language. They made way for her and greeted her politely. As soon as she had disappeared into the stairwell, Andrea could hear them talking in Swiss German again.

The house smelled of stewed onions and spices. On the first-floor landing she paused, uncertain whether to go on or turn back. The door to one of the flats opened and a woman in a sari peeped
out. She nodded to Andrea and Andrea nodded back. She had no choice but to continue. This was fate, too.

When she reached Maravan’s door, she waited a moment before pressing the buzzer. She heard the bell ring inside the flat, but no footsteps. Maybe he’s not here, she hoped. But then
the key turned in the lock and he was standing in front of her.

He wore a white T-shirt with ironed creases on the sleeves, a simple blue-and-red striped sarong and sandals. Andrea had never seen him with such bags under his eyes, to match his bluish-black
stubble.

He was smiling now. He seemed so happy that she regretted not having turned back on the landing. She could see that he was wondering whether or not to embrace her, so she made the decision for
him by offering her hand.