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.