‘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.’
7
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 Vazhthugaclass="underline" 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.