‘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?’
May 2008
8
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.
‘May I come in?’
He showed her into his flat. It was just as she had remembered it: tidy and well ventilated. In the sitting room the clay lamp was burning before the domestic shrine. As on the last occasion there was no music. Noises drifted through the window from the street.
A teapot and cup stood on the low table. She could see from the cushion at one end that Maravan had been sitting there. He invited her to sit opposite.
‘Would you mind if I sat here instead?’
She pointed to the chair in front of his computer.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Like some tea?’
‘No, thank you. I’m not staying long. I just wanted to ask you something.’
She sat on the chair. Maravan stood in front of her. He looked nice. Neat, slim, well proportioned. But he elicited no feelings in her except sympathy and kindness. It was ludicrous that she had leapt into bed with him.