The rotary evaporator had been turning since ten o’clock that morning. After much searching Andrea had obtained it not through one of her catering contacts, but had borrowed it from a female admirer, a university assistant who was working on her chemistry dissertation.
Maravan had resisted the temptation to tinker with the three normal curry dishes, even though these were the only non-aphrodisiac recipes. Maybe the combination of these dishes with everything else had been responsible for the effect Andrea had experienced.
Andrea’s guest arrived at eight o’clock. She was a very blonde, very nervous, slightly chubby, twenty-one-year-old, more pretty than beautiful. It was apparent that she did not feel at ease with the situation. She declined the champagne that Maravan served in his sarong and white shirt. He noted this deviation from the menu with some concern and hoped that it was not this particular ingredient which had hastened the effect.
When the two women had sat down, he brought his greeting from the kitchen, the mini chapattis, which he drizzled ceremoniously with his essence of curry leaves, cinnamon and coconut oil.
After that he served dishes only when Andrea rang a brass temple bell, another item borrowed from Maravan.
Each time the bell pealed and he brought in a new dish, Andrea’s guest was more relaxed and, as a consequence, so was he. After serving the tea and sweetmeats, he bid goodbye with a short bow, as arranged.
He discreetly left the flat just before ten o’clock. Andrea would call him the next day and tell him when he should come past, so they could clear up and bring the stuff back to his place.
It was a muggy evening and in the sky he could still see the afterglow of the sun which had set a while ago. During the day the temperature had climbed above thirty degrees.
It was on these sorts of evenings that he felt most homesick. They reminded him of Colombo in the monsoon season. The first drops might fall at any moment, and sometimes he thought he could hear the distant surf of Galle Face Green, and the squawking of the ravens which stalked the food stalls on the promenade.
Even the smell could be similar just before the rain on muggy days, especially when the aroma of barbecues wafted in the air. Then he could smell them – the food stalls – and thought he could make out their lights twinkling in the distance.
But his homesickness was not so acute that evening. Today he felt that he had taken a step forwards. He had completed his first proper assignment as a hired chef in a Swiss home. No, hold on. Had he not supplied the furnishings and decoration? And had he not also served everything on his own? In fact, this evening had been Maravan Catering’s first commission.
He was not tortured by lovesickness, either. Had Andrea been planning to spend the night with a man, he would surely have felt differently. But he was not envious of the blonde. If he were honest, it excited him to be complicit in her seduction. It made him feel a little closer to Andrea.
The heavens opened without any warning. He stopped, stretched out his arms and lifted his face to the rain. Like the young man he had watched from the tram some months back. Or like himself, as a boy in the first rain of the monsoon.
August 2008
13
If Huwyler’s restaurant was not exactly full, he was busier than most of his rivals. Of course he could not help but know this; as the acting president of swisschefs he had all the figures at his fingertips. He was doing his best to resist the financial crisis, coming up with new ideas – the local press had written short, funny articles about his Menu Surcrise, for example – and now this had to happen!
That arsehole was having a heart attack on him. A full house on a Friday evening! Throwing up all over the table! And over the shirt front of his guest, a Dutch businessman.
Everyone must have been thinking: someone’s dying before my very eyes in the Huwyler. What on earth has he eaten?
In an instant three doctors were attending to the patient, practically undressing the poor man. One of them gave a preliminary diagnosis – ‘suspected myocardial infarction’ – to the emergency services on his mobile, the second tried to revive him, while the third dashed outside, came back immediately with a bag and gave the man an injection. Ambulance sirens were already audible.
The paramedics and emergency doctor came in with a stretcher on wheels. Three tables had to be moved out of the way. Then they took him out, not a pretty sight: Dalmann, snow-white, oxygen mask, vomit sticking to his hair.
Of course the whole restaurant was in chaos after that. Dishes that had been called had to be taken back into the kitchen, half-eaten courses remained on tables, some diners wanted to pay, others were waiting for their tables to be put back in place, others felt sick. The wife of a well-known business lawyer was in hysterics. And everybody watched in disgust as the two Tamils cleared Dalmann’s table and cleaned the floor.
Then came the chef de service with an air freshener – God knows where he got it from – and before Huwlyer could intervene the room no longer smelled of sick, but of pine needles and sick.
And finally, when Huwyler gave a short speech, which managed to appease those diners who had not vanished – he was confident that, thanks to the fortunate circumstance, albeit not unusual for his restaurant, that three doctors had been on hand immediately, the prognosis for the customer in question was very good – at the very moment when a semblance of normality had returned, Dalmann’s guest came back from the staff changing room – freshly showered and wearing the sommelier’s too-tight and too-short spare black suit – and actually asked to sit down and continue with his dinner! This, he emphasized with a raised voice, was exactly what his host would have wanted. Not surprisingly, his announcement ruined the appetite of a few more diners.
The following morning, when Huwyler called Schaeffer – Dalmann’s colleague, who always made the bookings – to enquire about his boss’s health, the man replied, ‘As might be expected given the circumstances. Following emergency surgery the patient is in a stable condition.’ He spoke like a medical bulletin.
There was one blessing: if Dalmann had died in the Huwyler it would have been more damaging to the business. On the other hand, the media might have reported it.
14
Andrea did not get in touch until the following afternoon.
Maravan was preparing the modhakam for the evening when the telephone rang. She sounded happy, but did not say whether the experiment had been a success. Maravan reined in his curiosity and did not ask.
Even when he was clearing up her kitchen an hour later he left it up to her. She watched him, a glass of water in her right hand, her elbow supported by the palm of her left. She made no move to help him.
‘Aren’t you at all curious?’ she asked eventually.
‘Yes,’ was all he replied.
She put the glass on the kitchen table, took his shoulders in her hands, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You’re a magician. It worked!’
The look he gave her must have been one of disbelief, because she repeated, a little more loudly this time, ‘It worked!’
When he still did not react, she started skipping around him. ‘Worked, worked, worked!’ she said.
Only now did he laugh, temporarily joining in with her dance.
She shocked him with the description of her night of passion. Although she did not go into detail, she told him more than was appropriate to the moral sensitivities of a faithful Hindu. She finished off with the question: ‘And do you know when she left?’