‘Do you know how many of my patients would give their right arm for a meal like that?’
‘Send them over,’ was all Andrea replied, snuggling up in the duvet and finally going to sleep.
16
Dalmann was convinced that Schaeffer was trying to expose him to ridicule. The tracksuit he had brought him was red with neon-yellow arms. ‘Couldn’t you find anything more conspicuous?’ he asked.
‘I’m told that the more expressive colours are preferable at this time of year. Not least for safety considerations.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I took some expert advice,’ his colleague said, rather piqued.
Dalmann had put on the outfit, but in all honesty he did not care for it. None of the others looked any better in theirs, which were either too tight or too big. Nor did he care for the way they tried to atone for the sins of previous decades: slaves to their fitness machines, bright red in the face and out of breath.
Dalmann was sitting on an ergometer, pedalling without much effort. In a slot in front of the handlebars was a sheet of paper detailing his personal fitness programme. He was skipping the other exercises, concentrating instead on the ergometer. This allowed him to regulate his exertions and sit down at the same time. The doctor at the health farm had told him to do the exercises every day, but never push it to the limit. Dalmann had strictly observed the latter piece of advice.
They had inserted a stent, a tiny tube which expanded the constricted heart vessel that had been responsible for the infarction. It had not been a particularly invasive procedure; he had come through it well and now just had to complete this tiresome health farm treatment and take some medicine to regulate his blood clotting so that the tube stayed open. Apart from that he was supposed to lead a healthier lifestyle, watch what he ate and drank, and – the thing he found most difficult of all – give up smoking.
In the past he had always said, ‘I’d rather be dead than go to a health farm.’ Now, however, he did not find it so awful. It was like a luxury hotel with a slightly more professional wellness centre. Admittedly, the guests were older and more delicate, and the only thing they talked about was their health. But he did not have to talk to them, did he? Every other day Schaeffer came with his briefcase and they spent a few hours working in Dalmann’s suite.
His pulse had risen above ninety. Dalmann again lowered his leisurely pedalling rate a touch, then a touch more, finally stopping altogether and getting off.
In the changing room he put on the white dressing gown with the large hotel logo embroidered on the chest, went to the kiosk, bought the most important papers, and shuffled towards the lift which took him to his floor.
The newspapers carried stories about the resignation of Pervez Musharraf. Dalmann wondered what effect that would have on his Pakistani connection.
He was going to have a shower, put on some normal clothes and allow himself a cigarette on the balcony. His non-smoking suite was full of no smoking signs.
But when he came back into the living room it was so dark he had to turn on the lights. Low-lying storm clouds had turned the gloomy summer’s day into night. Dalmann opened the balcony door. The rain that sprayed in from the balcony darkened the light-beige fitted carpet.
September 2008
17
National banks around the world were pumping billions into the financial markets to ensure liquidity. Ten large banks set up a fund of 70 billion dollars to prevent international panic on the stock markets. And Lehman Brothers, the fourth largest American investment bank, had become insolvent.
Perhaps not the best time to start a company, Andrea thought, after Esther Dubois had hung up.
She had kept to her word and only two days after the dinner had telephoned to book an appointment for a ‘patient couple’. Andrea had said yes, but now doubts were starting to emerge. She sat in the conservatory, in the creaky rattan chair which she had picked up with Dagmar at a flea market and painted green, and lit a cigarette.
When she thought about it, her life seemed to be a long series of rash decisions. She was easily enthused and quickly bored. Education, career choice, relationships, jobs – all by chance, spontaneous and changeable. Was that what she really wanted? To invest a large proportion of the money she had left in a catering service providing erotic dinners, which could not even operate legitimately?
She had made enquiries. She fulfilled all the requirements to obtain the police authorization to run a catering firm. That would be sorted out within a month. But the hygiene legislation presented an almost insurmountable obstacle. They would never be able to satisfy the endless regulations concerning kitchens and equipment, neither in her kitchen nor in Maravan’s, no matter how squeaky clean they were. Even if they could meet the standards, the sites would have to be visited and checked by the commercial arm of the police, the building inspection department, the food inspection authority and fire service. On top of this, as an asylum seeker Maravan was not allowed to undertake any freelance work. She could not employ him as a chef either, only as a kitchen help – provided she got the authorization from the office for employment – and would have to pass herself off as the chef. It was all too complicated for a project which might fail. And who would pay back her investment if she could not obtain a licence? If she really wanted to see whether it would work in practice there was only one option: she would have to do it unofficially. At least to begin with.
But she did not need any of this. A week after her summary dismissal from the Huwyler she had already found another job. Not as stylish and gastronomic perhaps, but the pay was no worse and it had a younger, nicer clientele. It was called Mastroianni, an Italian restaurant right in the middle of the city’s club scene. Even if she resigned from there – which she was planning to do because she found the hours too late – she would quickly find something else.
She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and pulled down the blinds of the west-facing window. It was a warm summer’s day and the afternoon sun would otherwise soon heat up the conservatory. The light filtering through the faded brown material gave the room an old-fashioned feel with its cobbled-together furniture and two dusty indoor palms. Andrea sat back down and indulged in the fantasy that she was part of an old yellowed photograph.
Maybe it would have been better to keep her distance from Maravan after she had discovered his secret. That evening with him had preyed on her mind. She had needed to know for certain that it really had all been down to the food.
But what about the convincing result of the experiment with Franziska, who had been uncontactable since that night? Was that not proof enough for her? Even so, it was no reason to question her whole existence and personality. And certainly no reason to share her work and future with the very man who had laid a trap for her. Even though she did not hold it against him, it was something that would always stand between them.
She took a cigarette out of the packet with its bold death warning. When Dagmar still lived here, smoking was prohibited throughout the flat. The two of them had given up together. But after they split up, Andrea had started again and allowed herself to smoke in the conservatory. She did not have a garden, after all.
The cultural differences between her and Maravan would soon lead to problems, too. The ‘Sri’ and ‘guru’ had already caused a slight upset. ‘Please don’t introduce me as Sri and guru,’ he had said politely but firmly. ‘If my people knew that I was letting myself be called those things I would be finished.’
No, it was a bad idea, whichever way you looked at it.
She put her cigarette in the ashtray and watched the smoke rise in a thin, vertical line until it was disturbed by the fronds of a palm leaf.