But what tipped the scales was that Love Food had been her idea. It could not have happened had she not come up with the notion of using the Tamil asylum-seeker’s culinary arts of seduction for the purposes of sexual therapy. And you also had to have the right contacts to market such an idea.
One of the things about her career that had bored Andrea was the lack of creativity. She had endless ideas, but never the opportunity to put them into practice. With Love Food this had changed radically. The idea was her baby, she was proud of it. And if it also brought in money, then she saw no reason why she should give it up.
Soon afterwards, when Esther Dubois requested a booking for another couple, she said yes immediately. Maravan had no reservations either. Apart from the question: ‘Are they married?’
Most clients were couples over the age of forty from income groups that allowed for the existence of such problems, as well as the therapy to treat them. All at once Maravan gained an insight into a layer of society he had never been in contact with before, apart from at a great distance as a chef at luxury hotels in southern India and Sri Lanka. He entered houses in which the cost of a chair or a tap could have met the financial needs of his relatives back home for many months.
He moved around their kitchens like a member of the household, even though he felt like a blind passenger in an alien spaceship.
Maravan had believed that, with every year he spent in this country, the mentality and culture of its inhabitants was becoming more familiar. But now he had glimpsed behind the scenes, he realized just how foreign these people and their problems were. The way they spoke, the way they lived, the way they dressed, what they considered important – he found all of this strange.
He would rather have kept his distance. It troubled him that he was forced to intrude into the intimacy of these people. In the past he had found it disturbing enough that they did not seem to think it was important to keep their private lives private. They kissed in public, on the tram they spoke about the most personal things, schoolgirls dressed like prostitutes, and in the papers, on the television, in the cinema, in music, it was all about sex.
He did not want to know, see or hear any of that. Not because he was a prude. Where he came from they venerated the female as the fundamental power of the world. His gods had penises and his goddesses had breasts and vaginas. The mothers of his gods were not virgins. No, he did not have a troubled relationship with sexuality. It played an important role in his culture, religion and medicine. But here he found it embarrassing. And he also guessed why: because in spite of the fact that it was everywhere, deep down these people found it embarrassing.
But business was going well. Only four weeks after the Mellingers, Love Food had five bookings in a single week. A fortnight later they were fully booked for the first time.
At the end of September they shared a net profit of 17,000 francs. Tax-free.
October 2008
19
For Maravan, being fully booked meant that he spent the entire day and half of the night in the kitchen. At six in the morning he would begin preparing for the following day; shortly after midday Andrea would come by with the estate and they would start loading the thermoboxes and other kitchen equipment.
It was hard work and a little monotonous, because he had to cook exactly the same menu every time. But Maravan enjoyed the independence, the recognition and Andrea’s company. Day by day they became closer, albeit not in the way he had hoped, unfortunately. They became colleagues who enjoyed working together, and perhaps they were well on the way to becoming friends.
One of those lunchtimes Andrea brought up a bundle of post that had been sticking out of his overflowing box. Among the flyers and brochures (multiple quantities of which had been stuffed through the slot to deliver their load more quickly) was an airmail letter addressed to Maravan in a child’s hand. It came from his nephew Ulagu and ran:
Dear Uncle,
I hope you are well. We are not so well. Here there are many who fled to Jaffna before the war. Often there is not enough food for us all. People say we’re going to lose the war, and they’re worried about what will happen afterwards. But Nangay says it can’t get any worse.
I’m writing this letter to you because of Nangay. She’s in a very bad way, but does not want you to know. She’s very thin, drinks only water all day long and does it in her bed every night. The doctor says she’ll dehydrate if she doesn’t get her medicine. He’s written down for me what she’s got and what the medicine’s called. Maybe you can get it there and send it to us. I don’t want Nangay to dehydrate.
I send you my best wishes and thanks. I hope that the war’s over soon and you can come back. Or I’ll come to you and work as a chef. I can already cook quite well.
Your nephew,
Ulagu
Ulagu was the eldest son of Maravan’s youngest sister Ragini. He was eleven when Maravan left the country and he was the person Maravan had found it most difficult to say goodbye to. Maravan had been just like Ulagu when he was a boy – quiet, dreamy and slightly secretive. And like Maravan he wanted to be a chef and spent a lot of time with Nangay in the kitchen.
Because of Ulagu, Maravan sometimes felt that he had left a part of himself behind. Thanks to Ulagu it was still there.
‘Bad news?’ Andrea had watched him read the letter while she carried out the equipment on to the landing.
Maravan nodded. ‘My nephew says that my grandmother’s in a very bad way.’
‘The cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Maravan read from the note enclosed with the letter: ‘Diabetes insipidus.’
‘My grandmother’s had diabetes for years,’ Andrea said to console him. ‘You can live with it till you’re ancient.’
‘It isn’t really diabetes, it’s just called that. You drink the whole time, but you can’t retain the water and over time you dehydrate.’
‘Can it be treated?’
‘It can. But they can’t get the medicine.’
‘Well, you must get hold of it here, then.’
‘I will.’
The waiting room was small and overcrowded. Almost all the patients were asylum seekers. Most were Tamils, though there was a handful of Eritreans and Iraqis. Over the last few years Dr Kerner had become the doctor for refugees, more by chance than intention. It had all started when he employed a Tamil assistant. The word had soon got around the Tamil diaspora that Tamil was spoken at Dr Kerner’s. The first Africans came later, and now the Iraqis as well.
Maravan had waited an hour before getting a seat. Now there were only four more patients in front of him.
He had come in the hope of obtaining a prescription. Maybe he would be able to send Nangay the medicine. Although it was getting more and more difficult, there were still ways. He would have to rely on the services of the LTTE, but he could accept that. After all, Nangay’s life was at stake.
The last patient before Maravan was called in, an elderly Tamil lady. She stood up, bowed with her hands together before the image of Shiva on the wall, and followed the assistant.
On the wall of Dr Kerner’s waiting room Shiva, the Buddha, a crucifix and a hand-written verse from the Koran hung side by side peacefully. Not every patient was happy with this arrangement, but as far as the doctor was concerned they could stay away if they didn’t like it.
A long time passed before Maravan could hear the assistant saying goodbye to the woman, offering a few comforting words. Just before six o’clock he was led into the consulting room.