‘What then?’
‘I said no.’
‘Could you see his number on your phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘So find out who it was on the internet.’
‘Won’t work. It’s a mobile number.’
It took half an hour for all the guests to arrive. Through the kitchen door Maravan could hear the piercing shrieks of people catching up with each other and the over-excited laughter of those arriving. Now and then Andrea brought an empty bottle of champagne into the kitchen and left again with a full one.
Finally she popped her head in and said, ‘Go!’
This was Maravan’s cue.
Almost three hours later he was sitting on a kitchen chair, satisfied with his work and the seamless progression of the courses. Then Andrea came in, beaming and slightly tipsy, took his hand, and brought him out into the dining room.
There, twelve women sitting in the flattering candlelight turned their heads to the door.
‘Ladies, let me introduce to you Maestro Maravan!’ Andrea proclaimed.
The cheering and applause made Maravan so embarrassed that he became stiff and serious.
Andrea received phone calls the following day, and the day after that letters from her delighted guests. Most of them said that they would be making use of Love Food’s services very soon, two of them even said very, very soon. One of them had already made a firm booking: in ten days’ time, on 27 November, 7.30, four people.
The success was absolutely crucial. Including the champagne and wine, Love Food had invested more than 2,000 francs in the dinner. Neither Andrea nor Maravan had any cash put by. In view of how well the business had been going they had both spent a fair amount of money. And Love Food had invested in a number of high-tech kitchen appliances, which the company would not have been able to afford in its current circumstances.
They were also forced to change their pricing. Charges for non-therapy dinners had to be lower, naturally. Andrea had calculated that they would make up for these losses with the higher numbers of guests. She had reckoned on an average of six per dinner. So the first booking for four was not a great start.
A week after the promotional dinner there had still been no further bookings. Andrea started getting nervous. She called a friend who had promised to make a reservation ‘very, very soon’ and said, ‘I’ve been keeping a few evenings free for you in the next ten days and just wanted to make sure you didn’t have one in mind before I give them to other people.’
‘Oh,’ the voice at the other end said, ‘so good of you to call. We’ve got a few diary difficulties at the moment. I don’t want you to have to turn down other people because of me. Tell you what. Let the other people have those evenings, and as soon as we’ve sorted out our social calendar I’ll get back to you. And if you don’t have any free slots, which wouldn’t surprise me, then it’s my own fault.’
The other potential clients, who had said they would book ‘very soon’ made similar excuses when Andrea called.
25
Maravan was kneeling before his domestic shrine. His forehead touched the floor. He was praying to Lakshmi for Ulagu.
Today he had received the news that Ulagu had disappeared. In the morning he had been with his brothers and sisters; in the evening he was nowhere to be seen.
Whenever a fourteen-year-old boy disappeared in the north of Sri Lanka, the first worry was that he had died, the second that he had become a soldier, voluntarily or involuntarily joining the Tamil Tigers or the Karuna rebels fighting with the Sri Lankan army.
Maravan prayed this was not the case – that at this very moment, while he was praying for Ulagu, the boy was already back safe and sound with his family.
He could hear the ringtone of his mobile in the kitchen. He ignored it, finished his prayer, and started to sing his mantra in a restrained voice.
Afterwards, he straightened up, folded his hands across his chest, bowed and touched his forehead. He stood and went into the kitchen, back to preparing the dinner in two days’ time that he had interrupted to pray.
Four iron pots were sitting on the cold stove, each with a different-coloured curry: a lamb curry with yoghurt, light brown; a fish curry with coconut milk, yellow; a vegetable curry, green; and a Goan lobster curry, orange.
He wanted to make four jellies from these and pair each one with its main ingredient: a slice of lamb fillet cooked pink on the light brown one; a steamed halibut cheek on the yellow one; okra stuffed with lentils for the green one; and a lobster rosette for the orange one.
He relit the flames under the pans and waited, absentmindedly, until the bubbles started rising again.
He noticed the mobile phone on the work unit. One missed call, it said, and a text message.
Stop. Dinner cancelled. A
Maravan went to the stove and turned off the gas. He did not care.
There was still no trace of Ulagu three days after his disappearance.
On the fourth day the Tigers arrived.
Maravan was experimenting in his kitchen with different jellification dosages when the bell rang. Two of his compatriots were standing at the door. He knew one of them: Thevaram, the LTTE man who had arranged Maravan’s modhakam job at the temple and pocketed 1,000 francs for the favour.
The other man was holding a briefcase. Thevaram introduced him as Rathinam.
‘May we come in?’
Maravan reluctantly let them in.
Thevaram glanced into the kitchen.
‘Well equipped. Business seems to be doing all right.’
‘What can I do for you?’ Maravan asked.
‘They say you’ve set up a catering service.’
Rathinam remained silent, just staring at Maravan.
‘I cook for people sometimes,’ said Maravan. ‘Cooking’s my profession.’
‘And successfully, too. You sent more than 6,000 francs back home in the last few weeks. Congratulations!’
It came as no surprise to Maravan that the Batticaloa Bazaar had passed the details on to these people.
‘My grandmother is very ill,’ was all he said in reply.
‘And you paid back all your loan to Ori. Congratulations again!’
Ori, too, thought Maravan. He waited.
‘Yesterday was Maaveerar,’ Thevaram continued, ‘Heroes’ Day.’
Maravan nodded.
‘We wanted to bring you Velupillai Pirapaharan’s speech.’
Thevaram looked at his companion. The latter opened his briefcase and took out a computer printout. At the top of the page was a portrait of the stocky LTTE leader in camouflage gear, and a long text underneath.
Maravan took the sheet of paper. The two men offered him their hands.
‘Congratulations again on your success. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the authorities don’t hear of your lucrative activities. Especially as you’re still signing on.’
At the door Rathinam spoke for the first time: ‘Read the speech. Particularly the end.’ Maravan could hear their footsteps in the stairwell and then the muffled ding-dong of a doorbell one floor below.
The end of the speech went like this:
At this historic juncture, I would request Tamils, in whatever part of the world that they may live, to raise their voices, firmly and with determination, in support of the freedom struggle of their brothers and sisters in Tamil Eelam. I would request them from my heart to strengthen the hands of our freedom movement and continue to extend their contributions and help. I would also take this opportunity to express my affection and my praise to our Tamil youth living outside our homeland for the prominent and committed role they play in actively contributing towards the liberation of our nation.
Let us all make a firm and determined resolution to follow fully the path of our heroes, who, in pursuit of our aspiration for justice and freedom, sacrificed themselves and have become a part of the history of our land and our people.