Maravan went into the kitchen, threw the paper in the bin, and washed his face and hands very thoroughly. Before he entered the sitting room he took off his shoes, then he kneeled in front of the domestic shrine, lit the wick of the deepam, and prayed fervently that Ulagu would not follow the path of the heroes.
26
Andrea was freezing as she sat in the rattan chair in her conservatory. She wore thick woollen socks and had pulled up her legs, so the Kashmir shawl covered her toes. The shawl had been a present from Liliane, Dagmar’s predecessor. Andrea had met her in Sulawesi, a happening restaurant which, with its international fusion cooking, had enjoyed a brief heyday and then vanished. Liliane, an analyst at a large bank, was a regular at Sulawesi. Andrea had served her table on her first night working there and flirted a little. When she left the restaurant long after midnight Liliane was waiting for her in her red Porsche Boxster and asked whether she could give her a lift home.
‘Whose home?’ Andrea had asked.
That was a long time ago now, and the Kashmir shawl had a few moth holes, which annoyed Andrea every time she took it out of the cupboard.
The November Föhn wind was shaking the rickety windows, the draught stirring the indoor palms. She had put an electric heater in the middle of the room, because the only radiator was lukewarm. It needed bleeding, but Andrea did not know how. Dagmar had always done that.
The electric heater would send her bills sky-high, but she did not care. She refused to accept that the conservatory – otherwise known as a winter garden – could not be used in winter.
She put the newspaper she had finished reading to one side and did something she had not done for weeks: she picked up the job section, which she usually threw away unread, along with the rest of the classified pages.
Love Food had a total of three bookings till the end of the year. Two on the back of her promotional dinner, and one from a couple of Esther’s patients who had contacted her directly. And this was December, the high season for the catering industry.
Even if there were another one or two bookings, these would not be enough to keep Love Food afloat. Andrea saw two choices: go on the dole like Maravan or look through the job announcements. Maybe she would find something that would give her the evenings free, so she would be available for Love Food if they got a booking. She had not abandoned all hope that Esther Dubois might call again, or someone else from her clique. She still clung to the idea – her idea – of aphrodisiac catering and hoped that Maravan’s residency status would soon allow them to run Love Food as an official concern.
To her mind it would have been unfair on him to give up so quickly. She felt responsible for his situation. If it were not for her he would probably still be working at the Huwyler. And, after all, it had been her fault that they no longer had bookings through Esther Dubois.
She dropped the job advertisements, pulled the shawl up to her chin and started thinking again about how to get Love Food back on its feet.
But it was a surprising call from Maravan that provided the answer.
The previous day Maravan had been standing at a snack bar at the main railway station. He was wearing a woolly hat and scarf, sipping his tea. Before him was a folded Sunday newspaper, unread, in which he had put an envelope with 3,000 francs in large denomination notes. It was practically all he had left from his Love Food income.
He had found out the day before that his sister had received a letter from Ulagu. The boy wrote that he was committed to the struggle for freedom and justice and had joined the LTTE fighters. It was his handwriting, Maravan’s sister had said, but not his language.
He saw Thevaram coming. He was making his way through the passengers, idlers and those just waiting. At his side was the silent Rathinam.
They waved at him and came over to his table. Neither of them showed any inclination to get a drink from the snack bar.
Maravan pointed to the paper. Thevaram dragged it over, lifted it slightly, felt the envelope with his hand, and counted the notes without looking. Then he raised his eyebrows approvingly and said, ‘Your brothers and sisters back home will thank you for this.’
Maravan sipped his tea. ‘Maybe they can do something for me, too.’
‘They are fighting for you,’ Thevaram replied.
‘I’ve got a nephew. He joined the fighters. He’s not even fifteen.’
‘There are many brave young men among our brothers.’
‘He’s not a young man. He’s a boy.’
Thevaram and Rathinam exchanged glances.
‘I will give greater support to the struggle.’
The two men exchanged glances again.
‘What’s his name?’ Rathinam suddenly asked.
Maravan told him the name, Rathinam jotted it down in a notebook.
‘Thank you,’ Maravan said.
‘All I’ve done so far is made a note of his name,’ Rathinam replied.
As a result of this meeting Maravan decided to ring Andrea.
He was not sure whether Thevaram and Rathinam had any influence over Ulagu’s fate, but he knew the LTTE’s arm was a long one. He had heard of Tigers demanding contributions from asylum seekers, using scarcely veiled threats against relatives back home. If they were capable of threatening people’s lives over such a distance, then maybe it was in their power to save them too.
Maravan had no option. He had to seize the chance, however small, that the two men could do something for Ulagu. And that cost money. More than he was earning at the moment.
The cold room smelt of heating oil. It had taken Maravan a long time to light the burner. Now, barefoot and in a sarong, he was kneeling before the domestic altar doing his puja. Despite the cold he was taking longer over it than usual. He prayed for Ulagu and for himself, that he might make the right decision.
When he stood up he realized the burner had gone out and the bottom of the combustion chamber was swimming in oil. He set about soaking up the oil with kitchen paper – a job he detested. When he had finally done it and the burner was lit again, Maravan and the whole flat stank of oil. He opened the windows, took a long shower, made himself some tea, then shut the windows.
Maravan pulled the chair away from the computer and over to the burner. In his leather jacket, pressing the cup of tea tightly against his torso, he sat in the weak light of the deepam, which was still flickering by the shrine, and thought.
Undoubtedly it was against his culture, his religion, his upbringing and his convictions. But he was not in Sri Lanka. He was in exile. You could not live here as you did at home.
How many women of the diaspora went to work, even though it was their job to run the household, bring up the children and cultivate and pass on the traditions and religious customs? But here they had to earn money. Life here forced them to.
How many asylum seekers were obliged to take jobs that were only fit for the lower castes – kitchen helps, cleaners, carers? Most of them, because life here forced them to.
How many Hindus within the diaspora had to make Sunday the holy day of their week, even though it ought to be Friday? All of them, because life here forced them to.
So why should he, Maravan, not also do something that back home would go against his culture, tradition and decency, if life in exile forced him to?
He went to the telephone and dialled Andrea’s number.
‘How are things looking?’ was the first thing Maravan asked when Andrea answered.
She hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Pretty dire, to be honest. Still only three bookings.’
It was silent on the other end for a while.
Then Maravan said, ‘I think I would do it now.’
‘What?’
‘The dirty stuff.’
Andrea understood immediately what he was saying, but asked, ‘What dirty stuff?’