As a kitchen help Maravan had been used to leading a shadowy existence. But this was different: the guests came here because of his creations. Whatever happened between them was a direct result of his artistry. In short, the artist in Maravan felt neglected. And, what was almost worse, so did the man.
His relationship with Andrea had not developed in the way he wanted. He hoped that being together almost every day, the close contact and the conspiratorial nature of their collaboration, would bring them closer. It did, but only as friends, almost like siblings. The erotic element of their work did not rub off on their relationship.
However, whereas Andrea felt nothing more than friendship towards Maravan, she became very close with the girls working for Kull. By the second meeting they were already hugging each other like long-lost friends, spending the time before the punters – Maravan deliberately called them this in front of Andrea – arrived chatting, smoking and laughing on the white sofas. There was one girl in particular she liked: a tall Ethiopian called Makeda. If Maravan was honest, he felt jealous of this woman.
Makeda had fled to Britain with her mother and older sister when she was twelve. They belonged to the Oromo people; her father had joined its liberation movement, the Oromo Liberation Front. After the fall of the Derg government he was an OLF deputy in the transition parliament, but following the elections the OLF left the Government and put itself in opposition to the ruling party.
Early one morning soldiers had arrived at Makeda’s parents’ house, ransacked the place and taken away her father. It was the last time she saw him. Her mother made dogged attempts to discover where he was being held, and thanks to some former acquaintances she did indeed find out. Her contacts even allowed her to visit the prison. She returned home silent and red-eyed. Two days later, Makeda, her mother and sister crossed the Kenyan border in a clapped-out Land Rover. From that point on, her mother could not call in any more favours from old acquaintances. They flew to London and sought asylum. They never heard from her father again.
At sixteen Makeda was discovered by a modelling agency scout. He called her ‘the new Naomi Campbell’. Against her mother’s will, she went to a few castings, took part in some fashion shows and was photographed for magazines. But she waited in vain for the breakthrough.
It was during Milan Fashion Week that she crossed the fine line between up-and-coming model and call girl. Feeling lonely, she took a purchaser for a boutique chain back to her room. When she awoke the following morning he was gone. On the bedside table were 500 euros. ‘I then realized that my first lover had also been my first punter,’ she said with a sarcastic laugh.
When she had to accept that she was not going to get very far as a model, Makeda went back to her family and to school. But by now she was used to a freer and more expensive existence. Life was too constricted at home; she found her mother’s views too narrow-minded. It was not long before they were arguing. Makeda moved out, for good.
She was discovered by another scout, but this time they worked for an escort service. Makeda became a call girl, a profession in which she met with rather more success than on the catwalk.
Makeda had come across Kull less than a year ago. He lured her away and she followed him to Switzerland, where she felt pretty lonely.
She related all of this in the half-light of Andrea’s bedroom. While waiting for a client they had made a date for the following day. Despite the cold, they went for a walk by the lake and ended up in Andrea’s bed, as if this were the natural order of things.
So Maravan’s jealousy was not unjustified. Andrea was in love.
Not long after their last visit, Thevaram and Rathinam were back at Maravan’s flat. They brought news from Ulagu. They claimed he had signed up for the Black Tigers, an elite unit of suicide bombers. The entry requirements were very tough, however; there was a good chance he would be rejected. They could try to increase this chance through their contacts, if Maravan so wished.
Maravan promised them another donation of 2,000 francs.
After their visit, Maravan let his sister know, via the Batticaloa Bazaar, that he had made some initial progress in the matter they had discussed.
The Huwyler was normally booked out in December; both rooms would be full almost every night. But this year a few of the stalwart companies who always took the restaurant for their Christmas management dinners had not made reservations. Huwyler was convinced they were either using the crisis as an excuse or had come to this decision for appearance’s sake: it did not look very good if you started tightening your belt, but dined at the Huwyler.
Whichever it was, it amounted to the same thing for Huwyler. The restaurant had noticeably fewer customers than usual at this time of year.
This is why he was paying particular attention to Staffel’s table. It had twelve diners: top management and their wives, a real rarity these days.
Staffel had every reason to celebrate. The financial press had unanimously voted him Manager of the Year in the ‘new technology’ division. And the company he ran, Kugag, had registered such good results that both they and their image could afford themselves this little luxury.
He could have been a little more generous in his choice of menu, however. Huwyler had suggested the tasting menu, but Staffel had opted for a simple six-courser. He stuck to the mid-price wines, too. In these times it was the prudent, conventional types who became Managers of the Year.
By contrast, another of his guests was anything but prudent or conventionaclass="underline" Dalmann, the heart-attack victim. The first time he showed his face in the restaurant, fresh from his rehabilitation, less than a month after the attack, Huwyler was shocked. Less by his audacity at turning up here at all after that distressing incident, but by the fact that Dalmann could actually do it all over again. He did not hold back with the food or drink, and even ordered a cigar to go with his cognac.
Since then, however, Dalmann had become a very welcome guest. A sign of normality.
He was here this evening, too. In the company of Dr Neller, business lawyer and – as the two men kept emphasizing with ever greater frequency as the evening wore on – a childhood friend and a fellow Boy Scout. They ate the Surprise.
Dalmann pulled a fir twig from the Christmas table decoration with the dark-blue bauble and held it above the candle. He loved the fragrance of singed pine needles. The essence of Christmas. It made him feel sentimental in a nice way, especially on an evening like this, after a good dinner with an old friend. The restaurant was not too full or too empty, not too loud or too quiet. The smoke of his Bahia was cool, the Armagnac smooth and the conversation friendly.
‘Have you made use of Kull’s services again?’ Neller enquired.
Dalmann smiled. ‘I’ve got to watch my heart, you know that.’
‘Of course. I always forget that when I see you like this.’
‘Why do you ask? Should I be?’
‘I don’t want to put your life at risk, but in case you do fancy it, he’s offering something with food now.’
‘I’d rather eat here.’
‘It’s a very special dinner. Erotic.’
Dalmann gave him a quizzical look and puffed on his cigar.
‘He’s got an Indian or someone like that who cooks and a hot bird who serves it up. By the way, she used to wait here briefly, you know: tall, black hair all combed to one side.’
‘And now she’s working for Kull?’
‘Only as a waitress.’
‘And she’s responsible for the erotic bit?’
‘No, it’s the food that does that. I didn’t believe it to begin with either. But it’s true. The food makes you feel completely different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Not just excited down there,’ Neller pointed vaguely downwards. ‘That, too. But more up here.’ He tapped his high forehead, which was glistening with sweat.