‘You mean you get a stiffy in your head?’ Dalmann laughed, but Neller seemed to think about his question quite seriously.
‘Yes, you could put it like that. And the best thing about it is that it appears to turn the women on too. You get the impression they’re actually enjoying it.’
‘They’re paid to act like they are.’
Neller shook his head. ‘Take the word of an old fox. I can tell the difference. It’s real. Maybe not completely, but definitely a little bit.’
Dalmann chewed thoughtfully. Then he wiped his mouth and asked, ‘Do you think they put something in the food?’
‘They say they don’t. It’s just the recipes. And the ambience. Cushions and candles. You sit on the floor and eat with your hands.’
‘What do you eat?’
‘Spicy stuff. Spicy and sweet. It’s a sort of Ayurvedic molecular cuisine. Strange, but outstanding. Special tip from me. Not cheap, mind, but something totally different.’
‘And definitely no drugs or chemicals?’
‘All I can say is that I felt brilliant the following morning. And – just between us chaps – I haven’t had a shag like that in a long time.’
‘As I said, my heart.’
Neller raised both hands. ‘I’m just telling you, Eric. Just telling you.’
Dalmann had no intention of following up his friend’s tip. But he would happily bear it in mind if he ever needed anything really special for someone.
They changed the subject and went on chatting for a while. When Huwyler accompanied them to a taxi with an umbrella, snow had settled on the entryway. And large, heavy flakes of snow were still falling.
On the evening when they had been celebrating their year-end results and the Manager of the Year award, Dalmann had come to the table, congratulated Staffel and said, ‘Thanks to you I’ve won a large bet.’
‘A bet?’ Staffel asked.
‘I bet that it would be you.’
‘Well, that was quite a gamble. I hope the wager wasn’t too high.’
‘Six bottles of Cheval Blanc ’97. But there was no risk. I hope you have a good dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your evening, you’ve deserved it.’
‘Isn’t that the chap who came over last time and knew more than I did?’ Staffel’s wife had whispered to her husband the moment Dalmann left their table. ‘Do you know who he is now?’
Staffel had enquired, but could not say much about him. Dalmann was a lawyer, but did not practise as one. He sat on a number of boards and worked as a consultant and intermediary. He forged business relationships, brought people together, stepped in sometimes, too, if a post had to be refilled informally, and obviously had such good contacts in the media that he could get certain snippets of inside information if necessary.
Staffel ought to get to know Dalmann better.
29
As the year came to a close, it was difficult to say which was greater: relief that it was over or worry about what the next year would bring.
The state of the global markets was cataclysmic: the Swiss stock exchange had experienced its worst year since 1974; the DAX had collapsed by 40 per cent; the Dow Jones had lost more than a third of its value; the Nikkei registered similar losses; the stock exchange in Shanghai had plummeted by 65 per cent; and Russia had put all these in the shade with a fall in stocks of 72 per cent.
It was the last of these that had a particularly visible impact on Kull’s sector. The Russians had been good clients in the last few years. Usually, over the holiday period, a large proportion of his team’s work would be shifted to St Moritz and he would have to call in extra staff to meet the demand. But this year the advance bookings suggested there would be little need for that.
By contrast, the Love Food business had been going so well that Kull wanted to make it available in the Engadin Valley as well. To be on the safe side he had already booked the duo for a few days.
For Dalmann, the holiday period in St Moritz was the most important business event of the year. It provided an opportunity to meet people with whom it was impossible to have personal contact throughout the rest of the year. He could revive old connections and secure new ones. A multitude of social occasions made it possible to come together in an informal, relaxed atmosphere, get closer to people personally, and pave the way for new deals or maintain old ones.
Up in the mountains the crisis had made itself felt, too, but it was as Dalmann had expected: the quality guests still came this year. The crisis had the advantage of separating the wheat from the chaff.
He stayed as usual in the Chesa Clara, in a five-room apartment on the top floor. A dentist friend had built the house at the beginning of the 1990s; since then Dalmann had rented every year during the Christmas holidays. It was a considerable expense, but one which had always paid off in the past. He hoped it would this time, too.
The apartment was slightly over-furnished and fitted with old walnut doors and pine panelling, which had been collected from a variety of ancient houses. It was roomy enough for Dalmann and two guests, and also had a small staff flat where Lourdes stayed. She did the housework and also made breakfast here. She did not have to cook, because he always ate out and never invited people over to dinner. Apart from his legendary hangover breakfast on New Year’s Day: open house from eleven o’clock until dusk.
He rarely engaged in any sporting activities these days. In the past he had been an excellent skier, but now he would only put on skis to make it up to those mountain restaurants that were not accessible on foot. Otherwise he preferred to take gentle walks to culinary destinations. Or go to the same establishments by horse-drawn sleigh.
It was Maravan’s first time in the mountains. Throughout the entire journey he was silent and sceptical, sitting in the passenger seat of Andrea’s packed estate car. When the hills around them became taller and more rugged, the roads narrower and lined with snow, when it actually started snowing, he regretted agreeing to go on this adventure.
When they reached their destination, he was disappointed to see just another town, no more beautiful than the one they had left, but smaller, colder, wedged between mountains and with more snow.
Where they were staying was not much nicer than Theodorstrasse, either. Each of them had a tiny studio in a block of flats with a view of another block.
Shortly after their arrival, however, Andrea knocked on Maravan’s door and persuaded him to come on an excursion. They drove further along the valley, southwards.
They stopped in a village called Maloja. ‘If we continued on this road for about an hour you’d see palm trees.’
‘Let’s go on then,’ he suggested, half-seriously.
Andrea laughed and walked in front.
The path soon became narrow, bounded by walls of snow. Maravan found it difficult to keep up. He was wearing clunky rubber and nylon boots without any grip. He had bought them in the same cheap department store that he bought everything, save for those items he needed for his kitchen. His trousers were so tight they would not go over the tops of his boots; he had to stuff them inside, which must have looked ridiculous. He could not be absolutely sure, however, because where he was staying there was no mirror in which he could see his feet.
The firs that lined the path were heavily laden with snow. Now and then some fell to the ground. This was followed by a trickle of white glitter from the branches relieved of their burden.
All he could hear was the crunching of their shoes. When Andrea stopped and waited for him, he stopped too. That was the first time he heard silence.
It was a silence that engulfed everything. A silence that became more powerful every second.
He had never been so aware just how remorselessly his entire life had been full of noise. The chitter-chatter of his family, the hooting of the traffic, the wind in the palms, the crashing of waves in the Indian Ocean, the explosions of the civil war, the clattering in kitchens, the sing-song of the temple, the rattle of the trams, the droning of traffic, the chitter-chatter of his thoughts.