It was silent on the tram now, save for the recording which announced the stops. Maravan got off at the penultimate one, put up his umbrella and continued walking along the same road. The Number 12 drove past him, the illuminated windows heading off into the distance, until they were no more than just another patch of light on the rain-drenched road.
It was cold. Maravan wrapped his scarf more tightly around him and turned into Theodorstrasse. Rows of grey houses on either side, parked cars, wet and glinting in the white light of the street lamps, the occasional shop – Asian specialities, travel agent, second-hand, cash transfer.
When he came to a brown 1950s block of flats Maravan fished his keys out of his pocket and went through a graffiti-filled passageway, past two overflowing dustbins, to an entry door.
He stopped in the hallway by the wall lined with pigeonholes and letterboxes. He opened the one marked Maravan Vilasam.
His post consisted of a letter from Sri Lanka addressed in his eldest sister’s handwriting, a flyer from a firm hiring out cleaning ladies, election propaganda for a xenophobic party and a catalogue from a wholesaler dealing in specialist kitchen appliances. He opened the last of these while still beside the post box, and leafed through it as he climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor flat – two small rooms, a tiny bathroom and a surprisingly spacious kitchen with a balcony, all connected by a hallway covered with well-worn lino.
Maravan turned on the light. Before entering the sitting room he popped into the bathroom to wash his face and hands. Then he removed his shoes, put the post on the table, and struck a match to light the wick of the deepam, the clay lamp which stood on the domestic shrine. He went down on his knees, put his hands together in front of his face and bowed before Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and beauty.
It was chilly in the flat. Maravan squatted in front of the oil burner, pulled the ignition and let it spring back. The resonant sound of metallic hammering echoed through the flat five times before the burner ignited. Maravan took off his leather jacket, hung it on one of two coat hooks in the hallway, and went into his bedroom.
When he came out again he was wearing a batik shirt, a blue-and-red striped sarong and sandals. He sat beside the burner and read his sister’s letter. The news was not good. Deliveries were being stopped at checkpoints on the border of Tamil-held areas. Very few of the food deliveries from February and March had reached Kilinochchi District. Prices of basic foodstuffs, medicines and fuel had risen exponentially.
He put the letter back on the table and tried to soothe his bad conscience. It had been almost three months since his last visit to the Batticaloa Bazaar, the nearby Tamil shop, to give money and his sister’s ID number to the owner. It had been 400 francs, 37,800 rupees after commission.
Although he earned 3,000 francs per month, lived alone and paid a reasonable rent of 700, after the Huwyler deducted health insurance and tax at source, Maravan had just enough money left to eat. Or, more accurately, to cook.
Cooking was not just Maravan’s profession, it was his great passion. Even when the family still lived in Colombo he had spent most of his time in the kitchen with Nangay. His parents had worked in one of the city’s large hotels, his father at reception, his mother as a housekeeper. When not at school, the children were in their grandmother’s care. But because Maravan did not yet go to school, his great aunt Nangay would often take him with her to work, so that her sister could do the housework and shopping. Nangay had six helpers in the large kitchen. One of them always had time to look after the little boy.
Thus he grew up among pots and pans, herbs and spices, fruit and vegetables. He helped to wash rice, pick over lentils, grate coconut, harvest coriander, and when he was as young as three he was allowed, under supervision, to chop tomatoes and slice onions with a sharp knife.
From an early age Maravan was fascinated by the process of transforming a few raw ingredients into something quite different. Something not merely edible, not merely filling and nourishing, but – something which could even make you happy.
Maravan would watch carefully, taking note of ingredients, quantities, preparation techniques and sequences. At the age of five he could already cook entire menus, and at six, before he was meant to start school, he learnt how to read and write because he could no longer keep all the recipes in his head.
For Maravan the first day at school was almost an even greater tragedy than the death of his parents shortly afterwards, the details of which he did not discover until he was almost an adult. As far as he was concerned, all that had happened was that they had not come to Jaffna with the rest of the family; most of the time they had not been around anyway. He found the journey to Jaffna chaotic and his relatives’ house, where they stayed initially, small and cramped. But he did not have to go to school and could spend his days in the kitchen with Nangay.
The oil burner had brought some warmth into the small sitting room. Maravan got up and went into the kitchen.
Four fluorescent bulbs bathed the room in white light. It contained a large fridge and a freezer of the same size, a gas stove with four burners, a double sink, a work table and a wall unit covered with stainless steel, on top of which were various appliances and food processors. The room was spanking clean and resembled a laboratory more than a kitchen. Only by taking a closer look could you see that the various units were not all exactly the same height and that they had slightly different fronts. Maravan had bought each one individually, either second-hand from markets or from specialist exchanges, and installed them with the help of one of his compatriots, who had been a plumber back in Sri Lanka and who worked here as a warehouse assistant.
He put a small frying pan on the lowest flame, poured in some coconut oil and opened the door to the balcony. Almost all the windows opposite were dark; the back courtyard far below him lay silent and abandoned. It was still raining – heavy, cold drops. He left the balcony door slightly ajar.
Pots with mini curry trees were lined up in his bedroom, each with its bamboo cane and each a different age. The largest reached up to his armpits. He had got it as a sapling some years back from another Sri Lankan. Taking cuttings from this plant he had raised one tree after another, until he had so many that he could sell the odd one. He did not like doing this, but when winter came he did not have enough space. The mini trees were not hardy: it was only during the warm months that they could sit on his kitchen balcony; in winter he had to put them in the bedroom under a grow light.
He broke off two of the nine-leaved twigs, went back into the kitchen, threw them into the hot oil and added a ten-centimetre piece of cinnamon. Slowly the aroma of his childhood rose from the pan.
In a small cupboard under the wall unit he kept his distillation equipment: a flask, a bridge with a cooling jacket, a receiving flask, two flask holders, a thermometer and a roll of PVC tubing. He carefully assembled the glass elements so that the distillation flask sat over a gas burner, put the roll of tubing into one sink, and connected one end to the tap, the other to the cooling jacket. Then he filled the sink with cold water, took a plastic bag of ice cubes out of the freezer, and shook them in.
Meanwhile the fragrance of coconut oil, curry leaves and cinnamon had opened out fully. Maravan emptied the contents of the pan into a tall-sided heatproof glass jar and processed it with his wand mixer into a thick, nut-brown liquid, which he then poured into the distillation flask.