Now, all of a sudden, there was silence. Like a jewel. Like a luxury item people like him had no right to.
‘What’s wrong?’ Andrea asked. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Shh!’ he said, putting his forefinger to his lips.
But the silence had vanished, like a timid animal.
Andrea reproached herself for having dragged Maravan up here. She could see how uncomfortable he felt. In the snow he was like a cat in the rain.
He was out of place in this landscape. When she thought about how gracefully he moved in his sarong, how elegantly in his long apron, wearing the white forage cap. Here, in his shapeless windcheater, his woolly hat pulled down over his ears, and wearing cheap snow boots, he was as stripped of his dignity as a zoo animal of its freedom.
What pained her most was that he knew all this. He bore it with the same resignation with which he had borne everything since he had decided to get involved with the dirty stuff, as he called it.
She did not fool herself about his feelings for her either. The longer they worked together the more obvious it became that he was in love with her. He had taken what she privately called ‘the incident’ more seriously than she had imagined. She sensed that he had not given up hope that he might win her round again, maybe even for good.
As soon as she was sure what his feelings were, she had started to distance herself from him. She had deliberately refrained from being too friendly, in case he misunderstood her. Her behaviour towards him was cordial but non-committal, and although she sensed this hurt him, the clarity it created was good for their work.
Since Makeda, the relationship had become complicated again, however. Maravan was showing all the symptoms of jealousy. Although she felt sorry for him, she did not see how she could possibly help.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Andrea was feeling particularly pleased about things, because Makeda was here too. She was staying with the other girls who worked for Kull in a nearby apartment building. They had planned to spend as much time together as they could.
Maravan was aware of this. To cheer him up, Andrea had taken him on this trip as soon as they had unpacked their things.
Maravan had dropped back and for a while stood motionless in this fairytale landscape. She had called him, but he had told her gruffly to be quiet. He lingered there as if listening to something. Andrea listened, too, but could hear nothing.
Finally he got going again and made his way towards her. When he arrived he smiled.
‘Beautiful,’ he said.
30
Two of Dalmann’s strengths – luck and a memory for faces – worked in combination to ensure that his stay at Chesa Clara had paid for itself within a few days.
There had not been a winter like this for ages: cold, white and blue, and a volume of snow that nobody had seen up here at this time of year.
Dalmann was sitting on the sun terrace of a mountain restaurant deep down in a valley. He was there with Rolf Schär, the same dentist friend who owned the apartment. It was not a particularly efficient pairing as far as business was concerned, but not totally useless either, because Dalmann knew that Schär could get a much higher rent for the location during this high-season period. This is why he had forced himself to spend some time with him at least once during his stay.
The two men were feeling relaxed as they sat on their bench by the wooden façade of the building, their faces glistening with sun cream in the winter sun, drinking a bottle of Grüner Veltliner and picking at the plate of cold meats on the table in front of them. From time to time one of them would say something, usually what was on their mind at that moment, like elderly people who have known each other for years and have no need for any pretence.
As they watched children sledging beyond the terrace, Schär said, ‘The snow seems much higher when you’re small.’ Dalmann’s attention was distracted by a group of people just arriving. Four men around fifty who looked as though they might be Arabs. They were shown to the neighbouring table, which had been expecting its guests for a while – it was the only one with a reserved sign.
Briefly removing his sunglasses and glancing at the other guests, Dalmann recognized one of them: the right-hand man of Jafar Fajahat, another individual for whom Palucron had once helped broker deals. He was around ten years older than when he had last seen him, but it was definitely the same man.
After Musharaff’s resignation Dalmann had no longer been able to contact Fajahat, and he supposed he had fallen victim to the regime change. But his assistant must have survived; how otherwise could he afford to be here?
If only he could remember his name. Khalid, Khalil, Khalig or something like that. Dalmann resisted the urge to talk to him. Who on earth were the other three?
He tried to catch his gaze, and succeeded after a short while. The man took off his glasses, gave him an enquiring look, and when Dalmann nodded and smiled he stood up and greeted him in English. ‘Herr Dalmann? How nice to see you. Kazi Razzaq, do you remember?’
‘Of course I do.’ For the time being Dalmann avoided mentioning Jafar Fajahat.
Razzaq introduced his three companions, whose names Dalmann made no effort to remember, and he introduced Schär. A short silence ensued, as is usual after these sorts of introductions.
Dalmann broke it. ‘Are you around for a few days?’ he enquired.
The four men nodded.
‘Good, then maybe we can do something together. Which hotel are you in?’
The four men exchanged glances.
‘Tell you what, I’ll give you my card. My mobile number. Call me and we’ll arrange something. I’d really like to.’
Dalmann gave Razzaq his card in the hope that he would feel obliged to give him one in return. But he just thanked Dalmann, put the card away and turned to the waitress in traditional costume who was ready to take their order.
That same evening, however, Razzaq did call. They arranged to meet in the bar of one of the large five-star hotels with a view over the lake. Dalmann knew the barman and had his regular table in a quiet corner not too near the piano.
Having arrived slightly too early, he was now sipping a Campari and soda and nibbling on some warm salted almonds. It was that interval between après-ski and aperitif, Dalmann’s favourite time. Most of the hotel guests were in their rooms, recovering from the day and freshening up for the evening. The pianist was playing soft, sentimental tunes; the waiters had time for a quick chat.
Razzaq arrived punctually and ordered a cola. He was one of those Muslims who did not drink, even when abroad.
Now they were alone, Dalmann enquired about Jafar Fajahat.
‘He’s not working any more. He’s enjoying the fruits of his labour and his grandchildren. He’s got fifteen of them.’
They swapped some old tales and Dalmann let the conversation slowly peter out to give his guest the opportunity to come to the point. Razzaq did not beat about the bush.
‘You know how you’d occasionally put us in touch with women?’
Dalmann corrected him. ‘That’s not my area. What I did was put you in touch with someone who, maybe, occasionally put you in touch with women.’
Razzaq ignored this remark. ‘Would it be possible here too?’
Dalmann leaned back in the small armchair and acted as if he had to consider the matter. Then he said, ‘I’ll see what can be done. When would this be for?’
‘Tomorrow, the day after. We’re here for another six days.’
Dalmann made a mental note of this. He had earned himself the right to ask a question of his own. ‘Do you still work in security and defence?’ he wanted to know. When Razzaq answered yes, he enquired sensitively, ‘Is our government’s change in strategy causing you a major headache?’