‘It’s not only unfair and short-sighted, it’s also very bad for security. And for business.’
That year Pakistan had been the largest importer of arms from Switzerland – 110 million francs’ worth. But at present the Swiss Government was holding back its approval of new exports.
‘Public pressure is immense at the moment. There’s soon going to be a referendum on whether to ban the export of arms. When it fails – and it definitely is going to fail – the situation will ease.’
Then Dalmann started talking about the disused M113 armoured personnel carriers and the perfectly legal possibility of importing these via the United States. He did not neglect to mention the role he could play in such a deal.
Dalmann spent the evening at a reception held by an auction house presenting the best pieces in its forthcoming auction of works by New York expressionists. After that he had dinner – a cheese fondue in a very simple restaurant, with a small, highly international group of acquaintances. A convivial gathering with an old tradition: anybody uttering the slightest word over dinner about business had to buy a bottle of wine as punishment. It was permitted, on the other hand, to arrange subsequent meetings to discuss such matters.
Dalmann had delegated Kazi Razzaq’s request to Schaeffer. Although Dalmann knew Kull, he would not in any circumstances allow himself to be seen with the man.
He had told Schaeffer to come the following morning at ten o’clock. He received him in his dressing gown while having breakfast.
Naturally, his colleague had already eaten breakfast; he asked Lourdes for a cup of tea and an apple, which he once again peeled with that unnerving meticulousness.
‘Almost there,’ Dalmann said. ‘Just give me a moment to thin the blood, separate the platelets, regulate the heart rhythm, and lower the blood pressure, cholesterol and uric acid levels.’
While his boss, in sheer disgust, washed down his collection of medicines with orange juice, Schaeffer used the time to tilt back his head and put drops in each eye.
‘Well?’ Dalmann asked.
Schaeffer dabbed his eyes with a folded handkerchief. ‘Absolutely possible, he says.’
‘With the Pakistani menu, too?’
‘That too.’
Dalmann had charged Schaeffer with finding out whether Kull could also lay on a normal Pakistani menu for five people, served at a normal table with cutlery. The women could look after the erotic side – they would join the men for dessert and then return with them to the hotel. He wanted to broker a deal, not an orgy. He was not running a brothel after all.
‘Time?’
‘The caterers are free the day after tomorrow. But we shall have to let them know in the morning.’
Dalmann manoeuvred the yolk of his fried egg, which he had separated from the white, onto his piece of toast. Out of consideration for his health he did not touch the fried bacon – every other day. It was seriously difficult.
‘That’s decided then,’ he said, putting the piece of toast into his mouth.
31
And so it happened that Maravan, the Tamil, unaware of what was going on behind the scenes, ended up cooking dinner for Razzaq, the Pakistani, a dinner during which a deal was struck that, via a circuitous route, would supply the Sri Lankan army with disused Swiss armoured personnel carriers.
The client wanted to surprise his guest with a classic Pakistani menu. Maravan allowed himself to add a few surprises.
His take on arhar dal, a classic lentil dish, was a ring of dal risotto served with coriander air and lemon foam.
With a little gelatine he turned the nihari, a beef curry cooked on the lowest heat for six hours, into nihari praliné, and combined it with an onion emulsion and onion crisps on rice purée.
The chicken for the biryani was vacuum-packed, cooked at a low temperature and served in a spicy palm-sugar crust made with the biryani spice mixture – accompanied by peppermint air and cinnamon ice cream.
Happy to be cooking something different, Maravan worked with great concentration in the kitchen, which was poorly equipped, but jazzed up with plenty of granite and artificially aged wood.
A certain Herr Schaeffer – a gaunt, stiff man – had met them at the door and given them all the instructions he could. He would be out for the afternoon, he told them, but Frau Lourdes was on hand. The host for the dinner was due to arrive at seven; the guests at half past.
The dinner had been ordered for five people, dessert for ten. As Kull had put it, five women would be joining them for dessert. This should consist of the usual confectionery from the Love Food menu. ‘Right, so the jellied asparagus and ghee penises, and the glazed chick pea, ginger and pepper pussies,’ Andrea had specified as she wrote down the order. ‘And the liquorice, honey and ghee ice lollies.’
Shortly after seven Andrea came into the kitchen. ‘Do you know who the host is? Dalmann.’
The name meant nothing to Maravan.
‘Dalmann from the Huwyler. You know, that rather lewd old bloke at table one.’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe if I saw him.’
But Maravan saw as little of Dalmann that evening as he did the other guests.
The bell rang at half past nine. Maravan could hear laughter and the buzz of conversation. The women had arrived for dessert.
Andrea entered the kitchen and quickly closed the door behind her.
‘Guess who.’
‘Makeda?’
Andrea nodded. After that she did not say a word.
Shortly after dessert the men left with their women. Maravan and Andrea finished too. There was a single coat hanging in the cloakroom. Andrea recognized it as Makeda’s.
Nobody had booked Love Food for New Year’s Eve 2008. On the single hob in his studio’s kitchenette Maravan had cooked a classic Kozhi Kari, a chicken curry recipe Nangay had taught him when he was still a boy, with the usual ingredients plus a few more fenugreek seeds. He also put an extra pinch of cinnamon, as his teacher had always done, in the spice mixture of ground fennel seeds, cardamom seeds and cloves, before adding lemon juice.
Andrea was a work widow, as she called it. Makeda was booked. They had parted company an hour ago. Makeda was wearing a long, black, high-necked dress and it drove Andrea mad to think she would be spending the night with one of the elderly plutocrats who seemed to be everywhere.
Andrea had contributed the drinks for the lonely hearts’ New Year’s Eve party: two bottles of champagne for herself and two bottles of mineral water for Maravan. Sparkling.
She sat on the only chair in the room, Maravan on the bed. The small, round coffee table stood between them.
The room was cold. To satisfy his obsession that it should not smell of food, Maravan had kept all the windows open until shortly before she arrived. It must have been minus fifteen outside. She had to ask him for his blanket, which she now wore around her shoulders like a stole.
They ate with their hands, like the first time. The curry tasted like something from her childhood. And yet they had never eaten curry when she was younger – except for a dish in a restaurant chain that went by the name of ‘Riz Colonial’, a ring of rice with strips of chicken in a yellow sauce with lots of cream and tinned fruit.
She told this to Maravan.
‘Maybe it’s the cinnamon,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of cinnamon in there.’
Exactly, it was the cinnamon. Rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon, one of her favourite dishes as a child. And Christmas biscuits. And Lebkuchen. ‘Is it New Year’s Eve in Sri Lanka too?’
‘In Colombo, before the war, we used to celebrate religious festivals of all faiths. Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Christian. We got the day off school for all of them. On New Year’s Eve we’d be on the streets letting off fireworks.’