Schaeffer said goodbye and Dalmann set about his breakfast feeling somewhat reassured.
41
Shortly before eleven o’clock in the morning Andrea rang the bell beside the ‘M’ in the block of flats where Makeda lived. She had been waiting for her in vain all night. Although Makeda had said Dalmann had booked her, it rarely lasted all night.
One of their agreements was that neither of them should ever wait for the other, or ever expect them to come for sure. It should always be a happy surprise when they visited each other. But between them, as between all lovers, there were many agreements. And like all lovers, sometimes they did not stick to them.
Something else they had agreed was to ask no questions. They wanted to be able to keep secrets from each other. Not big ones. Just things that were no business of the other person.
Andrea could not always manage this, however. She never asked directly, but occasionally she would say, more to herself than Makeda, ‘Do I really want to know what you’ve been up to all night?’
Makeda never answered these rhetorical questions. And she never put one to Andrea either.
Makeda’s sleepy voice sounded over the intercom. ‘Yessss?’
‘It’s me, Andrea.’
Makeda pressed the button to open the door, and when the lift arrived at the fourth floor she was waiting for Andrea in the doorway.
Andrea greeted her with a fleeting kiss and went in.
‘Coffee?’ Makeda asked.
Andrea had been livid, but now that she saw her girlfriend standing there, so beautiful, so gracious, so relaxed, her anger dissipated.
‘Why not?’ she said, returning Makeda’s smile.
Makeda made two espressos, put them down on the small table between the armchairs, sat opposite Andrea, and crossed her legs. ‘Dalmann,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
‘All a bit much’ – Andrea copied the gesture – ‘Dalmann. In my opinion.’
‘He pays well and isn’t hard work.’
‘He’s a nasty old bugger who does dodgy business deals. He organized that evening with the Dutchman and the manager when the photos were taken.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The Dutch guy was accompanied by Dalmann’s dogsbody.’
‘Schaeffer? Interesting.’
‘I know this goes against our arrangement, but I really hate the way you spend so much time with Dalmann. He disgusts me.’
‘It’s my job to spend time with men who disgust other women.’
‘There are plenty of others.’
‘He’s one of Kull’s best clients. Good for business, he says.’
Andrea made an unhappy face. ‘Oh Makeda,’ she sighed, ‘it’s so hard.’
Makeda took pity on her. ‘I’ve never fucked him.’
Andrea waited for her to continue.
‘He can’t. He’s got a weak heart. He swallows thousands of pills every day. And drinks like a fish, too.’
‘So what do you do then?’
‘Question not allowed.’
‘I know. So, what?’
‘Talk, eat, watch telly. Like an old married couple.’
‘And that’s it?’
Makeda laughed. ‘Sometimes he wants to watch me getting undressed. And I have to pretend I haven’t noticed. He’s a voyeur.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s easy money.’
Andrea stood up, went over to Makeda and gave her a passionate kiss.
42
The weekly review Freitag had taken the report by the opponents to the arms exports and exposed the deal involving the decommissioned armed howitzers.
Next to pictures of the howitzers and a diagram of the Bay of Bengal, photos of the American businessman, Carlisle, and his Thai counterpart, Waen, appeared prominently in the report. Details about the two men were sparse, but readers learnt the following. On behalf of the manufacturer – and perfectly legally – Carlisle had acquired the howitzers for next to nothing from the authorities responsible for scrapping or returning them to the country of manufacture. Via the United States he had sold them on to the Thai, Waen, no doubt at a massive profit. Waen had then conveyed them to his country.
This is where the trail of the M109s came to a halt, but it was suspected they had been resold and stored on one of the ‘floating warehouses’, as the ships were called which supplied their customers in the Bay of Bengal. Until the recent fall of the ports Mullaitivu and Chalai, the main customers had been the LTTE.
Satisfied, Dalmann put Freitag beside his breakfast plate and picked up the daily paper. The previous day, just before the first PE lesson, the roof of a sports hall in St Gallen had collapsed under the weight of snow. Nobody had been injured.
Sandana was sitting at counter twelve. Andrea had not recognized her at first glance in her work blouse and the rather stuffy shawl that went with it.
Sitting on the chairs in the travel centre were people waiting with their tickets. They looked up every time there was a buzz and the numbers on the display board changed.
Andrea had taken several non-consecutive tickets, in case she was sent to the wrong counter.
Once again it was her habit of interfering in other people’s lives that had brought her here. Makeda wanted to cook her an Ethiopian dinner when she had an evening off, and had casually mentioned they could also invite Maravan and his girlfriend.
Andrea liked the idea, but was almost certain Maravan would say no. First, because he still refused to call Sandana his girlfriend; and second, because the only reason he did not frown at Andrea’s relationship with Makeda was because he ignored it.
Maravan was becoming depressed by the situation in Sri Lanka. But Andrea also suspected things were not running smoothly with Sandana. And his career as a ‘sex chef’, as he sometimes referred to it bitterly, did not make him happy either.
A dinner with the four of them might help improve the working atmosphere.
She had come here, therefore, to pre-empt Maravan. She wanted to invite Sandana and then present him with a fait accompli.
The very first of her numbers was for counter twelve. Sandana recognized her and even remembered her name. ‘How can I help you?’
‘It’s a private matter,’ Andrea said. ‘My girlfriend’s cooking an Ethiopian dinner tomorrow night and I’d love it if you and Maravan could come over.’
Sandana was slightly flummoxed.
‘Please come.’
‘Does Maravan want me to?’
Andrea did not hesitate for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d love to.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
That afternoon the troughs of ‘Emma’, the winter storm, had moved across the country. An occasional gust of wind made the candles flicker in Andrea’s spacious flat. They were sitting around the dining table; Makeda and Andrea were smoking, Sandana and Maravan drinking tea. They were in that relaxed and cheerful mood a good meal can create.
It was an elegant gathering at Andrea’s that evening. Makeda was wearing a floor-length embroidered tibeb, Sandana a light-blue sari, Andrea a low-cut evening dress, and Maravan had surprised everybody with his suit and tie.
He had declined Andrea’s invitation without hesitation.
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Sandana’s coming.’
‘I find that hard to believe. Sandana is a decent Tamil girl.’
Andrea smiled. ‘Then it might be smarter if you accompanied her.’
So far he had not regretted coming. He had enjoyed the meal. It was not so different from the food in his country. Spicy and made with onions, garlic, ginger, cardamom, cloves, turmeric, fenugreek, cumin, chilli, nutmeg and cinnamon.
Makeda had cooked with ghee, too. Except it was spiced and called niter kibbeh.
And they had also eaten without cutlery. Even without crockery. The table which had been covered with white paper was laid out with injeras, large flat sourdough breads made from teff, a variety of millet that these days was farmed almost exclusively in Ethiopia. The dishes were put straight onto the breads, and guests would tear pieces off and roll them up as if they were making large edible joints.