‘Sometimes we make a single injera, as large as a tablecloth. But you can’t do it with the stoves here.’
The company was also good. None of Maravan’s fears had materialized. Sandana had not been shocked by the fact that the hosts were a couple, or by Makeda’s profession, which did not remain a secret for long. The three women were very much at ease with each other, like old friends. Maravan relaxed.
Sandana’s liberal attitude had also helped him to discard his reservations about Makeda. The dinner had done its bit, too. Anybody who could cook like that could not be so bad after all.
But at some point the women hit upon a subject which made Maravan feel tense again.
‘Maravan tells me that in your culture it’s the parents who decide who you marry.’ Andrea had asked the question.
‘Unfortunately,’ Sandana sighed.
‘So how do your parents find the right man?’ Makeda asked.
‘Through relatives, friends; sometimes they use specialist agencies, sometimes they use the internet. And when they’ve found a contender the horoscope has to be right, and the caste and so on.’
‘And love?’
‘Love is seen as an unreliable matchmaker.’
‘What about you two?’ Makeda asked.
Sandana looked at Maravan, who was scrutinizing the patch of table in front of him. She shook her head.
A gust of wind shook the window, slightly ruffling the curtain.
‘But here you can marry whoever you like,’ Andrea declared.
‘Fine. If you don’t care about giving your family a bad name and ruining the chances of your siblings marrying.’ After a brief pause Sandana added, ‘And breaking your parents’ hearts.’
‘How about your own heart?’ Andrea asked.
‘That comes second.’
For a short while the only sound was the distant slamming of a shutter that the wind was toying with. Then Makeda asked, ‘What about you? How come you were able to leave home?’
Now Sandana lowered her eyes too. Then she said softly, ‘In my case the heart doesn’t come second.’
In the embarrassing silence that followed Makeda said cheerily, ‘Well, you don’t have to be married to jump into bed with each other.’
‘Then you’d better not get caught. That’s just as bad as marrying outside of your caste. It brings shame to the entire family. Even to those who are back in Sri Lanka.’ After a brief pause, Sandana added bitterly, ‘But if it goes on like this, soon there won’t be anyone left to bring shame to.’
‘More tea or anything else?’ Andrea asked cheerfully.
Maravan gave Sandana an enquiring look. If she said yes, he would have another one, too.
But Sandana did not say yes or no. She said something unexpected: ‘Nobody writes anything about this war, there’s nothing on telly about this war, the politicians don’t talk about this war, and quite clearly this war is not a suitable topic for dinner party conversation!’
Sandana had sat bolt upright in her chair and knitted her beautiful eyebrows. Maravan placed a hand on her shoulder and Andrea wore a guilty expression.
‘It’s a Third World war,’ Makeda said. ‘I was also driven out by a Third World war that people pretended wasn’t happening. These days Third World wars aren’t an issue for the First World.’
‘But they are good business.’ Sandana grabbed her handbag, which was hanging from the back of her chair, briefly rummaged in it and brought out a folded piece of paper. It was the article about the ‘Scrap connection’ which she had torn out of Freitag.
‘Here.’ She gave it to Andrea. ‘They’re happy to sell scrap tanks to Sri Lanka using a roundabout route. But they don’t believe the people fleeing the war are in danger.’
Andrea started reading the article; her girlfriend looked over her shoulder.
‘I know them,’ Makeda said, pointing to the photographs of Waen and Carlisle.
Andrea and Sandana stared at her in astonishment. ‘Those guys? How?’ Andrea asked.
Makeda rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’
Maravan stood up and went round to look at the slightly tattered piece of paper. Andrea flattened it out with her hands and Makeda switched on the light above the table. An oriental man with glasses and a beefy American stared back at them.
‘I’m absolutely certain. And do you know who arranged the date?’ Makeda did not wait for anyone to guess. ‘Dalmann and Schaeffer.’
‘I’m really sorry I behaved badly,’ Sandana said. They were standing under a tram shelter on line 12. Sandana had to change here; Maravan had broken his journey to wait with her. It was cold and gusts of wind were still raging.
‘You didn’t behave badly. You were right.’
‘Who are Dalmann and Schaeffer?’
‘Clients.’
‘Yours or Makeda’s?’
‘Both.’
‘Why do you call yourselves Love Food?’
Makeda and Andrea had used the name all evening long, as if it were a brand everybody knew, like McDonald’s or Mövenpick. He wondered why Sandana had not asked this question during the dinner itself. ‘It’s a good name,’ he replied.
Sandana smiled. ‘Come on, Maravan, tell me.’
He looked in the direction where her tram would come from. Nothing. ‘Well, er… I cook these dinners that…’ – he searched for the right word – ‘… stimulate.’
‘Stimulate the appetite?’
Maravan did not know whether she was pulling his leg. ‘Sort of, yes,’ he answered, embarrassed.
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘From Nangay. Everything from Nangay.’
A gust of wind swept through the newspaper box, fluttering the handful of free newspapers still in it.
When she got on her tram, Sandana gave him a shy kiss on the mouth. Before the door shut she said, ‘Will you cook me something too one day?’
Maravan nodded, smiling. The tram left. Sandana stood right at the back and waved to him.
March 2009
43
It was thanks to an unnamed source that Freitag had come across Jafar Fajahat. Its latest edition told readers of the odyssey of some disused armoured personnel carriers via the United States to Pakistan, the biggest arms supplier to the Sri Lankan army.
The article again published photographs of Steven X, Carlisle and Waen. What was new was a portrait of a moustachioed Pakistani called Kazi Razzaq. Freitag reported that he came from the entourage of Jafar Fajahat, which had played a central role in the nuclear smuggling affair.
The captions were fairly sensationaclass="underline" Supplying the Liberation Tigers: Waen. Supplying the Army: Razzaq. Supplying Both: Carlisle.
‘Let’s hope it pans out well,’ Dalmann groaned when Schaeffer brought him the newspaper.
And it did pan out well. Although the daily press picked up the report and it was circulated in the electronic media as well, nobody seemed to be interested in delving any deeper into the matter.
The other news also worked slightly in Dalmann’s favour. In the American state of Alabama a man went on a killing spree, shooting dead eleven people, including his mother, then turned the gun on himself.
The following day a seventeen-year-old boy in Winnenden, a suburb of Stuttgart, shot dead twelve people at his former school, including three passers-by, and finished by shooting himself.
And then the day after that the Swiss government accepted the OECD standard, which signalled the end of bank secrecy, as Dalmann had predicted.
The relocation of some scrap munitions to a war zone pretty much neglected by the media had lost a lot of its newsworthiness.
They met at the rearmost covered bench on platform 8. Sandana had suggested this meeting point; she said she wanted to talk without being disturbed. She also sorted out their lunch: for each of them two pretzel rolls – one cheese, the other ham – a bottle of still mineral water and an apple.