by Martin Suter
But then his bad luck started. He was standing at the back of the carriage, deep in thought about the night before and Andrea’s strange behaviour, when suddenly the tram braked sharply, making a high-pitched screech, and came to an abrupt halt.
Maravan had not been holding on. He tried to stop himself from falling and in the process knocked into a young woman who had tried to steady herself by holding the back of a seat. Both of them tumbled over.
A few passengers screamed, then it went quiet. Ahead of them Maravan heard a car beeping its horn persistently.
He got to his feet and helped the woman up. An old man who was sitting down mumbled, ‘Typical,’ shaking his head.
The young woman had a pottu on her forehead. She was wearing a light-green Punjabi under a quilted windcheater.
‘Are you all right?’ Maravan asked in Tamil.
‘I think so,’ she replied, inspecting herself. From the right knee down her Punjabi had been dirtied by the muck left by passengers’ wet shoes on the floor. The lightweight material of her gold-embroidered trousers was sticking to her lower leg and gave her modest appearance a touch of inappropriate vulgarity. Maravan took a packet of tissues from his coat pocket and gave them to her.
While she was attempting to wipe at least some of the dirt from her soiled rayon dress, Maravan unzipped his gym bag and surreptitiously checked the glass flask rolled up in the Turkish towel. It was undamaged. He was so relieved he tore out a page of the notebook he used for recipe ideas and wrote down his address and telephone number for the young woman. In case she had to get the Punjabi dry-cleaned.
She read the note and put it in her bag. ‘Sandana,’ she said. ‘I’m Sandana.’
They said no more after that. Sandana kept her head bowed, and Maravan could only see the beginnings of a centre parting under her hood. And the ends of her eyelashes.
The passengers were getting restless. One young man at the front of the carriage opened the ventilation pane above the window and shouted, ‘Oi! There’s people in here who’ve got to get to work!’
Shortly afterwards came an announcement from the control room: ‘There’s been a collision in Blechstrasse. Tramline twelve is suspended in both directions. The service will be replaced by buses, but passengers should expect delays.’
The doors of the tram carriage were still closed. Police and ambulance sirens got louder and louder, before stopping abruptly beside the tram.
Again it was the young man who had voiced his protest through the ventilation window. He took the matter in hand, opened the emergency exit and got off. The other passengers followed him, tentatively at first, but then ever more quickly. The carriage was empty within less than a minute.
Maravan and Sandana were the last to get out. At the doors Maravan said, ‘I’ve got to hurry. I’m late already. Goodbye!’
‘Meendum Santhipom,’ she repeated. A delivery van had smashed into the front of the tram. One paramedic was bent over the open passenger window. Another was holding a drip bottle, from which a tube stretched through the window. Fire engine sirens were wailing in the distance. They were coming to free the driver from the wreck.
Maravan was the last to arrive at the Huwyler. He was almost late for his shift. Now there was no chance he could discreetly put the rotary evaporator back in its place. But he did have a plan B. When somebody needed it, they would shout, ‘Maravan! Rotary evaporator!’ because he was responsible for fetching delicate equipment. He would leave the door of his locker ajar, and on the way to the equipment store would pass by the changing room and fetch it.
The chefs greeted him with suggestive remarks. They all knew Andrea had been to his flat the previous evening. ‘Hope you didn’t make it too hot for her – the curry I mean,’ one said with a smirk. Another: ‘They say a real curry burns twice. Wouldn’t hurt that ice-cold arse of hers.’
Maravan made an effort to smile and not answer back. But the atmosphere remained edgy. Even Huwyler made an unusually early appearance in the kitchen, getting in the way and referring to him as ‘our spicy tiger’.
Maravan peeled potatoes, thinking, ‘If only you knew, if only you knew,’ when Fink suddenly yelled across the kitchen, ‘Kandan! Rotary evaporator!’
Kandan had not even touched the rotary evaporator before. He froze, as did Maravan.
‘Off you go. What’s up?’ Fink asked, casting a brief sideways glance at Maravan.
Kandan got moving.
Maravan’s brain was turning over feverishly. Should he wait until Kandan came back empty-handed, and hope that Fink would send him instead? Or should he just go with him, fetch the thing, and hope that Kandan did not give the game away? Or should he say, quite calmly, ‘The rotary evaporator’s in my locker. I borrowed it’?
He continued peeling his potatoes and waited to see what would happen.
It was some time before Kandan came back. ‘It’s not there,’ he stammered.
‘Not where?’
‘Not where it usually is.’
Maravan missed his cue. Fink hurried past him, past Kandan, and disappeared behind the door that led to the equipment store and staff changing rooms. Kandan followed him.
Maravan put the peeler and potatoes to one side and headed in the same direction, instinctively wiping his hands on his apron.
He could hear Fink cursing in the equipment store as he opened and closed cupboard doors and drawers. Maravan passed the store, went into the staff changing room, opened his locker and unpacked the rotary evaporator.
Behind him he heard Huwyler’s voice: ‘Today is the first of the month, so you’ve been paid. We’re now going to see whether this machine’s still in perfect working order. If so, Frau Keller will pay you the share of the extra month’s salary you’re due. If not, we’ll repair it and take the cost out of what we owe you.’
The rotary evaporator was still in perfect working order, which meant that Maravan left the Huwyler with just over 600 francs in cash. While he was packing his belongings, the boss stood beside him to ensure he didn’t try to steal anything.
As Maravan was about to leave, Huwyler said, ‘You’ll see. Summary dismissal from the Huwyler won’t make it easy finding another kitchen job. You should count yourself lucky I’m not reporting you to the police. Otherwise it would be straight back to Sri Lanka.’
Andrea started her shift at four o’clock that afternoon. She did not know which she was dreading most: seeing Maravan or the rest of the team. But when she had changed and started setting the tables, nobody made any comments. Even during the briefing from the chef de service nobody mentioned her invitation to Maravan’s flat the day before. And nobody said a word when she made her first appearance in the kitchen either.
It also looked as if she had been spared an encounter with Maravan. He must have been busy in the back of the kitchen, because she was never able to see him from where she was standing. He would be off-duty in an hour’s time; she could easily keep out of his way until then.
The second time she went into the kitchen she noticed that Kandan was cleaning the pans, in the very spot where she had expected to find Maravan. That must mean he was prepping vegetables, as he did every evening.
But it was one of the commis who was cutting the juliennes for the entremetier. And doing it far less skilfully than Maravan.
It was still remarkably quiet in the kitchen, but now she noticed a few curious looks in her direction.
‘Where’s Maravan, by the way?’ she asked Bandini, the announceur, who was standing next to her making notes on a menu sheet.
‘Fired,’ he muttered without looking up. ‘On the spot.’
‘Why?’ Her question came out louder than she had intended.
‘He borrowed the rotary evaporator. A thing like that costs over 5,000 francs.’
‘Borrowed?’
‘Without asking.’
Andrea let her gaze wander around the kitchen. Everybody hard at work, very deliberately. And in the middle of it all, blasé and autocratic, H
uwyler in his silly black outfit.
Andrea tapped a knife against the side of a glass, as if she were about to propose a toast. ‘I want to say something!’ she shouted.
All heads turned in her direction.
‘Maravan has more talent in his little finger than all of you in this kitchen put together!’
Then, seized by that impulse which had got her into trouble so often in the past, she added, ‘That goes for the bedroom, too.’
7
A glorious April day. A procession of almost 2,000 children in colourful costumes and uniforms thronged through the city centre to the sound of marching music. Bringing up the rear of the parade was a horse and cart with a cotton-wool snowman, which was due to be burned ceremonially the following evening at six o’clock.
A little way outside the city a few hundred Tamils, also in colourful clothes, had assembled in their temple. They were here to celebrate the new year, which on this occasion coincided with the childrens’ Sechseläuten procession.
They were sitting on the floor of the temple, chatting and listening to the predictions for the coming year, while the children played.
Maravan turned off the mixer, wiped his eyes with his sleeve and poured the contents of the glass container into the bowl with the paste of red onions, mustard seeds and curry leaves.
In an industrial-sized, stainless-steel bowl were some strips of green mango in their juice. Having combined them with grated coconut, yoghurt, green chillies and salt, Maravan now added the paste mixture, and poured over the ghee spiced with chillies and mustard seeds.
The neem blossom pachadi was ready. Using an old recipe, he had made it out of the bitter flowers of the neem tree, the sweet nectar of the male palmyra blossom, sour tamarind juice and spicy chilli flesh. A neem blossom pachadi should taste like life itself: bitter, sweet, sour and spicy.
After the ceremony the temple-goers would eat both pachadis on an empty stomach and then wish one another Puthaandu Vazhthugal: Happy New Year.
Huwyler had given Maravan the choice of a reference or a confirmation of employment. The former would mention Maravan’s summary dismissal and give the reason for it (misappropriation of a valuable piece of kitchen equipment); the latter would note only the length of his employment and job description.
Maravan had opted for the confirmation of employment. But whenever he went for interviews they were always surprised that this was all he had to show for more than six months of working at the Huwyler. Afterwards he would either hear no more or get a rejection letter.
He went on the dole. At the end of the month he would get just over 2,000 francs. Plus whatever he earned unofficially.
This temple job was the first one of its kind, however. And it was badly paid, too. They had appealed to his community spirit and had expected him to do it for nothing, a sort of voluntary piece of community work. Finally they had agreed on the symbolic sum of fifty francs. The priest had promised to mention his name to the congregation. Maravan hoped that this publicity and the quality of the food would make him known as a chef.
The Sri Lankan diaspora was a closed society. Bent on preserving its culture and protecting it from the influences of the asylum country. Although the Tamils were very well integrated professionally, they shut themselves off socially. But Maravan was not a particularly active member of this community. He had not made any use of the services available to newcomers, except for the German course. He would go to the temple for the most important festivals, but otherwise he kept his distance. Now that he was trying to earn an income as a private chef, however, he lacked the necessary contacts within the diaspora.
The Tamil Hindus celebrated many religious and family festivals, plus ceremonies to mark the coming of age, marriage and pregnancy. They never scrimped on any of these occasions, and they all involved food.
Cooking for the New Year’s celebration was a start at least. And – who could say? – word might get out in Swiss circles that there was someone who could deliver fine Indian, Sri Lankan and Ayurvedic food to your door. One day, maybe, in the posh part of town, you would find a delivery van – a turmeric-yellow Citroën Jumper, perhaps – emblazoned with the words ‘Maravan Catering’.
And there was another dream he had: Maravan’s. The only place to go for avant-garde subcontinental cuisine. Fifty covers maximum, a small culinary temple paying homage to the aromas, tastes and textures of southern India and Sri Lanka.
And when Maravan’s had made him fairly well off, and peace reigned in Sri Lanka, he would go back and continue with the restaurant in Colombo.
There was always a woman in these dreams. But now she was no longer just a shadow, now she had taken shape and form: Andrea. She would supervise the service staff for the catering firm and work as maître d’ at Maravan’s. Later, in Colombo, she would just look after the house and family, like a proper Tamil wife.
But he had heard nothing from Andrea since that Tuesday morning. He had neither her address nor telephone number. After a week without any news he swallowed his pride and rang the Huwyler. She doesn’t work here any more, Frau Keller told him.
‘Could you give me her address or telephone number?’ he asked.
‘If she wanted you to call her, she’d have given you her number herself,’ Frau Keller said, and hung up.
Maravan carried the bowls outside. By the entrance to the temple a large table had been set up under a colourful baldachin. Two women took the pachadis from him and started putting small portions on to plastic plates. Maravan helped them.
They were not even halfway finished when the temple door opened, the faithful streamed out, and each looked for their own pair of shoes among the mass by the temple entrance. ‘Puthaandu Vazhthugal,’ they said to one another.
Maravan continued dividing up the pachadis, while the women arranged the plates. He focused on his work, but also listened with all the curiosity and anxiety of an artist to the comments at a private view. He did not hear anything negative, but very little praise, either. Cheerfully and without thinking, the congregation wolfed down all that he had prepared with such love.
He knew a few of the faces, but not many. Maravan’s activities in the diaspora were limited to observing the most important festivals and contact with his fellow tenants in the block of flats, some of whom he would occasionally invite over as tasters. He would also pop into the Tamil shops and exchange a few words with the owners or customers. But otherwise he kept himself to himself. Not just because his work and lavish hobby scarcely left him any time. There was another reason: he wanted to keep his distance from the LTTE. They played an important role within the Tamil asylum population, from whom they obtained their funds for the fight for independence.
Maravan was not a militant. He did not believe in the independent state of Tamil Eelam. He would never say it aloud, but in his opinion the Liberation Tigers were making reconciliation more difficult and forestalling a return – maybe for generations – for all those who were freezing here and doing menial work. He didn’t want to help finance that.
‘Puthaandu Vazhthugal,’ a voice said.
A young woman was standing in front of him. She wore a red sari with a broad golden braid and was as beautiful as only a young Tamil woman can be. Her shining, parted hair was set high on her forehead, her thick, barely arched eyebrows leaving exactly enough room for the red dot in the middle. The black of her pupils was only just distinguishable from the black of her irises, her nose was fine and straight, and below this a full mouth smiled a little shyly and a little expectantly.
‘Did you get to work on time, then?’ she asked.
Now he recognized her. The young woman on the tram. He had not noticed how beautiful she was when she was wearing the chunky quilted coat with the hood.
‘How about you? Did the stains come out?’
‘Thanks to my mother.’ She pointed to a plump woman in a wine-red sari standing next to her. ‘This is the man who knocked me over,’ she said.
The mother
simply nodded, looked from Maravan to her daughter and then back again. ‘Let’s go, your father’s waiting.’
It was only now that Maravan noticed the daughter was carrying two plates and the mother just one.
‘Meendum Santhipom,’ she said.
‘Goodbye,’ Maravan replied. ‘Sandana, isn’t it?’
‘Maravan, isn’t it?’
May 2008
8
In May Maravan admitted to his family that he was out of work. He had no choice; his sister was begging him for far more money than he could spare. In Jaffna there were rice and sugar shortages. Even if Maravan had been working, what was available there on the black market would still have been beyond his means.
Nonetheless, he said he would rustle up some money somehow, and promised to call again the following day. But the next day he could not contact his sister. In the Batticaloa Bazaar he learned that Brigadier Balraj, the hero of the Elephant Pass Offensive, had died. Three days of national mourning had been declared, which many people in Jaffna were also observing.
He finally got through on the fourth day and had to tell his sister that he could not send more than 200 francs, scarcely 20,000 rupees. She was furious and reproachful – he had never known her to react like that before. It was only then that he came clean about his situation.
The month of Vaikasi was not exactly packed with festivals, and he had taken no bookings as a chef for family parties either. Job-hunting was a depressing process; not even hospital kitchens or factory canteens were interested in him.
If he had been in regular work, perhaps his romantic problems would not have bothered him so much. He would not have had to doze away his days in his flat, a lonely foreigner.
He was not merely lamenting a failed love affair. It had been the first time he had forged a personal relationship with anyone from this country. He had no friends, neither Swiss nor Tamil. He realized now that something was missing from his life.