Maybe it was this image which inspired her to do it after all.
Oh, just this once, she thought, they could give it a go.
The shutters were closed in Maravan’s sitting room, but all doors and windows were open to allow a slight draught. Wearing only a sarong, Maravan was sitting in the half darkness in front of his screen, reading the news from his native country.
The Sri Lankan government had ordered all United Nations and other aid organizations to leave the northern provinces by the end of the month. Almost one quarter of a million Tamils were on the run. A humanitarian crisis was waiting to happen.
A few of the Liberation Tigers’ planes had attacked the air base and police headquarters in Vavuniya, a district which the Sri Lankan government had declared liberated a long time ago. With the help of the artillery, the Tigers had destroyed the radar system, anti-aircraft guns and the munitions depot, and killed countless soldiers.
In retaliation the Sri Lankan army was bombarding the A9 highway and the surrounding villages in the Mu’rika’ndi district. Traffic had been paralysed on the A9 in the direction of the Oamanthai checkpoint. Relief supplies and medicines were no longer getting past the checkpoints.
This meant that Maravan needed more money. Increasingly, his family had to buy on the black market, where prices rose every day. Especially for medicines.
On top of this, Ori the moneylender charged steep penalties for defaulting on interest payments and was merciless in exacting them. And the organizations close to the LTTE were doubling their contributions because – how often had this been claimed? – they were in a decisive stage of the war of liberation.
Maravan was still jobless and the little that he earned in addition to his unemployment benefit by making modhakam was nowhere near enough to cover all his debts.
He was in a pretty desperate situation, therefore, when Andrea called and told him about Love Food’s first commission. He did not hesitate for a second.
His only question was: ‘Are they married?’
‘For thirty years,’ Andrea replied, rather amused.
That was that as far as Maravan was concerned.
18
From the kitchen you could see the city, the lake and the hills opposite. Maravan was standing beside a snow-white kitchen island under a huge stainless-steel extractor fan which made nothing more than a quiet humming sound, like the air conditioning in a luxury hotel. The large dining table with twelve stackable chairs, also white, was not laid. The dinner was to be served in the sitting room next door, which was vast and full of art. It, too, had a glass front with a view of the roof terrace and a panorama of the city. With these sorts of dinners – Andrea called them Love Menus – the presence of the cook in the same room was naturally undesirable.
Maravan found the situation rather embarrassing, as clearly did the hostess, Frau Mellinger. She was closer to sixty than fifty, very soignée, and slightly stiff, maybe just today and because of the occasion. She kept finding excuses to enter the kitchen, where she would cover her eyes affectedly and call out, ‘I’m not looking! I’m not looking!’
Herr Mellinger had retired to his study. He also seemed to find the whole thing awkward. He was a gaunt man in his sixties, with short-cropped white hair, dressed in black and wearing black-rimmed spectacles. He had made a brief appearance, greeting Maravan with an embarrassed cough. When Andrea entered the kitchen immediately afterwards, his disgruntled expression brightened. Then he apologized and muttered, ‘I’ll leave you now to do your magic.’
Only Andrea felt no embarrassment about the affair. She moved around this gigantic penthouse totally naturally, as if it were her own, and wore her golden-yellow sari with total self-assurance. Although Maravan always thought there was something not quite right about European women in saris, they somehow looked authentic on Andrea with her long, shiny, black hair, despite her snow-white complexion.
The menu was the tried and trusted one:
Mini chapattis with essence of curry leaf, cardamom and coconut oil
Urad lentil ribbons in two consistencies
Ladies’ fingers curry on sali rice with garlic foam
Poussin curry on sashtika rice with coriander foam
Churaa varai on nivara rice with mint foam
Frozen saffron and almond foam with saffron textures
Sweet and spicy spheres of cardamom, cinnamon and ghee
Glazed chickpea, ginger and pepper vulvas
Jellied asparagus and ghee phalluses
Liquorice, honey and ghee ice lollies
Andrea had persuaded him to introduce a couple of creative innovations. She suggested they serve the asparagus-and-ghee jellies in the form of penises, rather than asparagus spears. And the glazed hearts became pussies, as she called them. Maravan thought this was too explicit and had made a fuss. But Andrea said, ‘I’ve seen pictures of erotic frescoes which your ancestors painted on the Sigiriya rock fifteen hundred years ago. So don’t play the prude with me.’
Maravan gave in. But in shame he covered his sweetmeats with baking paper, in case Frau Mellinger unexpectedly popped into the kitchen again.
If Love Food were to have an official company logo, Andrea thought it would have to be a temple bell. She was sitting with Maravan in the kitchen, listening out for the ring from the room where the Mellingers were giving their relationship a fresh impetus. She kept on thinking she had heard something, rushed out to listen at the door, and came back empty-handed.
‘What are we going to do if it doesn’t work?’ Maravan asked.
‘It will work,’ Andrea replied determinedly. ‘And even if it doesn’t, we wouldn’t find out. Nobody’s going to admit that they’ve spent well over a thousand francs on an erotically stimulating dinner that hasn’t worked.’
When she had served the champagne and appetizers, she came back giggling. ‘She’s wrapped up in flowing cloths, see-through ones,’ she reported.
After the lentil ribbons she told him, ‘I presented the starters as “man and woman”, and he asked, “Which one’s the man, the soft or hard one?”’
Embarrassed, Maravan said nothing.
‘Of course, I said, “Both.”’ Andrea paused for effect. ‘And she said, “I hope so.”’
The gaps between the courses became longer. From time to time Andrea went onto the roof terrace for a cigarette. It was dark now, the lights of the city were reflected in the lake, the suburbs sprinkled the hills with dots of light.
After the main course the temple bell remained silent. Maravan was getting nervous. The next course was the trickiest as far as timing was concerned. He had to cook the spheres for five minutes in algin water, rinse them with cold water, inject them with ghee, and then put them in the oven for about twenty minutes at sixty degrees. He could not allow half an hour to pass before dessert, and so ten minutes after Andrea had served the curries he had made the spheres, cooked them, injected them with ghee and rinsed them in cold water. He was afraid that they might collapse if they did not go in the oven soon.
‘Please go and check,’ he now asked her a second time.
She went out, wondering whether she should knock or clear her throat. But halfway to the door she heard noises coming from the room that made the decision for her.
She returned to the kitchen and said, ‘Job done. I think they’ll pass on dessert.’
After this first job Andrea’s doubts had evaporated. The feedback the Mellingers gave their therapist was so positive that already the next day Esther Dubois was holding out the prospect of further bookings. The net income after deducting the raw materials and the cost price of the champagne was almost 1,400 francs. The work was easy, she did not have to put up with a boss, and Maravan was a quiet, polite and unassuming work colleague.