Dr Kerner could have been around fifty. He had unruly white hair and tired eyes set in a youthful face. He wore an open doctor’s coat and a stethoscope, more to inspire confidence than out of necessity. When Maravan came in, he looked up from his patient file, pointed to the chair by his desk and continued reading the patient history. Maravan had been to see him some time ago because of a burn he had suffered while handling a frying pan in a professional kitchen.
‘It’s not about me,’ Maravan explained when the assistant had left. ‘It’s about my grandmother in Jaffna.’
He told the doctor about Nangay’s illness and the difficulty of obtaining the medicine.
Dr Kerner listened, nodding all the while as if he had heard the story long ago. ‘And now you want a prescription,’ he said before Maravan had even finished.
He nodded.
‘Are your great aunt’s circulation, blood pressure and coronary arteries all OK?’
‘She has a strong heart,’ Maravan said. ‘“If only my heart weren’t so strong,” she always says, “‘I’d have stopped being a burden to you long ago.”’
Dr Kerner took his prescription pad. While he was writing, he said, ‘It’s an expensive medicine.’ He tore off the sheet and pushed it across his desk. ‘A repeat prescription for a year. How are you going to get the medicine to your great aunt?’
‘By courier to Colombo and from there…’ – Maravan shrugged – ‘somehow.’
Dr Kerner thought for a moment, his chin in his hand. ‘An acquaintance of mine works for Médecins Sans Frontières. You know the Sri Lankan government has instructed all aid organizations to leave the north by the end of the month. She’s flying to Colombo tomorrow morning to help the delegation with their move. I could ask her whether she’d take the medicine with her. What do you think?’
20
This was the time when Hindus were celebrating Navarathiri, the struggle of good against evil.
When the gods felt themselves powerless against the forces of evil, they each broke off a part of their divine power and used it to fashion another goddess: Kali. In a terrible battle lasting nine days and nights she defeated the demon Mahishasura.
When the anniversary of this battle comes around, Hindus pray for nine days to Saraswati, the goddess of learning, Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, and Kali, the goddess of power.
Maravan had bookings every day and evening during Navarathiri. The only thing he was capable of doing when he got home late and tired was to make his puja – the daily prayer before the domestic shrine – a little longer and more celebratory, and offer up to the goddesses some of the food he had put aside for them. At the very least he needed to thank Lakshmi for the fact that he had sufficient money to send a regular sum back home and hardly any more debts.
On the tenth day, however, he got his own way. On Vijayadasami, the night of victory, he went to the temple as he had done every year since he could remember.
He had brought it to Andrea’s attention several weeks previously, and she had marked the date in her diary with a thick pen. But a few days later she had come to him and said casually, ‘I had to take a booking on the day of that unpronounceable festival of yours. Is that awful?’
‘On Vijayadasami?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘Otherwise they couldn’t have done it for three weeks.’
‘Then cancel again.’
‘I can’t do that now.’
‘You’ll have to do the cooking then.’
Andrea did cancel, and these fledgling business partners had their first argument.
It had rained heavily overnight. A filthy grey stratus of low cloud lay over the lowlands for the entire day. But it was almost twenty degrees, warm and dry. Singing, drumming and clapping hands behind the vehicle carrying the image of Kali, the procession moved across the car park by the industrial building, which was where the temple stood, and which had been cleared of cars for the occasion.
Maravan had joined the procession. In contrast to many other men who were in traditional dress, he wore a suit, white shirt and tie. Only the sign of blessing that the priest had painted on his forehead indicated that he was not a detached onlooker.
‘Where’s your wife?’ a voice next to him asked. It was the young Tamil woman he had knocked over in the tram. She had raised her head and was giving him a searching look. What was her name? Sandana?
‘Hello Sandana. Vanakkam, welcome. I don’t have a wife.’
‘But my mother saw her. In your flat.’
‘When was your mother in my flat?’
‘She came to fetch modhakam for the temple.’
Now he remembered. That was why he thought he had seen the woman before.
‘Oh, that was Andrea. She’s not my wife. We work together. I cook and she looks after the organization and service side.’
‘She’s not a Tamil.’
‘No, she was born here.’
‘So was I. But I’m still a Tamil.’
‘I think she’s Swiss. Why does it interest you?’
Her dark skin became a little darker. But she did not avert her gaze. ‘I only have to look at you…’
The procession had reached the entrance to the temple. The crowd formed a semicircle around the statue of Kali. In the throng Maravan was pressed up against Sandana. She lost her balance for a split second and held on to him tightly. He could feel her warm hand on his wrist, which she held a little longer than necessary.
‘Kali, Kali! Why won’t you help us?’ sobbed a woman. She thrust her hands out to the goddess in supplication and then slapped them in front of her face. Two women beside her took hold of her and led her away.
When Maravan turned back to Sandana he saw her mother dragging the girl away, while giving her a good talking to.
21
The financial crisis had hit Europe. Britain had nationalized Bradford & Bingley, the Benelux states had bought 49 per cent of the financial company Fortis. The Danish bank, Roskilde, was only able to survive thanks to its competitors. The Icelandic government had taken over the third-largest bank, Glitnir, and shortly afterwards had put all banks under state control and issued urgent warnings that the country was in danger of going bankrupt.
European governments made 1 trillion euros available to the financial sector.
The Swiss government also announced that, if necessary, it would take further measures to stabilize the financial system and safeguard the deposits of bank customers.
The crisis had not yet hit the Huwyler. Except in the person of Eric Dalmann.
He was sitting with his investment adviser, Fred Keller, at table one as usual, but this evening it was on his guest’s bill. Not because things had got that bad, but because it was time Keller felt in his own wallet the damage he had caused.
For Keller had invested a substantial chunk of his venture capital – as Dalmann, with a wink, liked to call that portion of his money which he invested more speculatively – in the American subprime market. Dalmann did not reproach him for this; after all, Keller was an investor happy to take risks. What he did hold against Keller, however, was the fact that the latter had advised him to sit out the crisis when it was still in its infancy. The second crude blunder was that he had conducted all of this business via Lehman Brothers. The third, that the share of the capital which had been left in Europe had chiefly been invested in bonds in Icelandic krona.
And the fourth, that a considerable proportion of the non-speculative remainder of his fortune was in financial stocks – shares in the largest Swiss bank.
It had thus been a fairly silent meal up until now. They were eating the starter of the Menu Surprise, truffled quail mousse with essence of quail and apple crystals: Dalmann in his greedy, thoughtless fashion, Keller with a little more care and good manners.