‘Nobody could have seen it coming,’ he stressed. He had uttered this sentence once already, before the waiter had served the dish. But Dalmann had not reacted.
Now he did. ‘So why’s it so full in here, then?’ he snapped. ‘All this lot are perfectly relaxed. Who’s been advising them?’
‘Maybe they have a lower share of risk capital. It’s the client who determines the proportion of risk capital. The client says what percentage of his capital he wants to invest conservatively and how much a bit more dynamically.’
‘Dynamically!’ Dalmann spluttered, catapulting a tiny piece of quail mousse onto the plate of his adviser. With a stony expression Keller looked at his starter, only half finished, and put down his knife and fork side by side on the plate.
Dalmann had emptied his plate and also put down his cutlery. ‘So let’s talk about conservative investments. UBS, for example.’
‘But they were blue chips. Nobody -’
Dalmann interrupted him: ‘Are they going down? Are they going up?’
‘Up in the long term.’
‘In the long term I’m going to be dead.’
At that moment Huwyler came to the table. Before he could open his mouth, Dalmann said, ‘No real sign of the crisis in here, is there?’
‘People always have to eat,’ Huwyler replied. Not for the first time that evening.
‘And quality knows no crisis,’ Dalmann added.
‘That’s what I always say,’ Huwyler said, grinning.
‘I know. What’s the next course?’
‘A surprise. That’s why the menu is called Surprise.’
‘Oh come on, tell me. I’ve had enough surprises today already.’
Huwyler hesitated. ‘Breton lobster,’ he said.
‘How’s it done?’
‘That’s the surprise.’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘That’s why you got rid of those cloches, so you can see what’s being served.’
Huwyler took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Do you miss the cloches, then?’
‘I thought that they enhanced the food.’
‘And I thought it didn’t need any enhancing.’
Huwyler was saved by the waiter who came to clear the plates.
It was not exactly a life and death scenario for Dalmann, but he still had some serious problems.
Many of his Russian business friends for whom he had brokered contacts and created an agreeable business climate here were feeling the crisis and staying away.
Then there was the Liechtenstein affair. German tax investigators had paid an informant for the bank details of hundreds of German nationals with accounts at the Landesbank. This not only had a negative impact on Dalmann’s brokering contacts in Liechtenstein, but it also put pressure on bank secrecy in Switzerland and thus made life more difficult for his activities as intermediary and consultant.
And then the subject of destroying documents in the nuclear smuggling affair also kept on flaring up. Each time with the risk that the name Palucron and Dalmann’s former role as a director there would appear in the press.
All this would have been more bearable without his health worries as well. Although he had made a good recovery since his heart attack, he was not the man he used to be. The incident had reminded him of his mortality and taken away some of his joie de vivre. Although he continued to do all the things that Anton Hottinger, his friend and doctor, had always forbidden him, he now did them with a bad conscience. This was something that had never troubled him before, certainly not in relation to his lifestyle. He had once heard that the vices you indulged in with a bad conscience were far unhealthier than all the others.
This is why recently he had started working systematically on his conscience rather than his vices. Up until now it had not brought him any noticeable improvement.
22
Until recently Andrea had resisted taking over Dagmar’s bedroom. She wanted to keep open the option of having a flatmate. But Love Food was now going so well that she could afford to live here alone. So now she was using the room as an office.
She had not found it easy to remove the last traces of Dagmar: the bits of Sellotape which had attached stills from her favourite films to the wall. Dagmar was a cinema freak. She loved difficult art-house movies in incomprehensible languages, owned a collection of Swedish silent movies, and was an expert on post-revolutionary Russian cinema. This passion had been the cause of many crises in their relationship. Not only because Andrea’s taste in films was completely different, but mainly because their jobs allowed them so little time off together. Dagmar was a dental hygienist, and Andrea did not want to spend each one of the few free evenings she had with her girlfriend watching films about social issues.
But Dagmar’s obsession was also part of the reason why Andrea was so fascinated with her. She dressed, made herself up and styled her hair like a silent film star, smoked with a long cigarette holder before they both gave up together, and arranged her bedroom like a star’s dressing room from the 1920s. The fact that Andrea liked to look slightly glamorous was a vestige of her relationship with Dagmar.
Now the room had been freshly painted and furnished with office gear: a desk with PC and telephone, and an adjustable swivel chair. Everything apart from the telephone and computer came from a second-hand shop near Maravan’s flat.
The only thing that still reminded her of Dagmar was a forgotten rock crystal prism, which hung from a long piece of string in front of one of the two windows, and occasionally refracted the rays of the morning sun into its spectral colours, scattering them into the room as colourful patches of light.
Andrea did not really need an office; a few telephone numbers, two files and a diary would have sufficed for the administrative side of Love Food. But it made the whole thing more professional. With an office, Love Food became a company and her job became a career.
Another reason for not keeping the room spare was that the few female visitors who stayed the night slept in her bed. She was living the life of a single woman and had no intention of entering into another serious relationship so soon. Love Food did not allow her any time to feel lonely.
She was sitting in this office, watching the colourful patches of light dance on the walls, when Herr Mellinger, her first ever customer, called. She was slightly surprised. Although quite a few couples booked Love Food a second time, until now everything had come via the practice of Esther Dubois, the therapist. It was a new thing for someone to contact her directly.
It was not long before Andrea discovered the reason.
Slightly embarrassed, Herr Mellinger cleared his throat and then came to the point: ‘Do you also do, erm, discreet dinners?’
‘If we weren’t discreet we would have to shut up shop.’
‘No sure, I mean, erm, discreet as far as Frau Doctor Dubois is concerned?’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘I mean, do you also do those dinners without her knowledge?’
Andrea thought for a moment. Then she decided she would not recklessly jeopardize their business relationship with Esther, who took a 10 per cent cut. ‘I don’t think that would be fair. And it might compromise the success of the therapy.’
‘Not as part of the therapy.’ Now Mellinger sounded rather impatient.
And when Andrea still failed to understand, he became more specific: ‘Not my wife. Do you understand?’
Andrea understood. But if Esther found out…
‘I’ll pay double.’
But then again, who would tell Esther? Certainly not Mellinger.
She therefore agreed and arranged a date.
The sitting room in the three-roomed maisonette was on the first floor, which was accessed via a spiral staircase. It was stuffed full of pink kitsch: cushions, dolls, cuddly toys, porcelain trinkets, pictures, blankets, wall hangings, feather boas, tutus, glitz, glimmer, fashion jewellery.