‘I collect pink things,’ Alina had explained when she showed Andrea into the room. She was a short blonde woman, very sweet if you liked that type. And Mellinger obviously did. The flat certainly had not been cheap. It was new, in a good part of town, and the interior was expensive.
‘Shall we stick to first names? You can’t be that much older than me,’ Alina said.
Andrea agreed. By her reckoning she was even a little younger.
‘I’ll let you get on. Please make yourselves at home,’ Alina had said, absenting herself for the afternoon. ‘I’d just get in your way.’ Andrea and Maravan dragged the round table, the cushions and the cloths up the spiral staircase. These were no longer Maravan’s private possessions: Love Food had acquired them.
‘Not really apt, I fear,’ Andrea said to Maravan, pointing at all the pink.
‘On the contrary: for us Hindus pink is the colour of the heart chakra. Green and pink. The centre of love, kaadhal.’
Andrea set about preparing the room, Maravan retired to the kitchen.
Later, while Andrea watched him intertwine the crunchy and elastic strips of urad lentils – something else he performed with greater craftsmanship each time – he said, shaking his head, more to himself than to her, ‘It’s strange, she’s so young and yet she’s got these problems already.’
Andrea had not filled him in about the particular circumstances of this job and its fee. She did not say anything now either, and, unless it became necessary, had no intention of doing so later.
He would never have known if it had not been for that spiral staircase.
Andrea was carrying the tray with the ghee spheres upstairs. Halfway up she trod on the hem of her sari. Rather than dropping the tray and holding on to the rail, she tried to regain her balance without using her hands and twisted her ankle.
She just about managed to serve the dish and hobble back into the kitchen. But then she sat on a chair and examined her ankle. It was already a bit swollen. Maravan had to fill in for her.
He carried the tray with the tea and sweetmeats up the stairs and knocked.
‘Come in,’ a man’s voice called.
Maravan entered the room. The candlelight gave a golden gleam to the sea of pink. Alina was slumped back on the cushions. When she realized that it was not Andrea she covered her breasts with her arm and let out an ‘Oh!’ which was more amused than shocked.
The man was sitting with his back to the door. Now he turned his head and said, ‘Hee, hee.’ He was naked to the waist as well.
Maravan recognized him. It was Herr Mellinger, the first Love Food client. He wondered for a moment whether he ought to go out again and give the two of them the opportunity to put on a few clothes.
‘Don’t mind us,’ Alina said. ‘We’re feeling pretty hot already.’
Maravan put the tray onto the table and cleared away the crockery from the previous course. He tried not to look at either of them, but he could not ignore a pair of men’s trousers and some pink lingerie which were strewn beside the table.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he asked Andrea in the kitchen.
‘This time you didn’t ask if they were married.’
‘Because I thought I could take that for granted.’
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘If they’re married, this is perfectly normal. Now it’s something else. Now it’s improper.’
Andrea looked as if she was struggling to come to a decision. Then she said, ‘That’s why it’s better paid. Like all improper things.’
November 2008
23
Barack Obama had won the election at a canter. From next year, the United States would be governed for the first time in its history by a black president. The world marvelled and Europe applauded, almost more enthusiastically than the country which had elected him.
It was only those in Dalmann’s circles, both national and international, who were sceptical. They had feared the Democrats might win, as they had worried during the previous two elections as well. They found the Republicans’ economic, foreign and in particular their fiscal policy more predictable and compatible.
‘Bad news,’ was Dalmann’s reply when Schaeffer woke him with confirmation of what had been looming the night before: the European economy had now officially slipped into recession. The GDP of the Eurozone had fallen for the second quarter in succession.
For Dalmann this was the signal to turn his attention again to those business areas from which he had been gradually distancing himself in the last few years.
In the bar of the Imperial Hotel four men were sitting having drinks. The pianist was playing golden oldies, discreetly, but loud enough to allow private conversations to take place at the tables.
The men had eaten and drunk well at the Huwyler and were now allowing themselves a nightcap. Until the women arrived.
Four inconspicuous figures in dark suits: two Europeans, one American and an Asian. The last of these was about fifty and wore large, round glasses. As was the custom in Thailand, everybody called him by his nickname. His was Waen: glasses.
They talked in English, one with a Thai accent, two with Swiss twangs, and one with a drawl from the southern states.
The American’s name was Steven X. Carlisle. Steve owned a small import-export firm in Memphis. Besides other things, he was an intermediary for the buying and selling of new and used products from his country’s armouries. Waen’s company, which had its headquarters in Bangkok, also worked in this field.
The two other men were Eric Dalmann and Hermann Schaeffer, his colleague.
This was the first time that Steve and Waen had met. Dalmann had arranged the meeting and the two of them had hit it off instantly. Before dinner they had done some serious work in Dalmann’s office and all were happy with the result.
It was a deal which Dalmann would have left well alone if times had been better. But given the financial crisis – his personal one, too – and the fact that the deal was almost legal, Dalmann had agreed to take on the role of intermediary.
The goods were non-upgraded armoured howitzers from the 1950s that had been rejected by the Swiss army and were destined for scrap. Waen could find buyers for the equipment; the only problem was Swiss legislation. It did permit the export of these goods to Thailand, but only if a declaration was signed that they would not be exported again to a third country, something the Swiss would be able to monitor.
The risk that the controls would actually be carried out was not high, but it was an ever-present one, given domestic political sensitivities. Arms exports to countries at war was currently a hot topic, and a referendum to ban such exports was in the offing.
Several years ago, however, the Government had made a decision on the export of munitions which solved this problem. Disused munitions could be returned to their country of manufacture without the need for a declaration that they would not be re-exported. In the case of the M109 armoured howitzers, this country was the United States of America.
This is where Steve came in. He would buy the goods for the manufacturer at a notional price and supply them to Waen as products of the country where they were made. This would not be a problem as the United States was the largest arms supplier to Thailand.
Schaeffer had arranged a meeting for the following afternoon between Carlisle, Dalmann and the official responsible for writing off the howitzers. With a lunch to follow.
Waen would join them when the official had left.
The barman brought two long-legged women in cocktail dresses to the table. The taller of them was black. Her short-cropped hair looked like the tight-fitting cap of an Olympic swimmer. The four men stood to welcome them. Two of them gave the women their chairs and bade the others farewell until the following day.