‘I didn’t know. She kept it to herself.’
36
Towards the end of January a small piece of business news caused astonishment in professional circles. It even found its way into the daily papers.
Kugag, the firm defying the economic crisis by manufacturing in the renewable energy sector, had announced it had entered into a joint venture with hoogteco, a Dutch company, the biggest European supplier of solar and wind energy – and Kugag’s biggest competitor.
All who knew – and some commentators did know – just how rapidly developments progressed in this area, and how sensitive technological knowledge in the sector was, were amazed by this move. Because it could not occur without sharing know-how.
Experts asked openly what Kugag, the smaller but more dynamic of the two firms, would gain from this collaboration. It was considered to have one of the leading research departments in the world; its production capacity had recently expanded to meet future demand; its order book was full and analysts knew of some promising product innovations that were in the pipeline.
Kugag did not have any image problems either. Its CEO had recently been chosen as manager of the year in the ‘new technology’ sector.
If anybody was going to profit from this deal it could only be hoogteco.
Hans Staffel, Kugag’s CEO and normally a good communicator, raised eyebrows on this occasion with his botched information policy. It was hoogteco that went public with the news. To begin with, Kugag refused to make any comment, then announced that the matter was not yet definite, and very belatedly issued a terse communiqué that confirmed everything stated in the Dutch report.
On the following Monday, Kugag was hit hard on the stock exchange. By contrast, hoogteco had an outstanding start to the week.
A spokeswoman for Kugag – the firm had hired a spokeswoman, no doubt on the advice of its communications consultant – played this down and described the deal as a completely normal, very specific business venture, entered into from a position of strength.
One commentator expressed doubt at this strength and wondered about possible financial difficulties that may have resulted from speculation on the American sub-prime market.
Another commentator wondered why the board had not prevented this development. Or whether Staffel had not exceeded his authority here.
There was no reaction forthcoming from the CEO himself, who usually did not shy away from the public eye.
February 2009
37
Maravan was busy most evenings at the moment. But he was able to interrupt his preparations at lunchtime, when he met Sandana. He waited for her outside the travel centre and then they would go to a café, restaurant or snack bar at the station.
They would use this scant hour to tell each other about their respective lives.
Once she asked, ‘If we were in Sri Lanka now, what do you think we’d be doing?’
‘You mean now? Right now?’
Sandana nodded. ‘At half past twelve.’
‘Local time?’
‘Local time.’
‘It would be hot, but it wouldn’t be raining.’
‘So, what are we doing?’
‘We’re on the beach. It’s a little cooler in the sea breeze under the palm trees. The sea is calm. It’s generally calm in February.’
‘Are we alone?’
‘Nobody to be seen for miles.’
‘Why are we in the shade and not in the water?’
‘We don’t have our swimming costumes. Only our sarongs.’
‘You can go in the water with those on.’
‘But they’d become see-through.’
‘Would that bother you?’
‘Looking at you? No.’
‘Let’s go in then.’
On another occasion Maravan told her about his fears for Ugalu. And about Nangay. What she had meant to him. And that he felt partly to blame for her death.
‘Didn’t you say she would have dehydrated without the medicine?’
Maravan nodded.
‘And didn’t your sister say, “One moment she was alive and the next she was dead”?’
They became closer. They rarely touched physically, although they gave each other the hello and goodbye kisses that were normal in this city, although improper in their culture.
She was still sharing a flat with her workmate, a jolly woman from the Berner Oberland, who he had once met when the two of them were leaving the travel centre at the same time. Sandana had no contact with her parents.
One evening in February, Maravan, who had been cooking in Falkengässchen and was able to clock off early, was sitting at his computer surfing the internet. The news from his country was getting more and more depressing.
The army had established a safety zone for refugees, which, according to matching reports from the LTTE and various aid organizations, they were now bombarding. There were many civilian deaths. Whoever was able to flee the conflict zone was doing so, and being immediately interned in refugee camps. Many people were saying that the government forces were on the brink of victory. Maravan and most of his compatriots knew that a victory was not the way forward to peace.
Shortly after eleven o’clock that night there was an insistent ringing at his door.
Through the spyhole he could see a middle-aged Tamil man.
‘What do you want?’ Maravan asked when the man took his finger off the bell for a moment.
‘Open the door!’ the man ordered.
‘Who are you?’
‘Her father. Now open the door or I’ll kick it in!’
Maravan opened the door. He now recognized Sandana’s father, who stormed into the flat.
‘Where is she?’
‘If you’re talking about Sandana, she’s not here.’
‘Of course she’s here.’
With a gesture of his hand Maravan invited him to take a look around. Mahit inspected every room, went into the bathroom and even looked on the balcony.
‘Where is she?’
‘At home, I expect.’
‘She hasn’t been at home for a long time now!’
‘I think she’s staying with a friend.’
‘Ha! Friend! She’s living here!’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘We don’t talk any more!’ He was practically shouting. Then he suddenly calmed down and repeated at normal volume, ‘We don’t talk any more.’ He sounded astonished, as if he had only become aware of this fact just now.
Maravan could see tears welling up in the man’s eyes. He put a hand on his shoulder. The man angrily shook it off.
‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’ He pointed to the chair by his monitor. Mahit sat obediently and put his head in his hands, sobbing gently.
When Maravan brought the tea, Sandana’s father had composed himself. He thanked Maravan and took small sips.
‘Why does she want us to think she’s living here when she’s staying with a friend?’
‘She doesn’t want to marry the man you’ve chosen for her.’
Mahit shook his head in puzzlement. ‘But he’s a good man. My wife and I spent a long time finding him. It wasn’t easy.’
‘Women here want to be able to find their own husbands.’
Mahit flared up again. ‘She’s not from here!’
‘But not from there, either.’
The father nodded and started crying again. This time he made no attempt to wipe away his tears. ‘This bloody war. This shitty, bloody war,’ he sobbed.
When he had calmed down, he finished his tea, apologized and left.
38
Maravan was no longer quite so focused as before. Now, almost every lunchtime he went out for an hour, whereas in the past he would have been busy concentrating on preparing dinner.
‘Just popping out for a bite,’ he would say.
When he returned he was usually quite cheerful, which he had not been for a long time, ever since that evening when he cooked the alternative menu.
Not long afterwards the client had ordered the same menu again and a different woman, but Maravan had refused outright.