Maravan was there first. A little further along the platform, where the roof finished, the asphalt was shining wet. A light but persistent rain had been falling since the previous night.
There were a lot of passengers on the other side of the tracks, but on his side the platform was empty. The last train had just left; the next would not be arriving for a while. Sandana had left nothing to chance.
Now she arrived, wearing trousers, railway uniform and quilted coat. Maravan got up from the bench; they greeted each other with their usual kisses and sat down.
He gave her a sideways glance. He recognized her expression from the Pongaclass="underline" rebellious and resigned. She passed him the latest edition of Freitag. ‘Page twelve,’ was all she said.
Maravan read the article and studied the photograph of Kazi Razzaq next to the now familiar ones of Waen and Carlisle. When he had finished he looked at Sandana, who had been watching him expectantly.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Arms smugglers,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘They simply don’t operate according to moral principles.’
‘Yes, I know that, too. But chefs. Chefs should watch out who they’re cooking for.’
It was only now that he realized what she was getting at. ‘You mean because of this Dalmann chap?’
Sandana gave a resolute nod of the head. ‘If he’s involved with the American and Thai man, then he must have something to do with the Pakistani as well.’
Maravan shrugged again, slightly at a loss. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’
Sandana gave him a look of disbelief. ‘Is that all? The man’s involved with individuals who supply the arms that our people are killing each other with, and you cook for him?’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘And now you do?’
Maravan thought about it. ‘I’m a chef,’ he replied eventually.
‘Chefs have consciences too.’
‘A conscience doesn’t pay the bills.’
‘But you can’t sell it either.’
‘Do you know what I do with the money?’ Maravan now sounded tetchy. ‘I support my family and the fight for liberation.’
‘So with the money from the arms smugglers you’re supporting the fight for liberation. Great.’
He stood and looked down at her angrily. But Sandana took his hand and pulled him back onto the bench. He sat and took the sandwich she offered.
For a while they ate in silence. Then he said quietly, ‘He was only a guest once. He’s more of a middleman.’
Sandana placed her hand gently on his forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t know who I’m selling tickets to either.’
‘But if you did?’
Sandana pondered his question. ‘I think I’d refuse.’
Maravan nodded. ‘I think I would, too.’
It is possible Makeda would not have heard anything more about the Pakistan connection if Dalmann had not booked her yet again for one of his ‘normal evenings at home’.
He had asked Lourdes to prepare them a cold supper for two. This usually consisted of a variety of cold meats, cold roast chicken, cooked knuckle of pork, called gnagi, potato salad and green salad. He would accompany this with an ice-cold table wine from the region and round it off with a few bottles of beer. Makeda stuck with champagne.
They ate in the sitting room, did not say very much, channel-hopped for a while and went to bed early.
During their TV dinner on this normal evening at home she picked up one of the newspapers from the coffee table and leafed through it, chewing large mouthfuls of food. Without thinking, she had gone straight past the three photos. It was only a few pages later that she stopped and turned back.
She recognized two of the pictures: Carlisle and Waen. She did not recognize the third. That is to say, she had never seen the picture before, but she had seen the man. He was one of the Pakistanis from the dinner in St Moritz. Now she made out that his name was Kazi Razzaq and that he was an arms dealer.
He sold arms to the Sri Lankan army. And she had also met him at an occasion arranged by Dalmann and his strange colleague Schaeffer.
She looked at Dalmann, who was bent over on the sofa, breathing heavily as he gnawed away at his gnagi. ‘I hope you choke on that,’ she muttered.
Dalmann turned to her with a smile. ‘What did you say, darling?’
‘I hope you enjoy that, honey.’
Keeping to their ritual, she stood suddenly and said, ‘I’ll go up first.’ She kissed him on the forehead, went upstairs to the bedroom and left the door slightly ajar, as if accidentally.
Dalmann followed her quietly and, through the gap in the door, watched her undress tantalizingly slowly and vanish into the bathroom, where she also left the door open. Through this he watched her shower, soap herself, rinse off, dry and moisturize herself thoroughly.
But this time she did not give him any time to scurry out of the bedroom before coming back. She suddenly stepped out of the door, dragged him by his tie to the bed, and shoved him onto the mattress. Giggling, he protested, but she did not leave him alone. ‘Now you’re going to get it good and proper,’ she threatened, undressing him.
She gave it her best shot, and her efforts were crowned with success. But the moment Dalmann was about to penetrate her, he was let down.
She tried again: softly, roughly, intimately, affectionately and finally domineeringly and determinedly. Each time with the same result. Finally she gave up and fell into the pillows, cursing quietly. He could not understand what she had said.
Dalmann went into the bathroom, showered, and came back in pyjamas.
‘These fucking pills,’ he complained. ‘This never used to happen to me.’
‘Then just stop taking them.’
With the expert knowledge and pride of one who has survived surgery, he proceeded to tell her in detail about his stent, which enlarged the narrowed coronary vessel responsible for his heart attack, so as to prevent another blockage. And about pills and powders, which kept his blood pressure within acceptable levels, his heart beating regularly and his circulation unhindered.
Makeda listened, full of sympathy. When he had finished she said. ‘Why don’t we try a Love Menu some time?’
Why not? Dalmann thought, getting up again and fetching a goodnight beer from the fridge.
44
Maravan was sitting at his computer, trying to get through to his sister. Whenever he had to wait he would check the reports from the conflict zone. The front had declined to a tiny coastal strip on the eastern side of the island. There were around 50,000 men, women and children with the LTTE soldiers in this area. They were lacking food, water, protection from the rain, medicines and sanitary facilities. Every rocket and mortar shell was injuring and killing citizens.
Neither of the belligerents heeded the international appeals to allow safe conduct to the refugees or to limit the fighting to areas outside the densely populated refugee zone.
There were no details forthcoming about the conditions there. No journalists were allowed in the war zone.
Finally he got a connection. Maravan’s sister sounded despondent and apathetic. She listed names of friends, relatives and acquaintances who were either dead or missing. The supply situation was terrible. Transports kept on being held up at checkpoints for days. Goods were being confiscated. Sea access to the peninsula was controlled by the Sri Lankan navy.
No trace of Ulagu.
She said she felt ashamed to have to ask him for money again.
He assured her that she did not need to feel ashamed. He almost added that he was ashamed enough himself.
Thevaram and Rathinam, the two LTTE men, had stopped paying unannounced visits to Maravan’s flat. They could now rely on him to make donations without needing to be asked.