Anything under 1,500 was a good price. Maravan had 1,200 put aside. And he could rustle up the rest somehow, so long as the price did not rise any further. He would sit tight for the next couple of hours and make a bid just before the auction closed. Maybe he would get lucky.
He took his sister’s letter from the table and read it all the way through. She only came to the point on the last page: Nangay was ill – Diabetes insipidus. It was not real diabetes. She was thirsty all day long, drinking water by the litre, and had to go to the loo constantly. There was a medicine to treat the condition, but it was expensive and very hard to find in Jaffna. But if she did not take it, the doctor said she would dehydrate.
Maravan sighed. He returned to the screen. Still 1,430. He turned off the computer and went to bed. In the stairwell he could hear the footsteps of Gnanam on his way to the early shift.
3
A few days later there was a scene in the Huwyler kitchen which would have consequences for Maravan.
Anton Fink had created a starter which he called ‘Glazed langoustines with rice croquant on a curried gelée’, and which he wanted to put on the Menu Surprise for the following day. From the washing-up sink Maravan watched the chef preparing the curry sauce for the gelée: he sautéed some finely chopped onions, stirred in some curry powder and called out, ‘Maravan! Coconut milk!’
Maravan fetched a tin of coconut milk from a cupboard, gave it a good shake, opened the tin and gave it to the demi chef de partie. As the latter was emptying half of the tin into the pan, Maravan said, ‘If you like I’ll make you a proper curry next time.’
Fink put the ladle beside the pan, turned to Maravan, looked him up and down and said, ‘Oh right, a real curry. So some kitchen help is going to show me how to cook, are they? Did you hear that?’
His voice was raised and the chefs nearby looked up.
‘Maravan here has offered to give me a cookery course. Maybe one of you would like to enrol too.’ Fink had noticed that Andrea had come in holding her order pad. ‘How to make a real curry. Introductory course for beginners.’
Maravan had just stood there silently. But now he noticed Andrea and said, ‘I only wanted to help.’
‘That’s exactly what you should be doing, helping. That’s why you’re a kitchen help. You should be helping scrub pans, clean dishes, wash salads and wipe up spillages. But teach me how to cook? Thanks, but I think I’m all right, I can just about manage to put together a little curry on my own.’
If Andrea had not been there to witness the exchange, Maravan would have apologized at this point and gone back to his pans. But now he said bravely, ‘I’ve been cooking curries all my life.’
‘Oh really? Did you study curry? I’m terribly sorry, Doctor Curry. Or is it Professor?’
Maravan did not know how to respond. Breaking the silence that ensued, Andrea said, ‘Well I’d like to try one of your curries sometime, Maravan. Will you cook one for me?’
Maravan was so astonished he could not answer. He nodded.
‘Monday evening?’ The Huwyler was closed on Mondays.
Maravan nodded.
‘Deal?’
‘Deal.’
Smoke was now rising from Fink’s curry, and it smelt burnt.
Maravan suspected that Andrea’s intervention would do him more harm than good. It had not only made Fink hostile towards him, but also stoked the envy of all the others. In spite of this, his heart was lighter than it had been in a long time. He blithely carried out the most mundane tasks and was not in the least bit bothered by the fact that nobody gave him anything more challenging to do that day.
Had she meant it seriously? Did she really want him to cook for her? And where? At his place? The idea of his receiving and entertaining a woman like Andrea in his small flat made him doubt whether he would really be happy if she had meant it seriously.
She left him stewing in this double uncertainty. When he was finally able to knock off from work she had already gone.
Hans Staffel had never been to the Huwyler with his wife. For business purposes he had been forced to eat in the restaurant two or three times before, and after each occasion Béatrice had made him promise that he would take her there, too. But Staffel was like all managers: the moment he had the chance of an evening off, he would rather spend it at home.
This time, however, there was no excuse. He had something to celebrate which, for now, he was able to share only with his wife. The chief editor of the most important business magazine in the country had told him in the strictest confidence that Hans Staffel was May’s Manager of the Month. In ten days’ time it would be official.
Béatrice did not know this yet. He wanted to tell her between the amuse-bouche and meat course, when the time was right and the sommelier had just refilled their glasses.
Staffel was the CEO of Kugag, an old family business that manufactured machinery. He had taken over twelve years previously and – in the words of the chief editor – regenerated the firm. He had convinced the owners to invest in a reorientation of the product range towards environmental technology, and to procure more capital by floating the company on the stock market. Kugag had bought a small firm with a number of patents for solar panel components and had rapidly become one of the biggest suppliers in the solar energy industry. Its market price had bucked the general trend by rising steadily, and Staffel himself had become a wealthy man. He had arranged for part of his salary to be paid in shares when the company floated, and these were still very valuable.
They had ordered two Menus Surprises, Béatrice’s without any of the offal or frogs’ legs that might appear in the various dishes. Out of consideration he had advised the kitchen of these requirements in advance.
The tall, pale waitress with the long, black hair all combed to the right had just brought the fish course: two giant glazed prawns on a rather nasty-tasting jelly. The sommelier poured out some champagne – they had decided to pass on the white wine and stay with champagne until they finished the fish course. It was as if this moment had been created for them specially.
Staffel raised his glass, smiled at his wife, and waited for her to lift her glass too. As she did it she knew she was about to discover what it was she had to thank this evening for.
At that moment somebody arrived at the table and said, ‘I don’t wish to disturb your celebrations, but I’d just like to offer my warm congratulations. Nobody deserves it more than you.’
He gave the startled Staffel, who had made to stand up, a friendly handshake and then introduced himself to his wife. ‘Eric Dalmann. You can be rightly proud of your husband. If there were more like him we wouldn’t have to worry about any crisis.’
‘Who was that?’ Béatrice wanted to know when they were by themselves again.
‘I don’t know. Dalmann, Dalmann? Some sort of consultant, I don’t really know.’
‘Why was he congratulating you?’
‘I was just about to tell you: I’m Manager of the Month.’
‘And of course I’m the last to know as usual.’
Maravan was busy putting away crockery when Andrea brought the plates back from table three. Fink rushed over to her, because he wanted to know what the customers had thought of his ‘Glazed langoustines with rice croquant on curried gelée’. It was the first surprise of the evening.
The plates were empty apart from the heads of the langoustines and most of the curried gelée.