The Chef Read Free

a word. Then she got off. Maravan watched her turn into a side street, still laughing
and chatting.
    It was silent on the tram now, save for the recording which announced the stops. Maravan got off at the penultimate one, put up his umbrella and continued walking along the same road. The Number
12 drove past him, the illuminated windows heading off into the distance, until they were no more than just another patch of light on the rain-drenched road.
    It was cold. Maravan wrapped his scarf more tightly around him and turned into Theodorstrasse. Rows of grey houses on either side, parked cars, wet and glinting in the white light of the street
lamps, the occasional shop – Asian specialities, travel agent, second-hand, cash transfer.
    When he came to a brown 1950s block of flats Maravan fished his keys out of his pocket and went through a graffiti-filled passageway, past two overflowing dustbins, to an entry door.
    He stopped in the hallway by the wall lined with pigeonholes and letterboxes. He opened the one marked
Maravan Vilasam
.
    His post consisted of a letter from Sri Lanka addressed in his eldest sister’s handwriting, a flyer from a firm hiring out cleaning ladies, election propaganda for a xenophobic party and a
catalogue from a wholesaler dealing in specialist kitchen appliances. He opened the last of these while still beside the post box, and leafed through it as he climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor
flat – two small rooms, a tiny bathroom and a surprisingly spacious kitchen with a balcony, all connected by a hallway covered with well-worn lino.
    Maravan turned on the light. Before entering the sitting room he popped into the bathroom to wash his face and hands. Then he removed his shoes, put the post on the table, and struck a match to
light the wick of the deepam, the clay lamp which stood on the domestic shrine. He went down on his knees, put his hands together in front of his face and bowed before Lakshmi, the goddess of
prosperity and beauty.
    It was chilly in the flat. Maravan squatted in front of the oil burner, pulled the ignition and let it spring back. The resonant sound of metallic hammering echoed through the flat five times
before the burner ignited. Maravan took off his leather jacket, hung it on one of two coat hooks in the hallway, and went into his bedroom.
    When he came out again he was wearing a batik shirt, a blue-and-red striped sarong and sandals. He sat beside the burner and read his sister’s letter. The news was not good. Deliveries
were being stopped at checkpoints on the border of Tamil-held areas. Very few of the food deliveries from February and March had reached Kilinochchi District. Prices of basic foodstuffs, medicines
and fuel had risen exponentially.
    He put the letter back on the table and tried to soothe his bad conscience. It had been almost three months since his last visit to the Batticaloa Bazaar, the nearby Tamil shop, to give money
and his sister’s ID number to the owner. It had been 400 francs, 37,800 rupees after commission.
    Although he earned 3,000 francs per month, lived alone and paid a reasonable rent of 700, after the Huwyler deducted health insurance and tax at source, Maravan had just enough money left to
eat. Or, more accurately, to cook.
    Cooking was not just Maravan’s profession, it was his great passion. Even when the family still lived in Colombo he had spent most of his time in the kitchen with Nangay. His parents had
worked in one of the city’s large hotels, his father at reception, his mother as a housekeeper. When not at school, the children were in their grandmother’s care. But because Maravan
did not yet go to school, his great aunt Nangay would often take him with her to work, so that her sister could do the housework and shopping. Nangay had six helpers in the large kitchen. One of
them always had time to look after the little boy.
    Thus he grew up among pots and pans, herbs and spices, fruit and vegetables. He helped to