which she had picked up with Dagmar at a flea market and painted green, and lit a cigarette.
When she thought about it, her life seemed to be a long series of rash decisions. She was easily enthused and quickly bored. Education, career choice, relationships, jobs – all by chance,
spontaneous and changeable. Was that what she really wanted? To invest a large proportion of the money she had left in a catering service providing erotic dinners, which could not even operate
legitimately?
She had made enquiries. She fulfilled all the requirements to obtain the police authorization to run a catering firm. That would be sorted out within a month. But the hygiene legislation
presented an almost insurmountable obstacle. They would never be able to satisfy the endless regulations concerning kitchens and equipment, neither in her kitchen nor in Maravan’s, no matter
how squeaky clean they were. Even if they could meet the standards, the sites would have to be visited and checked by the commercial arm of the police, the building inspection department, the food
inspection authority and fire service. On top of this, as an asylum seeker Maravan was not allowed to undertake any freelance work. She could not employ him as a chef either, only as a kitchen help
– provided she got the authorization from the office for employment – and would have to pass herself off as the chef. It was all too complicated for a project which might fail. And who
would pay back her investment if she could not obtain a licence? If she really wanted to see whether it would work in practice there was only one option: she would have to do it unofficially. At
least to begin with.
But she did not need any of this. A week after her summary dismissal from the Huwyler she had already found another job. Not as stylish and gastronomic perhaps, but the pay was no worse and it
had a younger, nicer clientele. It was called Mastroianni, an Italian restaurant right in the middle of the city’s club scene. Even if she resigned from there – which she was planning
to do because she found the hours too late – she would quickly find something else.
She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and pulled down the blinds of the west-facing window. It was a warm summer’s day and the afternoon sun would otherwise soon heat up the
conservatory. The light filtering through the faded brown material gave the room an old-fashioned feel with its cobbled-together furniture and two dusty indoor palms. Andrea sat back down and
indulged in the fantasy that she was part of an old yellowed photograph.
Maybe it would have been better to keep her distance from Maravan after she had discovered his secret. That evening with him had preyed on her mind. She had needed to know for certain that it
really had all been down to the food.
But what about the convincing result of the experiment with Franziska, who had been uncontactable since that night? Was that not proof enough for her? Even so, it was no reason to question her
whole existence and personality. And certainly no reason to share her work and future with the very man who had laid a trap for her. Even though she did not hold it against him, it was something
that would always stand between them.
She took a cigarette out of the packet with its bold death warning. When Dagmar still lived here, smoking was prohibited throughout the flat. The two of them had given up together. But after
they split up, Andrea had started again and allowed herself to smoke in the conservatory. She did not have a garden, after all.
The cultural differences between her and Maravan would soon lead to problems, too. The ‘Sri’ and ‘guru’ had already caused a slight upset. ‘Please don’t
introduce me as Sri and guru,’ he had said politely but firmly. ‘If my people knew that I was letting myself be called those things I would be finished.’
No, it was a bad idea, whichever way you looked at it.
She put her cigarette in the ashtray
When she thought about it, her life seemed to be a long series of rash decisions. She was easily enthused and quickly bored. Education, career choice, relationships, jobs – all by chance,
spontaneous and changeable. Was that what she really wanted? To invest a large proportion of the money she had left in a catering service providing erotic dinners, which could not even operate
legitimately?
She had made enquiries. She fulfilled all the requirements to obtain the police authorization to run a catering firm. That would be sorted out within a month. But the hygiene legislation
presented an almost insurmountable obstacle. They would never be able to satisfy the endless regulations concerning kitchens and equipment, neither in her kitchen nor in Maravan’s, no matter
how squeaky clean they were. Even if they could meet the standards, the sites would have to be visited and checked by the commercial arm of the police, the building inspection department, the food
inspection authority and fire service. On top of this, as an asylum seeker Maravan was not allowed to undertake any freelance work. She could not employ him as a chef either, only as a kitchen help
– provided she got the authorization from the office for employment – and would have to pass herself off as the chef. It was all too complicated for a project which might fail. And who
would pay back her investment if she could not obtain a licence? If she really wanted to see whether it would work in practice there was only one option: she would have to do it unofficially. At
least to begin with.
But she did not need any of this. A week after her summary dismissal from the Huwyler she had already found another job. Not as stylish and gastronomic perhaps, but the pay was no worse and it
had a younger, nicer clientele. It was called Mastroianni, an Italian restaurant right in the middle of the city’s club scene. Even if she resigned from there – which she was planning
to do because she found the hours too late – she would quickly find something else.
She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and pulled down the blinds of the west-facing window. It was a warm summer’s day and the afternoon sun would otherwise soon heat up the
conservatory. The light filtering through the faded brown material gave the room an old-fashioned feel with its cobbled-together furniture and two dusty indoor palms. Andrea sat back down and
indulged in the fantasy that she was part of an old yellowed photograph.
Maybe it would have been better to keep her distance from Maravan after she had discovered his secret. That evening with him had preyed on her mind. She had needed to know for certain that it
really had all been down to the food.
But what about the convincing result of the experiment with Franziska, who had been uncontactable since that night? Was that not proof enough for her? Even so, it was no reason to question her
whole existence and personality. And certainly no reason to share her work and future with the very man who had laid a trap for her. Even though she did not hold it against him, it was something
that would always stand between them.
She took a cigarette out of the packet with its bold death warning. When Dagmar still lived here, smoking was prohibited throughout the flat. The two of them had given up together. But after
they split up, Andrea had started again and allowed herself to smoke in the conservatory. She did not have a garden, after all.
The cultural differences between her and Maravan would soon lead to problems, too. The ‘Sri’ and ‘guru’ had already caused a slight upset. ‘Please don’t
introduce me as Sri and guru,’ he had said politely but firmly. ‘If my people knew that I was letting myself be called those things I would be finished.’
No, it was a bad idea, whichever way you looked at it.
She put her cigarette in the ashtray
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