and watched the smoke rise in a thin, vertical line until it was disturbed by the fronds of a palm leaf.
Maybe it was this image which inspired her to do it after all.
Oh, just this once, she thought, they could give it a go.
The shutters were closed in Maravan’s sitting room, but all doors and windows were open to allow a slight draught. Wearing only a sarong, Maravan was sitting in the half
darkness in front of his screen, reading the news from his native country.
The Sri Lankan government had ordered all United Nations and other aid organizations to leave the northern provinces by the end of the month. Almost one quarter of a million Tamils were on the
run. A humanitarian crisis was waiting to happen.
A few of the Liberation Tigers’ planes had attacked the air base and police headquarters in Vavuniya, a district which the Sri Lankan government had declared liberated a long time ago.
With the help of the artillery, the Tigers had destroyed the radar system, anti-aircraft guns and the munitions depot, and killed countless soldiers.
In retaliation the Sri Lankan army was bombarding the A9 highway and the surrounding villages in the Mu’rika’ndi district. Traffic had been paralysed on the A9 in the direction of
the Oamanthai checkpoint. Relief supplies and medicines were no longer getting past the checkpoints.
This meant that Maravan needed more money. Increasingly, his family had to buy on the black market, where prices rose every day. Especially for medicines.
On top of this, Ori the moneylender charged steep penalties for defaulting on interest payments and was merciless in exacting them. And the organizations close to the LTTE were doubling their
contributions because – how often had this been claimed? – they were in a decisive stage of the war of liberation.
Maravan was still jobless and the little that he earned in addition to his unemployment benefit by making
modhakam
was nowhere near enough to cover all his debts.
He was in a pretty desperate situation, therefore, when Andrea called and told him about Love Food’s first commission. He did not hesitate for a second.
His only question was: ‘Are they married?’
‘For thirty years,’ Andrea replied, rather amused.
That was that as far as Maravan was concerned.
18
From the kitchen you could see the city, the lake and the hills opposite. Maravan was standing beside a snow-white kitchen island under a huge stainless-steel extractor fan
which made nothing more than a quiet humming sound, like the air conditioning in a luxury hotel. The large dining table with twelve stackable chairs, also white, was not laid. The dinner was to be
served in the sitting room next door, which was vast and full of art. It, too, had a glass front with a view of the roof terrace and a panorama of the city. With these sorts of dinners –
Andrea called them
Love Menus
– the presence of the cook in the same room was naturally undesirable.
Maravan found the situation rather embarrassing, as clearly did the hostess, Frau Mellinger. She was closer to sixty than fifty, very soignée, and slightly stiff, maybe just today and
because of the occasion. She kept finding excuses to enter the kitchen, where she would cover her eyes affectedly and call out, ‘I’m not looking! I’m not looking!’
Herr Mellinger had retired to his study. He also seemed to find the whole thing awkward. He was a gaunt man in his sixties, with short-cropped white hair, dressed in black and wearing
black-rimmed spectacles. He had made a brief appearance, greeting Maravan with an embarrassed cough. When Andrea entered the kitchen immediately afterwards, his disgruntled expression brightened.
Then he apologized and muttered, ‘I’ll leave you now to do your magic.’
Only Andrea felt no embarrassment about the affair. She moved around this gigantic penthouse totally naturally, as if it were her own, and wore her golden-yellow sari with total self-assurance.
Although Maravan always
Maybe it was this image which inspired her to do it after all.
Oh, just this once, she thought, they could give it a go.
The shutters were closed in Maravan’s sitting room, but all doors and windows were open to allow a slight draught. Wearing only a sarong, Maravan was sitting in the half
darkness in front of his screen, reading the news from his native country.
The Sri Lankan government had ordered all United Nations and other aid organizations to leave the northern provinces by the end of the month. Almost one quarter of a million Tamils were on the
run. A humanitarian crisis was waiting to happen.
A few of the Liberation Tigers’ planes had attacked the air base and police headquarters in Vavuniya, a district which the Sri Lankan government had declared liberated a long time ago.
With the help of the artillery, the Tigers had destroyed the radar system, anti-aircraft guns and the munitions depot, and killed countless soldiers.
In retaliation the Sri Lankan army was bombarding the A9 highway and the surrounding villages in the Mu’rika’ndi district. Traffic had been paralysed on the A9 in the direction of
the Oamanthai checkpoint. Relief supplies and medicines were no longer getting past the checkpoints.
This meant that Maravan needed more money. Increasingly, his family had to buy on the black market, where prices rose every day. Especially for medicines.
On top of this, Ori the moneylender charged steep penalties for defaulting on interest payments and was merciless in exacting them. And the organizations close to the LTTE were doubling their
contributions because – how often had this been claimed? – they were in a decisive stage of the war of liberation.
Maravan was still jobless and the little that he earned in addition to his unemployment benefit by making
modhakam
was nowhere near enough to cover all his debts.
He was in a pretty desperate situation, therefore, when Andrea called and told him about Love Food’s first commission. He did not hesitate for a second.
His only question was: ‘Are they married?’
‘For thirty years,’ Andrea replied, rather amused.
That was that as far as Maravan was concerned.
18
From the kitchen you could see the city, the lake and the hills opposite. Maravan was standing beside a snow-white kitchen island under a huge stainless-steel extractor fan
which made nothing more than a quiet humming sound, like the air conditioning in a luxury hotel. The large dining table with twelve stackable chairs, also white, was not laid. The dinner was to be
served in the sitting room next door, which was vast and full of art. It, too, had a glass front with a view of the roof terrace and a panorama of the city. With these sorts of dinners –
Andrea called them
Love Menus
– the presence of the cook in the same room was naturally undesirable.
Maravan found the situation rather embarrassing, as clearly did the hostess, Frau Mellinger. She was closer to sixty than fifty, very soignée, and slightly stiff, maybe just today and
because of the occasion. She kept finding excuses to enter the kitchen, where she would cover her eyes affectedly and call out, ‘I’m not looking! I’m not looking!’
Herr Mellinger had retired to his study. He also seemed to find the whole thing awkward. He was a gaunt man in his sixties, with short-cropped white hair, dressed in black and wearing
black-rimmed spectacles. He had made a brief appearance, greeting Maravan with an embarrassed cough. When Andrea entered the kitchen immediately afterwards, his disgruntled expression brightened.
Then he apologized and muttered, ‘I’ll leave you now to do your magic.’
Only Andrea felt no embarrassment about the affair. She moved around this gigantic penthouse totally naturally, as if it were her own, and wore her golden-yellow sari with total self-assurance.
Although Maravan always
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