Free The Chef by Martin Suter Page B

held everything against everybody. He ensured that the work atmosphere was lousy; he had paid good money
for a licence, expected to do fantastic business and now he had to sit through long slack periods in the tourist strip. Switzerland had been knocked out, and the weather was cold and rainy. Maravan
was counting down the days till the end of the European Championships.
    Not just because of the job. The hype was getting on his nerves. He was not interested in football. Swimming had been his sport. And when he was much younger he had also liked cricket –
before he had devoted himself entirely to cooking.
    The one good thing about this job was that the social security office knew nothing about it. A slightly dodgy temp firm, who worked mainly with people in his situation, had organized the job for
Maravan. Although he was poorly paid, twenty francs per hour, this was in addition to his dole money.
    He had taken out a loan – 3,000 francs – to send his sister money for Nangay’s treatment. Not from a bank, of course – what bank in the world would have given credit to
an unemployed asylum seeker? – but from Ori, a Tamil businessman who lent money privately. Fifteen per cent interest. On the whole sum until the loan was paid back.
    To begin with he had tried to do it without a loan. As soon as he had heard that Nangay could not continue with her treatment, he had worked illegally at a used tyre warehouse. He had to spend
the whole day sorting through heavy tyres.
    But he did not last. Not because he found the work too strenuous, but because it was too dirty. There was no shower there and he could not get rid of the stink of rubber and the black filth at
the wash basin. He could just about put up with the fact that he was slaving away at the very bottom of the social ladder. But his pride did not allow him to look or smell like it.
    He had also tried his hand in the construction industry. He was working for a subcontractor of a subcontractor at a large building site. But on the second day an official turned up from the city
authorities checking for black market workers. Maravan and two of his colleagues managed to disappear just in time. The subcontractor still owed him money.
    In the washing-up tent he had no idea how chilly it was outside. Maravan was scrubbing the stubborn remains of goulash from a food container. Apart from that he had nothing to do. Through the
side of the tent he could hear the voice of a football commentator. The Italy–Romania game was playing on the small television set. All the food stalls along the tourist strip were hoping for
an Italian victory. There were far more Italians than Romanians in town and they spent more money too.
    Finally, in the fifty-fifth minute, salvation arrived in the form of a goal: 1–0. The triumphant screams startled Maravan; he peeped through the curtain which covered the entrance to the
stall. His boss was whooping loudest of all. He was skipping up and down with his arms thrust into the air, shouting ‘Italia! Italia!’
    Maravan pretended he was delighted as well, and this was his downfall. At the very moment he beamed through the curtain, Romania equalized. His boss turned away from the television in disgust
and caught sight of Maravan’s grinning face. He said nothing, but as soon as the game was over and the flood of euphoric Italian fans they had been hoping for failed to materialize at any
point that evening, he paid Maravan and told him not to come back tomorrow.
    Contrary to his usual habit Maravan travelled home in the front carriage of the Number 12 tram. A fan had thrown up in the rear carriage, and Maravan could not stomach the
stench.
    A few lone fans were still on the streets, making their way back to the city centre. The scarves in their teams’ colours were now acting as protection against the cold wind, and only the
occasional snippet of an anthem or chant could be heard from inside the tram.
    Maravan had never felt such despair.