The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café (No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency)

by Alexander McCall Smith

Charlie was not about to let this pass. ‘I have never heard of that rank. I know somebody who is in the Botswana Defence Force and he has never spoken of assistant generals. You get sergeants and majors and then you get generals. You don’t have assistant generals – never!’

  Mma Makutsi hooted with laughter. ‘Sergeants, majors, then generals? Is that how you think it goes, Charlie? One, two, three: three rungs to the ladder. What about captains? Yes, what about captains? And what about colonels? Where are they in your army, Charlie?’

  ‘We do not need to talk about the army,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘The army has got nothing to do with detective agencies.’ She gave Mma Makutsi a particularly intense look before continuing. ‘I think that this is settled, now. You could start showing Charlie how the filing cabinet works, Mma.’

  For some reason, the prospect of teaching Charlie rather appealed to Mma Makutsi and she took the young man over to the double filing cabinet on the other side of the room.

  ‘This is the memory of the business, Charlie,’ she said. ‘This is where you will find all the correspondence, all the bills, all the everything. It is all filed away. Any questions?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘We file it so that we can retrieve it if we want to find out who wrote what and when,’ said Mma Makutsi.

  Charlie opened a drawer and peered in. In spite of himself, he was intrigued, and they were soon immersed in a discussion of the filing system that Mma Makutsi had created for the office. From her desk, Mma Ramotswe watched them fondly. At heart, Mma Makutsi and Charlie were probably rather more alike than either would care to admit: they both had the same sort of personality for which there must be a special name in a book somewhere. Makutsian, perhaps: marked by a tendency to be a bit prickly and wear fancy shoes… The sight of them working together, rather than arguing, pleased her. Why can’t we all be like that? she thought. Not just this office, these two people, but everyone, everywhere – the whole world? She gazed out of the window. One day, she hoped, peace would break out, and friendship, too. It would break out and ripple across the world, ending corrosive enmities and hatreds, bringing men and women together across the globe. Muslims and Christians and Hindus and people who said that there was no God at all. And they would hold hands and hug one another and realise how small we were and how little time we had, and how silly it was to spend that time fighting and arguing and destroying the trust that otherwise exists between people. Oh, let that happen one day, she thought; let that happen. And perhaps it might even start here in Botswana, where there had always been so strong a desire for peace, since the days of that great and generous-spirited man, Seretse Khama, whose example to the world had been such a good one, and even before him. It could start here, in Gaborone itself, rippling out across the acacia-studded bush like one of those warm winds that seem to come from somewhere you cannot see but are strong and insistent. Then it would fan out to all those distant and busy places that might never even have heard of Botswana but would stop and listen and marvel that such a loud message could come from so quiet a country.

  Mma Ramotswe had intended to take Mma Makutsi with her on her next visit to the Sengupta house but Mma Makutsi had excused herself from the office and was unable to come.

  ‘I have to go to the café,’ she said. ‘I have had a telephone call.’

  Mma Ramotswe had heard her answer her telephone but had not been able to work out what the call was about – Mma Makutsi had lowered her voice and cupped her hand round the receiver.

  ‘I hope everything is all right, Mma.’

  Mma Makutsi, gathering her things and stuffing them into the shoulder bag she liked to carry, was non-committal. ‘There are always things happening in a business,’ she said.

  ‘Not bad things, I hope,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi half turned round, but obviously thought better of pursuing the conversation. ‘I shall see,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that everything will be fine.’

  Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. She had decided that she would tell Mma Makutsi what she had heard from Mma Potokwani, but wanted to wait a while before she did so. It was possible that things might work out, and she did not want to sound negative; she was only too aware of Mma Makutsi’s sensitive nature. To that list of institutions in the Makutsi pantheon of which seemingly innocuous discussion could cause a slight, there now had to be added the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café.

  ‘If you need anything,’ muttered Mma Ramotswe, ‘never hesitate to ask, Mma.’

  Mma Makutsi was tight-lipped. ‘I’m sure that everything will be perfectly all right, Mma,’ she said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

  Mma Ramotswe judged the moment right for a further remark. ‘If I had a business that was getting into trouble, then I would go straight to my friends and discuss it with them. I would not suffer in silence, Mma.’

  Mma Makutsi hesitated again, but then nodded politely and left the office.

  Now, turning into the Senguptas’ road in the newly repaired tiny white van, Mma Ramotswe thought of the encounter ahead. It would not be easy, she felt, and it would have been good to have Mma Makutsi there to support her, but that was not to be. She would take a deep breath and say what she had to say: she could do nothing but that.

  Miss Rose answered the intercom and bade the electric gate slide open for her. Mma Ramotswe was careful; it would not do to sustain yet another dent in the bodywork of the van. Sooner or later, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had hinted, vehicles just fell to bits if you bumped into too many things in them.

  Miss Rose greeted her warmly. ‘I am very pleased that you came, Mma,’ she said. ‘We have been wondering about how things were going. You have news for us, is it?’

  Is it? It was what people said – a general question mark that they added at the end of any enquiry.

  ‘I have some news and then I… then I have no news.’

  Miss Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘That is very good, Mma… or maybe not?’ She ushered Mma Ramotswe into the formal sitting room. Mma Ramotswe sat down gingerly on one of the large ornate armchairs, almost reluctant to lower herself onto the gold-coloured upholstery. Miss Rose seemed to pick up on her hesitation and was quick to reassure her. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Mma. Do not worry about the chairs. They are meant to be sat upon.’

  Mma Ramotswe managed an embarrassed smile. ‘These chairs would not be out of place in Buckingham Palace,’ she said. ‘They will have many chairs like this at the Queen’s place. She will always be sitting on chairs like this.’

  Miss Rose was pleased with the compliment. ‘It is good to think that the Queen would feel at home if she dropped in.’

  ‘Yes, she would like these chairs.’

  There was a short silence that was broken by the sound of somebody approaching along a corridor.

  ‘That will be Mrs,’ said Miss Rose. ‘She must have heard you arrive.’

  Mrs came into the room. Her eyes went straight to Mma Ramotswe, and for a moment anxiety passed across her face. It was soon replaced, though, by a guarded smile of welcome.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Mrs. ‘How are you, Lakshmi?’

  The other woman began to answer. ‘I am very well, thank you, Mma. I am…’ And then she became silent. Now she looked sharply at Miss Rose.

  ‘Why did you call her that?’ asked Miss Rose. ‘Have you found out what her name is?’

  ‘I think you know that already,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I think both of you know it.’

  ‘She does not,’ said Miss Rose. ‘She does not know who she is.’

  Lakshmi sat down heavily on the chair nearest her. ‘See,’ she said. ‘She knows. This lady knows.’

  Miss Rose turned to her quickly. ‘You cannot say that. She knows nothing. You know nothing either. You don’t even know who you are. Remember?’

  ‘She is called Lakshmi,’ said Mma Ramotswe evenly. ‘And I must tell you that I know what happened.’

  Miss Rose eyed her suspiciously. ‘How can you know that? You are jus
t telling us that – it’s not true.’

  ‘It is true,’ countered Mma Ramotswe. ‘Lakshmi is from over the border – that way.’ She waved an arm towards South Africa. ‘She had a very bad husband who beat her. She tried to defend herself and he went to the police. He had a corrupt policeman charge her with attempted murder.’ She paused, watching the effect of her words. ‘That is why she is here. She is running away.’

  Lakshmi now spoke. ‘You see, Rosie? You see. It’s all over now.’

  ‘It is not over,’ snapped Miss Rose. ‘You have no proof of all this, Mma. We shall just say that it is all lies.’

  ‘But it is the truth, Mma. I do not like to lie.’ She put her hands together and then opened them, palms upward, in a gesture of openness.

  Miss Rose closed her eyes, as if to shut out the obvious. She drew a deep breath. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Mma Ramotswe…’

  Mma Ramotswe did not let her finish. ‘But I do, Mma.’

  Both women looked at her.

  Mma Ramotswe held their gaze. She did not like to talk about this; she never mentioned it, in fact, because it was something very personal, and painful too. But now she felt that she had to.

  ‘When I was young I married a man called Note Mokoti,’ she said. ‘My father did not want me to marry him – I could tell that – but you know how it is when you are young: you think that you know better than everybody else. So I ignored him when he said that he thought that Note would not be a good husband for me and that he could not be trusted. I think he knew, too, that he would be violent, but he did not want to spell that out to me.’

  They were silent.

  ‘I think that you may know what I’m talking about, Lakshmi.’

  Lakshmi did not say anything, but the slight movement of her head showed her agreement. She knew very well.

  ‘I went ahead and married Note, although it must have broken my daddy’s heart. And then, shortly after we were married, he began to hurt me. He began to hurt me in many ways – in my heart and in my body. He struck me with a belt. He made me cry and cry and that only seemed to give him more pleasure. He taunted me for being too weak to stand up to him.

  ‘I thought: I must run away from this man. I thought that, but there is a big difference between thinking something and being able to do anything about it. Sometimes it is difficult for women to get away, even though they know they must…’

  Lakshmi nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, Mma. Yes. That is exactly right.’

  Mma Ramotswe continued with her story. ‘At last I got back to my father and he never said anything like I told you. He said nothing like that; he took me back and the nightmare was over.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Lakshmi. ‘It is like a nightmare. It is just like that.’

  ‘So, you see, Mma,’ concluded Mma Ramotswe. ‘I do know what it’s like. I know very well.’

  Miss Rose exchanged glances with Lakshmi. It was clear that she did not quite know what to do. ‘So now you have found out,’ she said at last. ‘So, what now?’

  They were both staring at Mma Ramotswe. For a few long minutes there was silence, eventually broken by Lakshmi.

  ‘Maybe I should tell you, Mma,’ she said.

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘Yes, of course, Mma. I do not know everything about what happened.’

  Miss Rose raised a hand in a gesture of warning. ‘Lakshmi, I don’t think you should.’

  But Lakshmi was not to be dissuaded, her voice gaining strength as she began. ‘My husband said that he loved me. This was after we were introduced by our parents – you know how it is with us, Mma: we like families to have a hand in the marriage.’

  Mma Ramotswe knew all about this. As a younger woman she had been offended by the thought of arranged marriages and wondered how anybody could enter into one: how could one accept the choice of others in such a private matter? But then, as she saw more of these, she increasingly realised that they tended to work, at least where the arranged marriage was consensual. Perhaps one of the reasons for this, she thought, was that compatibility was something that families could judge, perhaps even better than the man and woman themselves.

  ‘And I thought I was very lucky to have this nice-looking man who might have been a bit older than I was but who seemed well established. We had a good house outside Durban, Mma, and he was earning a lot of money in a firm that brought things in from India. Many of my friends said that they would have happily changed places with me. I thought I was very lucky.

  ‘But then I began to see another side of him. If anything went wrong in the house – even the smallest thing – he would shout at me. Then he started to hit me. I remember the first time it happened I thought that it had been an accident; I thought that he had raised his hand to make a point and that he had slipped. But then it happened again, and again after that.

  ‘He became suspicious. He said that I should not go out of the house because there were men around who would flirt with me and he said that I would flirt back. I told him that I would never do that, but he laughed and said that all women were the same. He said that it was always women who led men on and that there were no exceptions. He said that if he caught me looking at another man he would make sure that I never looked at a man again.

  ‘He told me that I was not to mix with other women – the wives of his friends. He said that these women would lead me into bad ways and that they probably all had lovers. He said that he would be able to tell if I tried to see these people secretly. He had people who would report back to him if they saw me out in the town.

  ‘And all the time the beatings went on. Sometimes he did it because he was angry with me for something to do with the house, but on other occasions he said that a beating was to remind me not to step out of line. He also used to shout at me and mock me for not having children. I told him that I was doing my best and that maybe the problem was with him, but that drove him into a frenzy. It was in one of these frenzies that I tried to defend myself. I ran into the kitchen and picked up the only weapon that I could find, which was a bread knife. I shouted to him that he should keep away and that I would use the knife to defend myself, but he mocked me. He said that I couldn’t even cut bread properly, let alone use a bread knife to defend myself. Then he threw something at me and rushed towards me. I held out the knife, and it went into him – not very far, because it hit a rib. It stopped him, though, and he shouted and squealed like an animal in the slaughterhouse. Bullies are like that, I think, Mma: they are not very courageous when they are hurt – they become like little boys.

  ‘I ran out of the house and went to one of my friends. She took me in and she was the one who drove me all the way over here the following day when we heard that he had gone to the police and I was now wanted for attempted murder.

  ‘I could not go through any of the border posts because I would be stopped on the South African side. I also didn’t have a passport and Botswana would not have let me in. So my friend drove to one of those game ranch places where you can go on safari. We pretended that we were there to admire the animals, but we were really interested in the border, which ran down one side of the game reserve. My friend paid one of the staff at the reserve to guide me across at night and to walk with me to a road on the Botswana side. They had been in touch with my cousin. He said that he would pick me up at a certain time, and he was there waiting for me when I got to the road. He brought me here and talked to me about what to do. And the rest, Mma, I think you already know.’

  Miss Rose shook her head. ‘It’s a mistake to tell anybody this,’ she muttered. ‘It is a big mistake.’

  Mma Ramotswe waited until it was clear that Lakshmi had finished. Then she folded her arms. ‘You need not worry, Lakshmi, I am not going to tell anybody.’

  Miss Rose looked at Mma Ramotswe disbelievingly. ‘And how much do you want for your silence, Mma?’

  Mma Ramotswe remained calm. ‘I want nothing, Mma.’

  ‘You see,’ said Lakshmi. ‘This is an honest lady.’


  Mma Ramotswe brought up the fact that Mr Sengupta had asked her to take on the case. ‘He wanted me to say that I have found out nothing, but I cannot do that. I cannot make any false statement that I know will be given to the Botswana authorities. I cannot do it, Mma.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ asked Miss Rose.

  ‘I will do nothing,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I will withdraw from the case. You will not claim that there has been any investigation by me, and I shall say nothing about what I know. I am sorry if that is not what you really wanted from me, but I do not think that I have much choice.’

  Miss Rose and Lakshmi looked at one another for guidance. ‘Maybe that will be all right,’ said Miss Rose eventually.

  ‘And you will explain the whole matter to Mr Sengupta?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Lakshmi replied: ‘I will tell him, Mma. He will understand. He is a good man. He may sell stationery, but he is a very big hero underneath.’