The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Phuti had been aware that the lawyer would phone that day and he knew immediately. “Good news?” he said, as he entered the kitchen. “I think I can tell.”

  She nodded, and he stepped forward to embrace her.

  “It is all arranged,” she said. “He has signed the lease for me and I am now the tenant.”

  Phuti patted her on the shoulder. “My Grace,” he said fondly. “You are a very clever woman. I am proud of you.”

  She thought: It’s your money, but she did not say it. Instead she said, “I cannot wait, Phuti. He said we can pick up the keys tomorrow.”

  “I’ve spoken to that painter,” said Phuti. “He says that he is ready to start the moment we buy the paint.”

  “Good. And the carpenter?”

  “He will be ready to start next week. He says the painter can start as long as he doesn’t do the part where the cupboards are going. Then he’ll come in and start building all the other things. And the electrician. That Zimbabwean we use at the store says that he will drop everything and come to us the moment we need him.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. She had become aware of Phuti’s influence, but had yet to become used to the ease with which he could get tradesmen to dance attendance.

  “I think we could open in about a month,” she said.

  “As soon as that?”

  “Yes. We will need to find a chef and waiters, but that will be easy. There are always people searching for jobs. There are far too many chefs, I think.”

  Phuti nodded. He assumed that she knew what she was talking about. He was not sure why there should be such an over-abundance of chefs, but perhaps she was right. “And a name, Grace? You said that you would think of a suitable name for your restaurant.”

  She had already given that some thought, and a name had come into her mind unbidden. It was exactly the right name for her business, and she now announced it to Phuti: “The Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café.”

  Phuti hesitated. “For … for handsome men?” he asked. He was not a handsome man himself; he knew that.

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. Then she laughed. “Not that other men are discouraged, Rra. All will be welcome.”

  “Then why call it the Handsome Man’s place? Why not just the De Luxe Café?”

  “Because I want it to be a fashionable restaurant, Phuti.” She considered again what she had said about everybody being welcome. That would need some qualification. “But I do not want any riff-raff coming in and eating there,” she continued. “I want this to be a big important stop on the circuit.”

  Phuti thought of the riff-raff and found himself feeling sorry for them. Presumably these people—whoever they were—had to eat somewhere, and he did not like the thought of them wandering around, excluded from this … this circuit, whatever that was. “What circuit?” he asked. “What is this circuit?”

  Mma Makutsi made a vaguely circular movement with her hand. “It is the circuit for fashionable people,” she said. The circular movements became wider. “It is that circuit.”

  “Oh,” said Phuti. And then added, “I see.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELECTRIC DOGS AND OTHER THINGS

  THE MEETING at the Sengupta house had been arranged by Mma Makutsi, who had pointedly insisted on setting it up.

  “It will look better,” she said, “if I telephone to arrange a time to see these people.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up enquiringly. “But I can do that, Mma. Thank you, anyway.”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, it would be better if I did it, Mma. If you phone, then they will think that we are the sort of outfit where the bo—” She almost said boss, but stopped herself. “… where the senior director has to phone herself.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled inwardly. There were two things that had become apparent from this exchange. The first of these was that Mma Makutsi wanted to ensure that she was included in the visit to the Sengupta house, rather than staying behind to keep the office open. The second of these was that even if, as a result of a slip of the tongue on Mma Ramotswe’s part, she had now become a co-director, she nonetheless acknowledged that she was the junior co-director, if there could be such a thing. That, at least, was reassuring.

  Now they drew up in front of the Sengupta house. It was an area where the plots were lined with substantial whitewashed walls; the gates set into these walls were generally far from modest—statements of the importance of the people who lived behind them. As they arrived, Mma Ramotswe thought of her own gate on Zebra Drive—a ramshackle affair that had never fully recovered from being hit several years ago by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s green truck. He had said that he would repair it—and he would certainly be capable of doing that—but somehow it was never done, and the gate languished, tipped at an angle, on its twisted supports. She had raised the subject with him, of course, but that did not seem to make much difference, even when she reminded him that although he was always prepared to respond to Mma Potokwane’s request to fix the water borehole pump at the Orphan Farm or attend to her increasingly eccentric minibus, still he could not find the time to repair his own gate. “I shall do it,” he said. But that, she reflected, was what all husbands promised; every wife, she imagined, had a mental list of things that her husband should do but realistically never would do.

  They had been seen, perhaps by a hidden camera, and the gate started to slide open to admit them.

  “An electric gate,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “You could have one,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she swung the white van onto the driveway. “Phuti could afford to put electric gates on your new house.”

  “We do not need one,” said Mma Makutsi. “We have two dogs now. They sleep outside in a shed. One is very fat—like a barrel on legs. They bark and bark if somebody comes. That is enough.”

  “Perhaps you can get electric dogs now,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe that will be the new thing.”

  Mma Makutsi let out a hoot of laughter. “Electric dogs …”

  And then, with a sudden impact, the front wing of the tiny white van hit the edge of the electric gate. The van came to a shuddering stop, as did the gate.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. “I have hit the gate, Mma,” she said.

  For a few moments Mma Makutsi said nothing. Then she turned to Mma Ramotswe and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “The important thing, Mma, is that we are all right.”

  “But the gate is not,” said Mma Ramotswe miserably. “And my van will have a big dent, Mma. I can hardly bear to look.”

  “I will look, then,” said Mma Makutsi, opening her door.

  She stepped outside and made her way round to the front of the van. Mma Ramotswe watched as Mma Makutsi stooped to inspect the damage. She saw her shake her head and then look up with a grave expression. The large glasses had slipped down her nose as she bent down; she pushed them back into position.

  “There is a big dent, Mma,” she said. “But there is no damage to the lights. They will fix this very easily.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was understanding, but she knew his views on her van, which he thought should have been retired a long time ago. He would assess the damage and then suggest that rather than fix it he should get her a new van. They had been through that before—on more than one occasion—and she had always resisted the suggestion. Eventually he had taken matters into his own hands and bought her a replacement van, but she had never taken to it and eventually she had got her old van back. She did not want to go through all that again.

  “And the gate, Mma?” she asked through the window.

  The gate had recoiled a few inches after the impact and seemed now to be hanging slightly askew. Mma Makutsi gave it a tentative push, and from somewhere in the vicinity there came the strained, whirring sound of an electric motor engaging. Then it stopped.

  “There is still room for us to go through,” Mma Ramotswe called out through the window. “Get back in and we can park the van. We’ll tell them about their gat
e.”

  “Would you like me to speak to them?” asked Mma Makutsi as she got back into the cab.

  “No, I can tell them.”

  “I meant: Would you like me to say that I did it?”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But I did it, Mma. I was the one who was driving.”

  “Yes, but it might reflect better on the agency if I said I did. Then they won’t think that the person in charge is a lady who goes about hitting gates.”

  “But I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I hit a gate up at Mochudi once. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni hit our own gate back at Zebra Drive. We have a bad record when it comes to gates, Mma.”

  They both laughed, but Mma Ramotswe had been given something to think about. If proof were needed of the loyalty of Mma Makutsi, and of her concern for the reputation of the business, then it had just been provided and convincingly so. It was loyalty—pure and simple loyalty—and that was something which she could never have learned at the Botswana Secretarial College, but which had to come from somewhere deep down inside.

  Having parked the van at the top of the drive, they got out and made their way onto a large shady verandah that ran the length of the front of the house. An elegant cluster of chairs occupied one end of this verandah, and behind them there was a long bar for the serving of food and drinks. The chairs were covered with what looked like zebra skin and there was a distinct air of opulence about the place. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.

  A door opened and Miss Rose appeared.

  “Mma Ramotswe!” she exclaimed. “And Mma Maputi.”

  “Makutsi.” The correction was made in a tone of slight disapproval.

  “Of course—I’m sorry, Mma. I should know how annoying it is when people get your name wrong. If you’re called Chattopadhyay, you know all about that.”

  They were still standing on the verandah. As Miss Rose turned to lead them into the house, she stopped and stared down the drive. “The gate—” she began.

  Mma Ramotswe stopped her. “It is my fault, Mma, I am very sorry indeed. I seem to have hit the gate with my van. I shall pay for it to be fixed.”

  Miss Rose turned to face her. “No, Mma, it cannot be your fault. These electric gates are dangerous. They are always opening and closing according to some strange programme of their own.” She paused. “And anyway, if it is anybody’s fault, it is mine. I am the one who operated the switch for the gate to open when I saw your van coming. I must have pushed it the wrong way when you were halfway through.”

  Mma Ramotswe held up her hands. “I’m sure it was not you …”

  “No, it probably was,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe gasped. “No, Mma, we must not blame Miss Rose.”

  “But she said it was her fault,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes, I did,” said Miss Rose, throwing Mma Makutsi a sideways glance. “But let’s not waste our time talking about milk that has already been spilt.”

  “Nor crying over it,” said Mma Makutsi. “You cry over spilt milk, I think.”

  “I know that, Mma,” muttered Miss Rose. “It is a figure of speech, I believe. I know about those things.”

  As they were led down a corridor into a large living room at the side of the house, Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mma Makutsi, “Please try to be tactful, Mma. Have a little tact.”

  She could feel Mma Makutsi bristling. “It was her fault that the gate closed as we were going through, Mma Ramotswe. You heard her. She said it, not me.”

  “I know, I know. But the point is, Mma, that she is the client. Remember what Clovis Andersen said about the client. You never argue with the client.”

  They had reached the end of the corridor and perforce the end, too, of their whispered conversation. The room into which they now went was large and formal, decorated in a somewhat heavy style with a great deal of gilt, fringes, and tassels. On the wall there were pictures of idealised landscapes and buildings: Himalayas, Rajasthan, the Taj Mahal by moonlight.

  “This is very beautiful,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes,” said Miss Rose. “It is very fine.” She had become businesslike. “If you ladies sit down, I’ll fetch her.”

  “Before you do,” said Mma Ramotswe, “can you tell me what you call this lady? You said that she could not remember her name.”

  Miss Rose smiled. “We call her Mrs. Just Mrs. That is the best thing. That is what she’ll expect you to call her.”

  Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to say something, but was silenced by a look from Mma Ramotswe. When Miss Rose left the room, though, she leaned across to Mma Ramotswe and said in a loud whisper, “But you cannot call somebody Mrs.! Mrs. is not quite the same as Mma, is it? Mrs. needs to be Mrs. Something, not just Mrs.… Mrs. Air!”

  “Hush,” said Mma Ramotswe. She wanted to tell Mma Makutsi that this was a delicate enquiry—Mrs., after all, had no memory and was presumably in a distressed state—and their questioning would have to be very careful. She searched her own memory for any relevant passage from Clovis Andersen that she could quote to Mma Makutsi, but could think only of the advice he gave not to bully people when questioning them. The person to whom you are talking will always be readier to help if you are polite and friendly, he wrote. Never shine a light in somebody’s face. No third degree. He was right, of course, but she decided that now was not the time to discuss techniques with Mma Makutsi, and anyway, there were footsteps in the corridor outside.

  “This is Mrs.,” announced Miss Rose.

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and shook hands with the woman who had accompanied Miss Rose into the room. She saw a well-dressed Indian woman of about forty, perhaps slightly less, with what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would have described as a “pleasing face.” A pleasing face was not necessarily beautiful in the conventional sense—it was, rather, comfortable. It was the sort of face that suggested equanimity.

  Mma Ramotswe introduced Mma Makutsi, who also shook hands. Then the four of them sat down around a low table.

  “The girl will bring us tea,” said Miss Rose. “She will not be long. These hot afternoons make me want to drink tea.”

  “Tea is the thing,” said Mrs. “It is always time for tea. Hot afternoons, cold afternoons—it doesn’t matter. Tea.”

  Mma Ramotswe listened to the voice. It was hard to place the accent—and she felt that she was never very good at that anyway—but the voice did not sound at all out of place. Sometimes when people had recently arrived from India she noticed that they spoke in what struck her as a rather pleasant, slightly musical way. This woman, though, seemed to speak in much the same accent as that of Miss Rose. For a few moments her thoughts wandered. If you lost your memory, why did you not lose your vocabulary, too? Surely words were a memory, just like the things that happened to you? And how would you still remember things like how to turn on a light or boil a kettle? How would you remember that tea is just the thing if you had forgotten everything else?

  These thoughts were interrupted by Miss Rose. “Mrs. is happy to answer any questions you have, Mma Ramotswe. That is so, isn’t it, Mrs.?”

  Mrs. inclined her head. “I am very happy that these excellent ladies may be able to help me find out who I am. I shall certainly answer their questions, although …” She left the sentence dangling.

  “Although you can remember nothing?” supplied Mma Makutsi.

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. “It is all a blank. There is nothing there. It is as if I had started to live a few days ago, only.”

  Mma Ramotswe noticed the use of the word only. It was a speech pattern she had noticed in people from India: for some reason they liked the word only, just as people from other places had a fondness for certain words or expressions. The South Africans often said yes and no in quick succession—yes, no—or they said hey a lot at the end of sentences. And the Americans, she had noticed, had a fondness for the word like, which was dropped into their pronouncements for no particular reason. It was all extremely odd. But then, she thought, did we all want to spe
ak the same way? No, that would be too dull, like hearing the same song all the time; one song, on and on, day after day.

  “When exactly was that?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “It was about two weeks ago,” said Mrs., looking to Miss Rose for confirmation.

  “Yes,” said Miss Rose. “Two weeks ago today.”

  “So you do remember some things,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “I remember what happened recently,” said Mrs. “I don’t remember what happened before I arrived at the house of these kind people.” She nodded towards Miss Rose, who acknowledged the appreciation with a smile.

  Mma Makutsi was sitting on the edge of her seat, such was her eagerness to ask a question. “This is amazing, Mma,” she blurted out. “You can’t even remember your name? What about the names of your mother and father? Can you remember them?”

  Mrs. frowned. Her expression was one of intense concentration. “I don’t think so. No, I cannot. There is nothing there.”

  “Are they still with us or are they late?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “Late,” said Mrs.

  There was a silence. Then Mrs. spoke again, hurriedly this time. “Or I imagine they will be late by now.”

  “Because you are of such an age that your parents would be likely to be late?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  Mrs. shrugged. “I do not know how old I am.”

  “Or where you went to school?” pressed Mma Makutsi.

  “No, I do not remember that. I think I went to school because, well, I know how to write. But I do not know where this school was.”

  Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair. She was staring at Mrs. with some intensity now. “So, what is ninety-five plus two?” she asked.

  Mrs. seemed momentarily taken aback, but then she answered: “Ninety-seven.”

  Catching the light, Mma Makutsi’s glasses flashed out their message. “So you can do addition. So you were taught that. And what is the capital city of Swaziland?”