Yes, she thought, Charlie could be a secretary. It would do him good to learn that there was nothing undignified for a young man to take on a job normally performed by a young woman. People had to learn not to be sexist about these things; if there could be female managing directors and engineers, then there could be male secretaries and nurses, and Charlie might as well get used to that sooner rather than later.
She would put the idea to Mma Ramotswe later—over dinner, perhaps.
THAT EVENING, shortly after six-thirty, when the sun had sunk into the Kalahari and the sky had turned the pale blue that comes at that hour, Mma Ramotswe, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Fanwell drove across the town to the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café, now almost ready to welcome the public. As Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni parked his truck they admired the newly painted sign—the work of the same hand that all those years ago had written The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency above Mma Ramotswe’s own premises. If one were to look for omens, then this might surely be one: since Mma Ramotswe’s sign had presided over a business that prospered (or, at least, stayed afloat), so too might Mma Makutsi’s sign announce a successful undertaking.
Or so Mma Ramotswe thought. “Very good,” she said as she surveyed the newly restored building. “That is a very welcoming sign. People will want to go in.”
“That is what a sign must do,” agreed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “If a sign is unfriendly, you will get no business.”
Fanwell was concerned about the name. “And if you’re not handsome?” he asked. “Where do you go then?”
“You are very handsome, Fanwell,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So that is not your problem.”
Fanwell appeared embarrassed, but at the same time pleased. “I am not,” he said modestly. “Charlie is handsome. I am just average. The girls always look at Charlie. If they look at me, they shake their heads and turn away.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe. “And if they look at Charlie, then they are very silly. We know that Charlie is dangerous to girls.” She paused, as if to consider an interesting possibility. “In fact, there are some young men who should wear a sign round their neck saying Beware.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “That is true, I think. Maybe a sign saying Girls beware—and cars beware too.”
“He is not that bad,” said Fanwell. “And now he is a detective, anyway.”
“Then there should also be a sign saying Clients beware.”
“We must not be unkind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Charlie is learning. He’s becoming more mature.”
“Yes,” said Fanwell. “Soon the young girls will think he is too old. He will not like that, I think. Hah!”
The subject of Charlie was dropped as Phuti Radiphuti’s car had drawn up beside them. They all went in together, Mma Makutsi proudly announcing as they entered the café, “Here we are, Mma Ramotswe—this is my new place.”
It was an important moment for her. She had not forgotten—nor would ever forget—how Mma Ramotswe had given her that first chance and was responsible, therefore, for everything that had flowed from it. Had she not found that job in Gaborone, then she might have ended up in Lobatse or somewhere else, and would then never have gone to that dance class and met Phuti Radiphuti. And then there would have been no fine husband, no new house, no baby, no Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café—all of this she owed to Mma Ramotswe. And here she was welcoming her, that kind woman who had changed her life, who had taught her so much, into a business that she had created herself. It was a proud moment indeed.
“It is a very good café,” said Mma Ramotswe as she looked around. “Those red tables, Mma—they are very smart. And the lights! They are very bright. Everybody will like those.”
“Yes, they will,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There will be big crowds coming here, Mma; very big crowds.”
Mma Makutsi made a modest gesture. “Word will take time to get out,” she said. “Rome was not built in a day. I have read that.”
“Rome took many weeks to build,” said Fanwell. “There were no bulldozers in those days.”
“That is true,” said Phuti. “Bulldozers were not invented until …”
They looked at him expectantly.
“… until much later,” he finished.
The chef appeared through a door at the back of the café. “So,” he announced in a booming, confident voice. “So, welcome everybody. Welcome to dinner.”
Introductions were made and they sat down at the table nearest the kitchen area. In the background, the two waiters, one a young man of extremely muscular build, and the other a young woman in a blue dress, stood at the ready.
“What have you prepared for us, Chef?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“I have prepared steak,” he said. “Steak with a special sauce. Potatoes in butter. Green vegetables and cauliflower with cheese on the top. It is called The Steak No. 1 Special in honour of Mma Ramotswe.”
This was greeted with delight—and laughter.
The waiter came to take the orders for drinks. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni ordered a Lion beer, as did Fanwell, after Phuti Radiphuti had explained that there would be no charge for either food or drink. Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe, neither of whom drank, ordered lemonade, and Phuti asked for water with a slice of lemon and some sugar.
“You should drink beer, Rra,” said the waiter. “That is the best drink for men.”
Phuti frowned. “I do not like beer,” he said.
The waiter’s jaw set. “Most men do,” he said.
Mma Ramotswe glanced anxiously at Mma Makutsi.
“He says that he wants water with lemon and some sugar,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is what he wants.”
The waiter shrugged. “Beer would be better,” he said. “But if that’s what you want …”
“It is,” said Phuti, adding, “if you don’t mind.”
The waiter turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen area.
“I’m going to have to talk to that young man,” said Mma Makutsi.
“Perhaps it’s his first job,” said Fanwell. He looked thoughtful. “I think I may have seen him somewhere before.”
“Where?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Does he live near your place?”
Fanwell shook his head. “I don’t think so. It is a long time ago maybe. His face looks familiar—you know how it is.”
“There are some people like that,” said Phuti Radiphuti. “You think that you know them, but you don’t really. They have the sort of face that looks familiar.”
Phuti and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni now struck up a conversation about a new van that Phuti had ordered for the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Fanwell joined in; he had views on the make of van and the conversation soon became quite technical. Mma Ramotswe was examining her surroundings, taking in the details of the décor and watching the activity in the kitchen.
“It’s a very good idea to let people see what’s going on in the kitchen,” she said. “That will stop them becoming impatient while they are waiting for their food.”
“Exactly,” said Mma Makutsi. “They will like that.”
The waiter returned with the drinks.
“Here’s your sugar water,” he said dismissively as he put a glass down in front of Phuti Radiphuti.
Phuti’s politeness prevailed over the waiter’s surliness. “Thank you, Rra,” he said.
Mma Makutsi bristled. “You do know who we are?” she muttered.
The waiter glanced at her. “You’re that woman,” he said.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m that woman.”
A few minutes later the food arrived. It was preceded by its aroma—a delicious waft of beef and gravy that would gladden the heart, thought Mma Ramotswe, of any citizen in Botswana. Cattle—and beef—were at the heart of the culture, and she imagined what her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, would have made of the sight of the large steak on the plate before her, surrounded by its steaming vegetables and pool of sauce and gravy.
Mma Makutsi felt a mixture of pleas
ure and pride—pleasure at the anticipation of the succulent steak; pride at the thought that she had chosen a chef who could so engage the senses. She leaned forward slightly to savour more fully the delightful smell arising from the plate of food, and it was at this point that she heard the small voice from below.
I wouldn’t touch that, Boss!
She froze where she was, her head tilted forward above the plate, furtively glancing at Mma Ramotswe beside her at the table. Had she heard anything? There was no reaction from her friend, who was gazing at her own plate with undisguised delight.
It’s a word of warning, Boss. You don’t have to listen to us, of course—you often don’t.
Mma Makutsi caught her breath. She leaned back and looked down at her shoes. She had changed out of the blue open-toed pair and was now wearing a pair of red shoes with white cloth rosettes on the toes. In the centre of each rosette was a small glass button that now looked upwards, for all the world like an eye upon her. On the side of each shoe was a diamante clasp. It was one of her best pairs, if not her very best, and she had only worn them a couple of times before. This occasion, she had decided, was sufficiently auspicious to justify taking them out of the drawer they shared with the special shoes that she wore to weddings and funerals.
These shoes had never said anything to her before. The shoes that seemed to speak were those who did the most work—the everyday, working shoes that had what she considered to be something of an old-fashioned union mentality: they were quick to complain about the slightest inconvenience, highly sensitive to questions of status, and quick to remind her of the rights of footwear. Her more formal shoes spoke less frequently, and tended to make comments that were obscure or highly allusive and not at all complaining. Perhaps these new shoes had picked up bad ways from the everyday shoes—had learned to make the sort of streetwise, cheeky remarks that working shoes made.
Don’t say we didn’t warn you, Boss! continued the high-pitched voice from below. This sauce is made of lies. That’s all we’ve got to say, Boss. That’s it.
She looked about her. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had already sliced off a piece of meat and had it on his fork. Phuti Radiphuti’s mouth was already full and he was rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture of gastronomic pleasure.
Oh dear, Boss, came the tiny voice. Too late!
She tried to put the shoes out of her mind. Her shoes often said things that proved to be untrue, and if she started to heed everything they said, then life would become unduly difficult. No, she would enjoy the meal, just as everybody else seemed to be doing.
It did not take them long to finish as there was little conversation between mouthfuls. At the end, Fanwell sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “I would like to eat in this restaurant every day,” he said to Mma Makutsi. “This is really good, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Fanwell.”
Mma Ramotswe suggested that the chef be called over to their table. “We must thank him properly,” she said.
Thomas came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a piece of paper towel. “Everything met with your approval?”
Phuti took it upon himself to be the spokesman. “Very much so,” he said. “That was first class, Rra.”
“Good,” said Thomas.
“May I ask where you are from, Rra?” said Mma Ramotswe. As she posed the question, Mma Makutsi glanced at her anxiously.
Thomas shrugged. “Where is any of us from?” he said. “We start this life as little, little children, and we are always running around. Here, there, everywhere. Then we get bigger and we are still looking for the right place for us in the world. Later on, we ask ourselves: Where am I going?”
“That’s very interesting, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But where are you actually from? Where is your village?”
Thomas crumpled up the piece of kitchen towel and tucked it into the pocket of his apron. “My village is the world,” he said. “That is where my heart is—in the world.”
“But where in the world?” persisted Mma Ramotswe. “The world is a big place, and most of us have one small place in that big place. That is where we are from, I think.”
Mma Makutsi now tried to change the subject. “I am from Bobonong myself,” she said. “And I am proud of that place, even if it is far away from everywhere. But this meal, Rra, was so good! I think people will be lining up to eat here.”
“I hope so,” said Phuti.
Thomas smiled and returned to the kitchen—with relief, mused Mma Ramotswe, as she watched him go.
“To think that he produced that meal all by himself,” said Phuti. “Sometimes it seems as if these chefs must have ten or twelve hands to keep all the pots and pans going at the same time.”
“But he’s got a person helping him,” said Fanwell. “I thought I saw a woman,” he explained. “There was a woman back there when we came in. Then she went out.”
“Was there?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“No, there wasn’t anyone,” said Mma Makutsi.
There was, came a small, almost inaudible voice from below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TINY POINTS OF LIGHT
HOUSEHOLDS DO NOT RUN THEMSELVES, Mma Ramotswe had often observed: there is shopping, cleaning, repairing, and organising to do—and all of these, for some reason, seemed to be the responsibility of women, or almost always.
She thought that only one of these functions could not be described as a chore. No matter how much one tried to take a positive view of cleaning—no matter how frequently one told oneself that sweeping and dusting had their moments, it was difficult to see the whole business as anything but a use of time that could be more profitably and enjoyably spent doing something more satisfying. Even organising, which sounded as if it could be interesting, was really all about telling other members of the household what to do, checking up to see that they had done it, and asking them to do it when it transpired—as it usually did—that they had not got round to doing it yet. No, shopping really was the sole item in the positive column of these household accounts.
Mma Ramotswe liked to do her shopping weekly, usually on a Friday afternoon. She knew that this was far from being the best day to pay a visit to the supermarket, as it was inevitably full of people buying provisions for the weekend. When a Friday coincided with the end of the month, and therefore with payday, the supermarket was even more crowded—this time with people whose kitchen cupboards had grown empty as money ran out. It was not hard to spot these people as they tended to help themselves to snacks from the contents of their trollies as they went around, to compensate for the short rations of the previous few days. That was perfectly all right, she felt, as long as the food from which they took these advance helpings was already measured and priced for the cashier. All that was happening there was that people were eating food that they were going to pay for anyway.
But this was not always so, and there were those who ate without paying. Mma Ramotswe had witnessed one particularly bad case only a few weeks earlier. She had been in the fruit and vegetable section of the supermarket when a woman—traditionally built, as Mma Ramotswe herself was—had come into sight, pushing a trolley and surrounded by five young children. This woman had stopped, looked over her shoulder, and then whispered instructions to her charges. The children waited for a moment or two and then fanned out across the supermarket floor, grabbing pieces of fruit from the counters and stuffing them into their mouths. They were, Mma Ramotswe thought, rather like a swarm of locusts descending on the land, picking the best of what they saw, munching hungrily as they marched across the landscape.
Almost too shocked to speak, she had stood there with her mouth agape at the sheer effrontery of the behaviour on display. When she eventually recovered, she called out to the woman, now only a few yards away from her, “Excuse me, Mma. Excuse me.”
The woman looked up, as if surprised to be addressed. “Yes,
Mma? What is your problem?”
“Problem? I have no problem,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have a problem, Mma.”
The woman had stared at her with undisguised irritation. “Why do you say I have a problem, Mma? I have no problem that I can see. If there are any problems, they must be your problems, not mine.”
Mma Ramotswe pointed at two of the youngsters, one of whom was halfway through a banana while the other gnawed at a large apple. “Your children, Mma, are eating the fruit.”
“So,” said the woman. “So, they are eating fruit. That is good for them, is it not? Does the government not say, Eat lots of fruit and you will be very healthy? Do they not say that, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe marvelled at the woman’s brazenness. “But the government doesn’t tell you to eat other people’s fruit.”
The woman’s irritation increased. “This fruit does not belong to anybody yet. It has not been bought. We are not taking fruit from anybody.” She paused before delivering her final shot. “So please mind your own business, Mma.”
With that, the woman had marshalled her brood of children—some still with their mouths full—and drifted away in the direction of the bread counter. Mma Ramotswe had stood quite still, hardly able to believe what she had seen. Mind her own business? But it was her business. When other people behaved dishonestly it was the business of others, because if we did not react to the bad behaviour of others, then we weakened the whole of society, and that was definitely part of everybody’s business.
She hesitated. There is an inbuilt human reluctance to inform on other people; nobody likes to be thought of as a sneak, as somebody who runs to the authorities. And yet it was her duty, she felt, to warn the store that this woman and her little band of locusts were eating food that did not belong to them. So she went to one of the desks and told the young woman there what was happening. “Now they have gone to the bread counter,” she said. “They will be helping themselves there too, unless you stop them.”
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