The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café Read online

  “So,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What have we today, Mma Makutsi?”

  “We have tea to begin with,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “That is very good.”

  “And then … well, we have nothing, as far as I can see, Mma.” Mma Makutsi paused. “Unless, of course, something turns up. And it might. Sometimes there is nothing at eight o’clock and then at ten o’clock there is something.”

  “I have a feeling there’ll be something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “When I was in my garden this morning I had a feeling about that.”

  Mma Makutsi, looking down at the surface of her desk, moved a pencil from one place to another. “Yes,” she said pensively. “There might be something. Later on.”

  “You think so, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi waited some time before answering. Then at last she said, “I am expecting some news, Mma. It might come today.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew better than to ask exactly what this news might be. Mma Makutsi sometimes liked to shroud her affairs in mystery, and did not always respond well to direct questioning. So she simply said, “I hope that you get your news, Mma.”

  “Thank you, Mma. When you are waiting for news, it is better to get it. It is not easy not to get news that you’re waiting for. Then you think: What has happened about the thing that I’m waiting to hear about? Has it happened, or has it not happened?” Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe as she made these remarks. The light caught her large glasses and danced, in shards of gold, across the ceiling.

  “And if you don’t hear anything,” she continued, “then you can spend the whole day worrying about it.”

  “This news of yours,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to sound as if the matter under discussion was barely of any interest at all, “will it come in a letter, or …”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi, shaking her head. “It will not be in a letter.”

  “Or a telephone call?”

  “Yes, it will be a telephone call. It will be a telephone call from my lawyer.”

  This could hardly be ignored. “Your lawyer, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi waved a hand with the air of one who is accustomed to having a lawyer. Of course she might have a lawyer now, thought Mma Ramotswe, but she would not have had one all that long ago. Yet she did not begrudge Mma Makutsi the satisfaction of having a lawyer after having lived so many years without one, even if she had no lawyer herself, now that she came to think of it.

  “It is nothing very important, Mma Ramotswe. Just a little …”

  Mma Ramotswe waited.

  “A little personal matter.”

  “I see.”

  Mma Makutsi rose from her desk. “But we should not be talking about these things. We should perhaps be going over that business plan I drew up, Mma.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The business plan.”

  Mma Makutsi had drawn up a business plan when she had seen one that Phuti Radiphuti had prepared for the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Of course the two businesses were as chalk and cheese in terms of turnover and profit, but Phuti had told her that every concern should have a plan and she had volunteered to do the necessary work.

  Mma Ramotswe took the sheet of paper passed to her by Mma Makutsi. The heading at the top read The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency: Challenges Ahead and Options for the Future.

  “That is a very good title,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Challenges and options. I think you are right to mention those, Mma: they are both there.”

  Back in her seat, Mma Makutsi accepted the compliment gracefully. “It is forward-looking, Mma. You’ll have noticed that.”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced down the page. “And there is this paragraph here that talks about enhanced profit. That is good, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi inclined her head. “That is the objective of every business, Mma. Enhanced profit is what counts. If we were a company, that would drive the share price up.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, knowing even as she spoke that she sounded rather vague. She had no head for finance, especially when it came to companies and share prices and so on, although she understood the basics and was particularly good at counting. This she had learned from her father, who had been able to count a herd of cattle with astonishing accuracy, even as the animals moved around and mingled with one another. She frowned. Enhanced profit had to come from somewhere. “But where do these bigger profits come from, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi answered with authority. “They come from greater turnover, Mma. That is where profits come from: turnover.”

  Mma Ramotswe muttered the words greater turnover. There was a comforting, mantra-like ring to them, yes, but …“Turnover is the same thing as fees?” she asked.

  “It is,” said Mma Makutsi. “Turnover is money going through the books.” She made a curious gesture with her right hand, representing, Mma Ramotswe assumed, the progress of money through the books. It all looked so effortless, but Mma Ramotswe was not convinced.

  “More money going through the books, Mma Makutsi, must mean …” She hesitated. “More fees?”

  “Yes. In a sense.”

  “In a sense?”

  “Yes.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked down at the business plan. “So, unless I misunderstand all this, Mma, more fees means more clients, or, I suppose, higher charges to the clients we already have.”

  Mma Makutsi stared at her. Her large glasses, thought Mma Ramotswe, reflected the world back at itself. People looked at Mma Makutsi and saw themselves.

  “You could say that,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is one way of putting it.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s tone was gentle. “And how are we going to get more clients, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to answer, but then closed it again. She shifted her head slightly, to look past Mma Ramotswe, through the window behind her.

  “There is one arriving right now,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe slipped the business plan into a drawer. The trouble with plans, she thought, was that they tended to be expressions of hope. Everybody, it seemed, felt that they should have a plan, but for most people the plan merely said what they would like to happen rather than what they would actually achieve. Most people did what they wanted to do, whether or not that was what their plan said they should do. So plans were useful only in revealing what people wished for. If you wanted to know what they would actually do, then the only way of finding out was by watching them and seeing what they did. Then you would know what they might do in the future—because most people did what they had always done. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was well known—in fact, it was one of the best-known things there was.

  “We can talk about plans some other time,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We would not want this client to think that we sit about making plans all the time.”

  Mma Makutsi felt rather relieved. She was aware that her business plan was optimistic, but she had found it difficult to write anything that took a bleak view. After all, what did it matter? The important thing was that they were perfectly all right as they were. She had Phuti Radiphuti and her baby and her new house. Mma Ramotswe had Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and her white van and Puso and Motholeli. She had her garden too, with her mopipi tree and the runner beans. And they both had the land about them; the sky that went on forever, it seemed, and was filled with sun and with the air that they all needed, that the cattle needed, that the animals in the Kalahari needed—there was plenty of that; they had Botswana. So everybody had the things that mattered, when you came to think of it, and if you had that, did you really need a business plan?

  Those were the thoughts in Mma Makutsi’s mind as she watched the car being parked beside Mma Ramotswe’s white van under the acacia tree. Two people got out—two clients, not one: as in the business plan.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PEOPLE WITH VERY LONG NOSES

  MMA MAKUTSI opened the door to their visitors.

  “Mr. and Mrs.…,” she announced, looking at them expectantly.

&
nbsp; The man shook his head. “Not Mr. and Mrs.,” he corrected. “Mr. and Miss.”

  Mma Makutsi was unembarrassed. “Then Mr. and Miss …?”

  The man shook his head again. “No, Mma. I am Mr. and this lady with me is my sister only. We do not have the same name because—”

  Mma Makutsi cut him short. “Because your sister is married? Of course, Rra. That must be the reason.”

  The man looked at Mma Ramotswe, who had now risen from her desk to greet them. A look of understanding passed between them—a look that said: we have both had over-zealous assistants—they mean well, of course, but have a lot to learn.

  Mma Ramotswe stepped forward. “I’m Mma Ramotswe,” she said, extending her hand. “And this lady is my assis—” She remembered barely in time. “My co-director.”

  The words slipped out. Technically, Mma Makutsi had become a partner in the business; had it been a company, she might have been a director, but it had never been incorporated—“hardly worth doing when the shares would be worth nothing,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s accountant, who, as a favour, did the accounts of the agency. Partner, though, had come to mean something else—as Mma Ramotswe had read in a magazine—and she felt a different word was needed. She knew that she could have called her a business partner, but that was cumbersome, almost pernickety, and Mma Makutsi was so much more than a business partner. She was the person who made the tea, who commented on the state of the world as they drank the tea she made, who answered the phone, did the filing, and kept the young mechanics in their place. It was a large role, one for which the term business partner simply seemed inadequate, but which seemed fully worthy of the label co-director.

  The compliment might well have slipped out unnoticed, but it did not. Mma Makutsi heard it and its effect was electric. She seemed to grow in stature, become a bit taller, and smile a bit more broadly.

  The man nodded at the introductions. “And my name is Sengupta,” he said. “And my sister …” He gestured to the woman beside him. “My sister’s good name is Chattopadhyay, which was the name of her late husband, my brother-in-law. It is a long name and so people call her Miss Rose, which is easier. That is not her real first name, but it is the one that people use. Just remember: red flower with thorns, and you will not forget her name.”

  There was something earnest about his manner that endeared him to Mma Ramotswe. She smiled encouragingly. “It is a fine name to have.” She had been discreetly studying their visitors and the memory she had been trying to locate had now surfaced. Sengupta Office Supplies—she had seen their advertisements in the newspaper. Paper clips, staples, copier paper …

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Sengupta.

  Mma Ramotswe looked surprised.

  “You mentioned paper clips,” he said.

  She had muttered the words without realising, as unintentionally as she had said co-director. It was a worrying prospect: if one started to say what one was thinking, the results could be very embarrassing. She might think, Oh, there goes Mma Makutsi again—sounding off about the usual things, and were she to say that, the consequences would be awkward. There would be all sorts of misunderstandings … or would they be misunderstandings at all? Truth would break out, rather like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and we would all understand one another perfectly well, because we would know what we thought of each other.

  “Paper clips?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh yes, paper clips. You’re the office supplies man, aren’t you, Rra?”

  Mr. Sengupta seemed proud that his business had been recognised. “That is exactly who I am, Mma.” He looked about the office. “Perhaps you use some of our items?”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “We do not,” she said. “We go to a company out near Broadhurst. They are—”

  Mma Ramotswe shot a glance in her assistant’s direction. “I have seen your catalogue, Rra,” she said quickly. “They are very fine products, I think.”

  “There is room for more than one company,” said Mr. Sengupta generously. “Competition in business is a good thing, I believe.”

  “It is very important,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “But you are the only detective agency in town,” went on Mr. Sengupta. “Unless there is some other outfit that I am unaware of. Perhaps it is in disguise.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “That is very funny, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. “They would be very good at disguises, but nobody would know they were there.”

  Mr. Sengupta’s response was touched with annoyance. “That is what I meant,” he said.

  Mma Ramotswe judged it was time to take control of the situation. “Please sit down, Mr. Sengupta … and Miss Rose.” She gestured to the two client chairs before her desk. The chairs had always been in that position—ever since they had moved into the office—although recently Mma Makutsi had shifted them so that they were at least half facing her desk as well. Mma Ramotswe had not approved of this, as she found it awkward talking to people side-on, and had returned them to their original position, facing her directly. But now, as the man and the woman sat down, she realised that there would be further chair issues: one could not have clients sitting with their backs to a co-director.

  Mma Makutsi was hovering behind them, and now offered the visitors tea. This offer was gratefully accepted by Miss Rose, who spoke for the first time. “I am very fond of tea,” she said. “I drink it all the time.”

  “It is very good for the digestion,” said Mr. Sengupta.

  “And for many other organs,” said Miss Rose. “It clears the head and the nasal passages.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tea does all of those things. And more, I believe. And yet people still drink coffee …”

  Mr. Sengupta started to shake his head. First it went from side to side, over one shoulder and then over the other, but then it started to move backwards and forwards. The signals confused Mma Ramotswe; she knew the Indian habit of moving the head from side to side meant the opposite of what it meant elsewhere and signified approval rather than disagreement, but she was not sure what a combination of movements meant. Perhaps there was something wrong with Mr. Sengupta; perhaps his head was loose.

  “I am in complete agreement with you, Mma,” he said. “There is too much coffee being drunk. It is a serious situation.” He paused. “But that is not the problem that I wanted to talk to you about. I am happy to talk about coffee some other time, but there is another thing that is preying on my mind.”

  “Then please tell me, Rra.”

  “I shall. But firstly, may I tell you about myself, Mma Ramotswe?”

  “And me too,” said Miss Rose.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll tell them about you, Rosie. But I shall be first because I am the one who is speaking, you see.”

  “DO YOU KNOW INDIA, Mma?”

  In the background, the kettle, supervised by Mma Makutsi, began to make sounds of readiness—a faint whistling, like the first stirrings of the wind.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Rra. There are many places in this world that I would like to see one day, and India is certainly one of them. It is high on my list.” As she spoke, Mma Ramotswe reflected on the fact that she had never really been anywhere much, apart from a couple of trips over the border into South Africa, and on another occasion north to Bulawayo. That made a total of two foreign countries, but she did not think of Botswana’s neighbours as being really very foreign. And as for the list, it was hardly an active one, as she suspected that she would never be able to get away, even if she could afford the fare, and somebody would have to take care of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and the children. And if Mma Makutsi were left in charge of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency there was always a risk that she would do something that would require sorting out later, co-director or not. Then there was another thing: even if India was on her list, there were other places that were higher up. There was Muncie, Indiana, to which Clovis Andersen, author of her vade mecum, The Principles of Private Detection, had given her an open invitation before he lef
t Botswana; and then there was London, which she would like to visit in order to see Prince Charles if at all possible, although she was realistic about that and realised that he could well be busy when she was there and unable to fit her in to talk about the things that she had read he liked to talk about. She would like it if they could exchange notes on gardening, and she could tell him about her success with runner beans and her mopipi tree, and the difficulties of growing things when the rains were achingly slow to arrive. He would understand all that, she thought, because he had been to Botswana and had gone out into the Kalahari and she could tell that he knew; and she could see that he was a good man.

  Mr. Sengupta was saying something about Calcutta. “My family is from Bengal, you see, Mma. Perhaps you know of Kolkata, which they used to call Calcutta. I still call it that because I cannot keep up with all the changes in the world. Change this, change that—who are these people who tell us we must always be changing, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Both he and Miss Rose looked at Mma Ramotswe enquiringly, as if the question were not rhetorical but demanded an answer. Mma Ramotswe was not sure what to say; she agreed with the general sentiment, though. “They are tiresome people, Rra,” she said. “You are right about that.”

  “But who are they?” repeated Mr. Sengupta.

  Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “They are people who write in the newspapers or talk on the radio. They are the people who keep telling us what to think and to say.”

  Mr. Sengupta leaned forward in his enthusiasm. “Exactly, Mma! Exactly! I do not ever remember any election in which I was asked to vote for people for the job—the job of telling others what they can say and what they can’t say. Do you remember that election?”

  Mma Makutsi had now made the tea and was passing a cup to Miss Rose. “There was no election like that,” she contributed. “These are people with very long noses, that is all.”