The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café Read online

  Mrs. shook her head. “I do not know where Swaziland is,” she said quietly.

  “But you do know where South Africa is? And America—do you know where America is?”

  Mrs. looked helplessly at Miss Rose, who glanced disapprovingly at Mma Makutsi. “Please, Mma. This poor lady is embarrassed about what has happened to her memory. We must not confuse her. Please.”

  Mma Ramotswe realised that she would have to intervene, but before she could do so Mma Makutsi started to speak again. “I am not confusing her, Mma. I am trying to help her. Did you know you were in Botswana? Did you know where Botswana was?”

  Mrs. remained silent and now it was Mma Ramotswe who spoke. “I think, Mma Makutsi, that Miss Rose is right. We must not upset this poor lady with questions about the capital city of Swaziland.” She paused, looking pointedly in Mma Makutsi’s direction. “I think that there are many people who do not know what the capital city of Swaziland is. I could go out there in the street and ask people, and I am sure that many of them would not know.”

  Mma Makutsi interrupted her. “But they would know where America is. They would know that, Mma.”

  “That’s not the point, Mma Makutsi. The point is that this poor lady has lost some of the things that she knew but remembered some others. It seems to me that the things she has forgotten are the things about herself, while the things that she has remembered are the things that have nothing to do with her. That is perhaps the way this strange condition works.”

  “Precisely,” said Miss Rose, glowering at Mma Makutsi. “The brain is a very complex thing, Mma. If you look at a picture of it, you will see all those ridges. It is like a loaf of bread that has come out of the oven very uneven. All those bumps going up and down.”

  “I have seen a picture too,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

  “Well,” continued Miss Rose, “those ridges, those bumps, are the different departments of the brain. Different matters are stored in different places. There is one section for facts and another section for feelings. There is probably a special section for love—I do not know, as I am not a brain scientist. But I am sure that there is a bit that makes you fall in love. And out of love too. I am sure there is also a department for that.”

  “And for recipes,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Recipes have to go somewhere.”

  Miss Rose agreed. “That would be in the part that deals with facts,” she said. She started to smile. “You do not find that recipe part in men’s brains, I think. Or it is not very big in a man’s brain.”

  “Nor is the bit for helping around the house,” offered Mrs., grinning nervously.

  It was the first time they had seen her smile, and Mma Ramotswe responded warmly. “Oh, that is very true, Mma. Poor men. No, you are very right about that, Mma.”

  The tension that had grown up around the discussion of the capital of Swaziland seemed to dissipate. The maid, a young woman barely out of her teens, brought in a tray and laid it down on the table.

  “You have forgotten the sugar,” said Miss Rose crossly. “Go and fetch it now now.”

  The maid scurried out of the room, Mma Ramotswe’s eyes following her.

  “That girl,” said Miss Rose as she began to pour the tea. “That girl is always forgetting things.”

  “Perhaps it’s catching,” said Mma Makutsi with a smirk.

  Miss Rose put down the teapot and looked at Mma Ramotswe. “As long as tactlessness isn’t catching too,” she said. “That would not be a good thing, would it?”

  Mma Ramotswe forced herself to smile. “Well, here is the tea, then. I am sure that it will be very good. And then I think we shall have to get back to the office. Mma Makutsi and I have correspondence to catch up on—it is always such a chore, but we have to do it.”

  The maid returned with the sugar and the tea was served. Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mrs. took two spoonfuls and stirred them in vigorously. How did one remember that one took sugar, or were there some things that the body knew? Did those things—and perhaps things of the heart—survive the loss of memory, so that part of you, at least, was still there?

  Over tea they talked about other matters. A neighbour’s dog had bitten a child and Miss Rose spoke at length about that. Then there was some discussion about the water pipeline to the north and a sale of work that had taken place at Riverwalk. Nothing was said about loss of memory or the identity of Mrs. It was, thought Mma Ramotswe, one of those gatherings where there is a topic that must not be discussed, but which sits sullenly in the corner.

  Just as their conversation was winding down, Mr. Sengupta appeared in the doorway and came to join them.

  “I heard voices,” he said. “And I thought that I knew who one of them was.” He smiled at Mma Ramotswe, who returned his friendly gesture.

  Miss Rose explained that her brother often worked at home. “He has an office here in the house,” she said. “He is always working, working, working. Even in the middle of the night you see him in his office—in his pyjamas.”

  Mr. Sengupta laughed. “Sometimes I am asleep at my desk. It looks as if I’m working, but I am actually sleeping.”

  Miss Rose now stood up. “We should allow our guests to leave,” she said. “They will have many other things to do.”

  Mrs. stood up too. Mr. Sengupta glanced in her direction. “I hope these ladies will be able to help you,” he said. “They are the best detectives in the country, I believe.”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Mrs. “And I am appreciative of their efforts. If only I could get my memory back …”

  She crossed the room to stand next to Mr. Sengupta.

  “So, ladies,” said Miss Rose. “We shall wait for your findings.”

  As Miss Rose said this, Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mrs. had half turned towards Mr. Sengupta and was peering at the left shoulder of the blazer he was wearing. Then she suddenly brushed at the shoulder, as if removing a tiny piece of fluff. He barely took any notice of this and continued to look at Mma Ramotswe in a slightly bemused way.

  As they made their way towards the door, Mma Ramotswe promised to be in touch when further lines of enquiry had been worked out.

  “I hope that you will discover something,” said Miss Rose. “Mrs. is very keen to find out who she is so that she can go back to her own home and her own people.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded reassuringly. She had no idea, though, how they could possibly proceed in this case. But she wanted to try, because she had taken to Mrs., and could imagine how terrible it must be to find yourself cast adrift in the world, not knowing who you are or where you are, but aware that there must be people who are missing you and wanting you home.

  As they drove back to the office she did not take Mma Makutsi to task. There was no point in that, as there would only be an argument. So she said nothing until Mma Makutsi herself spoke.

  “Swaziland,” said Mma Makutsi. “The capital city is Mbabane, isn’t it?”

  “I believe it is,” said Mma Ramotswe. But she did not wish to discuss Swaziland, or its capital. What she wanted to talk about was what she had seen.

  “Did you notice something, Mma?” she asked. “When Mrs. was standing next to Mr. Sengupta back there, she brushed a piece of fluff off the shoulder of his blazer.”

  “I did not see that,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I don’t see why that should be important.”

  Mma Ramotswe wanted to ask: What does Clovis Andersen say? What does he write about observing the little, apparently unimportant things?

  “It might tell us something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It might tell us that Mr. Sengupta and Mrs. know one another quite well.”

  “Well, she is staying with them, after all,” pointed out Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes, I know,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But don’t you think you only take fluff off the shoulders of somebody you have known for some time?”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi. “I don’t think that, Mma.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MEN OFTEN FAIL TO TAKE FINER POINTS<
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  MMA MAKUTSI’S LAWYER was a small man, a wearer of hornrimmed spectacles and a carrier of a neat leather attaché case with the initials KD on the flap: Karabo Disang. She was already standing outside her newly acquired premises when he drove up and parked under one of the several acacia trees that dotted the yard surrounding the building.

  “Well, Mma Makutsi,” Karabo Disang said briskly, in his rather loud voice. “Here you are in front of your new domain.” He waved a hand towards the building. “The subjects of your lease, as we lawyers call it.”

  “I’m very pleased, Rra,” she said. “It’s a very important moment for me.” She looked at him expectantly. “You have the keys, Rra?”

  The lawyer smiled as he flipped open the attaché case. Pulling out a bunch of keys, he dangled them ceremoniously before handing them over to Mma Makutsi. “I hope I’ve brought the right ones,” he said dryly. “My office is full of keys, as I’m sure you will understand.”

  The keys bore no label, which offended Mma Makutsi’s secretarial soul. One of the first things they had been taught at the Botswana Secretarial College was to attach labels to things. “Never forget,” said the lecturer, “that things themselves have no idea what they are. A file cannot tell you what is in it.” This witticism was greeted with laughter. “So label it, ladies! One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future.”

  And Mma Makutsi, sitting in the front row and thrilled to be at college at last, had written on the first page of her virginal notebook: One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future. And here was a lawyer—of all people—failing to label a client’s keys.

  “It might be an idea to tie a tag to your keys, Rra,” she suggested. “You know those brown tags with little pieces of string attached to them? You know those ones?”

  The lawyer frowned. “I am too busy for such things, Mma. That is a secretary’s work.”

  Mma Makutsi stared at him. She reached out, almost reluctantly, to take the proffered keys.

  “We lawyers are very busy,” he went on. “We have to charge our time, you see. And if we sat about tying tags to keys, how could we charge that? You would have to work out whose key was which and then charge for that small amount of time that you spent tying a tag to it. It would be complex, Mma.” He looked at her, as if to ascertain whether his point was understood.

  Mma Makutsi’s eyes narrowed. “So secretaries are only for unimportant work? Is that your view, Rra?”

  Mr. Disang smelled danger. “Oh no, Mma. I would never say that. They are very important people. Without my secretary, do you know where I would be, Mma?”

  She held him in her gaze. “Where is that, Rra?”

  “Nowhere, Mma,” said Mr. Disang, grinning in an ingratiating way. “She is the one who makes sure that everything runs smoothly. She is vital.” He swallowed. “In every respect, Mma. In every respect.”

  Mma Makutsi gestured to the building and began to walk towards it. “Should we inspect it, Rra?”

  He was relieved to be in less contentious territory. “That is exactly what we should do, Mma. We should have a quick inspection—so that I can get back to the office and stop charging you.”

  She stopped. There was silence apart from the chorus of cicadas. “You’re charging me now, Rra? For this visit? For talking about putting tags on keys?”

  Mr. Disang gripped his attaché case more tightly. “Oh no, Mma. That was careless of me. I wasn’t thinking, you see. There is no charge for this visit. Not a single pula, Mma. Not one.”

  “That’s very good,” said Mma Makutsi. “It wouldn’t seem right to pay for a conversation about tags and keys and so on. Nor for a quick walk about a building—or subjects, shall I say?” She paused. “Not after I have paid so much for the drawing up of a lease.”

  He was quick to agree. “Of course not, Mma.”

  The building’s last use had been as a shop, and when they entered they saw that the previous tenant had left not only the shop fittings but some of the stock as well. The premises had been used by a firm of outfitters for both men and women, and in some of the display cases there was still the occasional blouse or belt. Most of the drawers had been cleared out, but in one there was a tangle of garish ties and three odd socks.

  “The tenant should have removed all this rubbish,” said Mr. Disang disapprovingly. “People!”

  Mma Makutsi agreed. “Yes,” she said. “There are some people who are very sloppy. They just don’t care, do they, Rra?”

  “They do not,” said Mr. Disang vehemently. “They are useless rubbish, these untidy people. They go about the country making it untidy and expecting other people to clear up behind them.”

  In spite of her earlier disapproval, Mma Makutsi found herself warming to Karabo Disang. She had strong views on litter and general sloppiness, and she was pleased to discover that these were shared. Some people, she knew, were unbothered by these matters and merely shrugged their shoulders. These were people for whom it was presumably not an affront that there should be discarded beer bottles and plastic bags lying about on the edge of the road, blown by the wind into small piles, caught on the wire of cattle fences. Well, if they had their way the country would soon be covered with rubbish; so much so, she imagined, that it would disappear altogether. People would say, “There used to be a Botswana somewhere around here, but we just can’t find it now—it seems to have disappeared.” Hah! That would teach those who were unexercised about litter. There should be an anti-litter political party, she decided. It would campaign on a no-litter platform, with a promise that anybody who threw things down on the ground would be forced to spend their weekend clearing up. That would soon stop that. But the party would have to print leaflets to explain its policies to the voters, and everybody knew what one did with political leaflets—one threw them away, and that—

  Her train of thought was interrupted by Mr. Disang clearing his throat.

  “You are hoping to make this place into a restaurant, Mma,” he said. He spoke tentatively—respectfully—as he realised that Mma Makutsi was no ordinary client. One could condescend to ordinary clients, but there was a certain sort of lady to whom one did not condescend, and this was one of them.

  “That is my plan, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi rather absently, looking up at the ceiling now. The lights were still there but would have to be replaced, she felt, by something more in keeping with the ambience she had in mind for her restaurant.

  “That is very good,” said Mr. Disang. “I am sure that it will be a very popular restaurant.” He paused. “Of course, if one is running a restaurant, one needs somebody to cook. That is very important.”

  Mma Makutsi glanced at him. “Obviously, Rra,” she said. “If there is nobody to cook, then there will be no food. I don’t think there’s much point in having a restaurant with nothing on the menu.”

  Mr. Disang laughed. “It would be very easy to choose, though. I always find it difficult to make up my mind when I go to a restaurant and I see a whole page of choices. How can you decide in such circumstances? Imagine if you’re sitting down for your breakfast and your wife gives you a long list of things you can eat. Imagine that, Mma. What would you do?”

  “Or it could be the wife sitting down and the husband giving her the menu,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “I believe there are some husbands who cook for their wives. I have heard of these people …” She left the remark unfinished, demonstrating through the look she gave Mr. Disang that she certainly did not think he fell into this category.

  Mr. Disang laughed again, but more nervously now. “Of course, Mma, of course.” He hesitated. “But, as I was saying, you will need a cook, I think.”

  “They call them chefs,” said Mma Makutsi. “A cook is any old cook; a chef is much more special.”

  “That is very true,” said Mr. Disang. “They are very talented people, these chefs.”

  Mma Makutsi started to cross to the other side of the room. Mr. Disang followed her.

>   “I was thinking that I might be able to help you,” he said. “If you are going to look for a chef, then I think I know one who might be interested in the job. He is a famous chef, I think. He is very good.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at her lawyer. She noticed that there were small beads of perspiration on his brow. He must be one of those people who sweat easily, she thought. “Who is this chef?” she asked.

  “I know him quite well,” said Mr. Disang. “He is a person I see from time to time. He is probably the best chef in Botswana—or so I’ve heard people say.”

  Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. “But if he is such a famous chef, then why would he want to come and work for me?” she asked. In business matters she tended to optimism, but she was realistic too. “If you’re a famous chef, then surely you’re very busy cooking at those big hotels. The Sun. The Grand Palm. They are the places where all the famous chefs go.”

  Mr. Disang seemed unworried by the objection. “There are chefs who have done all that,” he said dismissively. “They have worked in all those big places and then they think: I need a new challenge. That is what they think, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi stared at him appraisingly. He noticed, and his confidence seemed to grow visibly. “I can arrange for you to see him, Mma,” he pressed. “Think about it: you’ll have no need to worry about finding a chef for your new restaurant. All that will be fixed up.”

  She hesitated, and sensing her hesitation, he continued: “You know it makes sense, Mma.”

  She gazed out of the window into the yard outside. The previous occupants had left that in a messy state too: there were old barrels, an untidy pile of firewood, the chassis of an ancient car like a skeleton long since stripped of its clothing of flesh. There was much to do: tidying the place up; and then there would be the decoration; and the fitting out of the kitchen. If a chef were to be identified at this stage, then that at least would be one thing less on the list of things to be done.