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

  ‘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 speak 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?’

  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.�
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  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

  Mma Makutsi’s lawyer was a small man, a wearer of horn-rimmed 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 wa
y. ‘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.’