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

  ‘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.

  ‘You can bring him to see me, Rra?’ she asked.

  Mr Disang nodded. ‘There will be no problem with that. Today, tomorrow – whenever you want to see him, I will bring him for an interview. You will be very pleased with him.’

  ‘What is his name, Rra?’

  She noticed that Mr Disang looked away.

  ‘Well, Rra: what is he called?’

  Mr Disang cleared his throat. ‘He is called Thomas.’

  ‘Thomas what, Rra?’

  This was greeted by a long silence. Then Mma Makutsi said, ‘Thomas what, Rra? People are not just called Thomas – unless they are in the Bible.’

  Mr Disang laughed nervously. ‘Oh, that is very funny, Mma. People in the Bible have only one name – that is quite true. They are not called Makutsi or Ramotswe…’

  ‘Or Disang,’ supplied Mma Makutsi.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Disang. ‘There are no Disangs in the Bible.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Mma Makutsi. ‘What is his family name, Rra? Thomas what?’

  Mr Disang fingered his tie. ‘I am not quite sure, Mma. I don’t think he uses one.’ He suddenly brightened, as if an idea had occurred to him. ‘No, that’s right. He’s one of these people who don’t really use a family name any more. I believe they feel that it’s old-fashioned.’

  Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. ‘Old-fashioned? What’s old-fashioned about having a family name? Maybe they think it’s old-fashioned to have family at all – these people who have no family name. They’re everywhere, it seems. Pah!’

  Mr Disang had not expected quite so spirited a res
ponse. ‘Don’t blame me, Mma. I always use my family name, as you know, but these chefs are very… very creative people. They have creative views.’

  Mma Makutsi was not convinced. ‘I think he may be one of these people with an embarrassing name. You come across them, you know. I came across somebody the other day whose first name was Voetsek. Can you imagine being called that?’ Voetsek was the word widely used in southern Africa to tell people to go away. It was a very abrupt, dismissive word.

  Mr Disang said he thought that was cruel. ‘What are parents thinking of when they call a child something like that?’

  Mma Makutsi took the view that they were not thinking at all. ‘Many people do not think,’ she observed. ‘They get up in the morning and there is nothing in their heads – nothing. It is a big problem.’

  ‘But we must soldier on,’ said Mr Disang. ‘Those of us who are always thinking must bear the burden for them.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes it is very hard, Mma – very hard.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Can you ask this Thomas Nobody to come and see me tomorrow?’

  Mr Disang beamed with pleasure. ‘I can do that, Mma. And he will cook something for you so that you can see how good he is.’

  The offer reassured her. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, she thought. And then she tried to remember where she had come across that saying before; was it something that Clovis Andersen had said in The Principles of Private Detection? It certainly had the Andersen ring to it. All cats are grey in the dark, he had written in one chapter. So remember that how much you can see of a situation depends on how much light you can shine upon it. Well, that was clearly true, just as she felt that the proof of the pudding was in the eating, especially when it came to the appointment of a chef. She smiled at the thought. She might ask this Thomas Whoever to make her a pudding at his interview and then she could test it right there and then and say, The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Of course, the chef might not see the humour, but then Mma Makutsi felt that men often failed to grasp these finer points until they were explained to them. That was not to think less of men, of course – it was simply the way things were.

  Chapter Six

  I Am Not Rude Any More

  Mma Ramotswe had been aware of the fact that something was preying on Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s mind. It was not that anything out of the ordinary had been said: their conversation recently had been much as it usually was – mostly concerned with day-to-day things: the doings of the two foster children, the prospects for the beans in his special vegetable patch, the need to get a decorator to brighten up the paintwork on the veranda, as it was six years since it had last been painted. This was the stuff of ordinary existence; small matters, yes, but the ones that all married couples talked about, and that provided, at least for most people, a sufficient list of conversational topics.

  She understood, of course, that spouses could not share absolutely everything. Just as she needed to have time to herself to think about womanly things, so too did Mr J. L. B. Matekoni need to be able to ponder the things that men ponder. She knew that there were women who did not like the idea of their husbands thinking about things without their permission, but she was definitely not such a person. She had known somebody like that – a woman who lived in Mochudi who was married to a rather harassed-looking man. Mma Ramotswe had learned from a mutual friend that this woman made a point of knowing exactly where her husband was at any time, whom he was talking to, and everything that he said and was said to him. She insisted on collecting the mail from their post-box so that she could open any letters addressed to him – and reply on his behalf if needs be. Eventually it had all been too much for him and he had simply run away, not with any real idea as to where he was heading, but running as fast as his oppressed legs would carry him on the road into Gaborone. His wife had pursued him in her car and had eventually brought him down in what appeared to be a very competent rugby tackle, right in front of an astonished group of schoolchildren who were travelling into Gaborone on a school outing.

  She had told this story to Mma Makutsi, who had shaken her head and announced that in her view that was no way to run a marriage.

  ‘It is quite understandable for a woman to keep an eye on her husband,’ said Mma Makutsi, ‘but she should not make him feel that he is a prisoner. Men need to be given air. They need to feel that they are free…’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘… even if they are not really free,’ continued Mma Makutsi. ‘It is called the illusion of freedom.’

  Mma Ramotswe was impressed with the term, but thought that she would express it somewhat differently. ‘Or kindness to men,’ she ventured. ‘It is kindness to men not to sit on them too much.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Mma Makutsi, suppressing a smile at the thought of Mma Ramotswe sitting on Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. He would find it difficult to breathe, she felt, and the consequences could be serious. It was indeed true that men needed air.

  In spite of this recognition of the masculine need for space, Mma Ramotswe felt that in the case of Mr J. L. B. Matekoni it was necessary to be watchful for any signs of moodiness or preoccupation on his part. Some years earlier, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had suffered a bout of depression. He had fully recovered, but she had been warned by Dr Moffat to keep an eye out for recurring symptoms. ‘If he becomes withdrawn or indecisive,’ the doctor had said, ‘this could be a warning that the depression is coming back. Be aware.’

  So far there had been no such signs, and she had assumed that the pills he had been prescribed had not only dealt with that bout of the illness but also warded off any recurrence. However, as she noticed him sitting in his chair with a fixed, rather worried expression on his face, she wondered whether it was time to make an enquiry. She had waited for her opportunity, which now presented itself, a couple of days after Mma Makutsi had assumed occupation of her restaurant premises.

  They had finished their dinner and Mma Ramotswe had settled the children in their rooms for the night. Motholeli was now being given more homework, and was busying herself with that at the new desk they had recently installed in her bedroom. Puso, who had tired himself out in a game of football, had fallen asleep even before Mma Ramotswe had turned out his light. She had tucked him in, smoothed the sheets about him, and then stood for a moment gazing fondly at the young boy’s head upon the pillow. She imagined the world of dreams through which he now tumbled – a world of strange and heroic games of football, of bicycles and model cars, of boyish schemes and pranks. She smiled at the thought. We are all sent the dreams we yearn for, she thought; no matter how unhappy or fraught our waking world may be, we are sent dreams in which we can do the things the heart really wants us to do.

  Returning to the living room, she found Mr J. L. B. Matekoni sitting with his head in his hands. This was her chance: if one sat with one’s head in one’s hands, it was tantamount to a declaration that something was wrong.

  ‘Are you worried about something?’ she asked. As she spoke, she moved to the side of his chair and laid a hand gently upon his shoulder.

  He looked up. For a few moments he said nothing, but then he began to speak. ‘I am feeling very sad, Precious. Very sad.’

  She caught her breath. He addressed her as Precious only at times of great moment.

  ‘Oh Rra, that is very bad. We can telephone Dr Moffat…’

  ‘No. No. It is not that sort of sadness.’

  She waited for him to continue.

  ‘It is because of something that I have to do.’

  She frowned. It was a worrying thing to hear. Was he proposing to… She hardly dared think it. Did he have some dreadful confession to make? Was he going to tell her that he was having an affair? It was the worst thing that any husband had to do – to tell his wife that he had found somebody else. But Mr J. L. B. Matekoni would never do anything like that; he would never go off with another woman, because he was… because he was Mr J. L. B. Matekoni – that’s
why. It was inconceivable.

  ‘What is this thing, Rra?’ she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.

  But he heard. ‘It’s Charlie.’

  She felt a flood of relief. Charlie, the apprentice who had consistently failed his examinations, was always getting into trouble of one sort or another.

  She sighed. ‘What has Charlie done now? More girl trouble?’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni shook his head. ‘I wish it was, Mma. No, it’s more serious than that.’

  In Mma Ramotswe’s mind that could mean only one thing. ‘Police trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘I’m going to have to lay him off. I’m going to have to fire him.’

  Mma Ramotswe sighed again. She was aware that Charlie’s work was often unsatisfactory; that he was rough and impatient with engines and that he sometimes broke parts by forcing them. If Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had simply run out of patience with the young mechanic, then she would not be unduly surprised. ‘What has he done now?’