The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Makutsi frowned. “That is not all that much.”

  The man made a gesture of helplessness with his hands. “When you only have a handful of pula left over each month, if that, then three thousand pula seems like a lot.”

  Mma Makutsi knew, and she remembered how she had not even had a few hundred pula to spend each month, but still less; how sometimes she had had nothing at all left by the time payday arrived, and the last few days of the month had been days of scratching about for the few scraps left in the kitchen, of drinking tea without milk or sugar (and reusing the teabags), of walking rather than catching the minibus to work. She realised she should not have said that three thousand pula was not much; for many, it was a great deal of money. It was easy to forget things like that once your circumstances were more comfortable, as hers now were.

  She made up her mind. “Excuse me for a moment, Rra. I’ll come back. I need to talk to my husband over there.”

  “I will finish this window,” said the man. “I have to scrape the putty back a bit—just a little bit. Then the painter can paint everything.”

  While the glazier applied himself, Mma Makutsi crossed the room and drew Phuti aside.

  “Is everything all right, Grace? Are the windows—”

  She cut him short. “Yes, everything is fine. The glazier is doing a good job.”

  He looked at her expectantly. “So there are no problems?”

  “Not with the windows,” she said.

  “And everything else is going very well,” said Phuti. “I was talking to that carpenter and he said that—”

  Again she headed him off. “The glazier was telling me about his family. He has seven children, that man.”

  Phuti shrugged. “There are many big families. There is somebody in the store who says he has fifteen children.” He made a face. “Fifteen.”

  Mma Makutsi glanced across the room. The glazier was still bent over his work. “He has a daughter at the Botswana Secretarial College.”

  “Ah,” said Phuti. “You must have been pleased to hear that—and he must be a proud man.”

  “Yes, he is proud of her. But now she has to leave.”

  Phuti frowned. “She is being expelled?”

  “No, she is not being expelled.” As she spoke, Mma Makutsi tried to remember whether she had ever heard of anybody being expelled from the Botswana Secretarial College. She could not think of anybody to whom this had happened, although if she were to be asked to make a list of those who deserved such a fate, there was one name that led the rest: Violet Sephotho. Now there had been a thoroughly worthy candidate for expulsion, with her constant talking in class, her sniggering, her ostentatious painting of her nails while the lecturer in accountancy—a mousy man with little self-confidence—tried to explain the principles of double-entry book-keeping. Violet Sephotho had sat there and applied nail polish to show that she was somehow above such matters as double-entry book-keeping. How dare she! And who was the one person—the only one—who declined to contribute to the birthday cake they arranged for their shorthand tutor, by far the most popular member of staff? Violet Sephotho again, who said that she had better things to spend her money on than cakes for the staff. Mma Makutsi remembered her words, her very words: “They are all too fat anyway. They take our fees and spend it on fat cakes and things like that.” It was such a calumny, but nobody had sprung to the defence of the lecturers apart from Mma Makutsi herself. She had protested that Violet had no evidence for such an accusation, only to be laughed at by Violet with the taunt, “And what do you know? What does anybody from Bobonong know about these things? You haven’t even been to Johannesburg.”

  It was a cutting remark, all the more wounding because it was true. Mma Makutsi had never been to Johannesburg, and it was true, too, that there were people from Bobonong who were not all that well informed about the wider world. They knew about Bobonong, of course, and, to an extent, about Francistown, but many of them did not know about much else. Yet the difference between them and the likes of Violet Sephotho was that they, unlike her, were prepared to apply themselves if given the chance. The road from Bobonong to Gaborone was a long and a hard one, but those who were able to take it took it in a spirit of humility and willingness to learn. That was the difference.

  She brought herself back to where she was, speaking to Phuti. “No, there is no question of expulsion. It is all about money, Rra.”

  For a moment he said nothing, but then he made a tsk sound. “Money, yes, it is often about money.”

  “Three thousand pula,” said Mma Makutsi. “That’s all. Three thousand pula.”

  “That’s not very much.”

  She seized the cue. “That’s exactly what I thought, Phuti. Three thousand is nothing—but when you’re poor and there are so many other children …” She paused. She could see that he sympathised; some men would not, but Phuti would—she knew that. “We could help her, Rra.”

  “Give her the money?”

  “It could be a loan. She could pay us back when she gets a job.”

  Phuti looked uncomfortable. “But we can’t go round lending money to everybody who needs it. Word would get out. We’d have people lining up outside the door—you know what it’s like in this country: people love to borrow money.”

  Mma Makutsi lowered her voice. “Phuti, we are very lucky. We have that house and Itumelang, and we have so many other things. That poor girl has one thing in her life: her chance at the Botswana Secretarial College. We can afford to lend her father the money.”

  She looked at him intensely. He had never refused her anything, and she realised that he would not refuse her now.

  “Give it to her,” he said suddenly. “Interest free. Give it to her.”

  She wanted to make sure that she understood. “You mean, she doesn’t need to pay any interest at all?”

  “Yes, that is what I mean. She pays us back when she can.”

  She glanced over towards the glazier. He seemed to have finished what he had been doing and was now standing back to admire his handiwork. “May I tell him now?” she asked.

  “Yes, you tell him, Grace.”

  She crossed the room to speak to the man. He stood quite still as she spoke, and then, without any warning, threw his hands in the air and uttered a roar of delight. The sound echoed in the unfurnished room, and the other workers turned round to see what was happening.

  “I cannot believe this, Mma,” stuttered the glazier. “I cannot believe that anybody would do this. Oh, I am a happy, happy man, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi felt herself on the verge of tears. And why should I not cry? she thought. Why should I not cry at this man’s happiness?

  She controlled herself. “Well, we are happy too, Rra,” she said. “You should thank my husband now—it is his money, really.”

  “And the college will be pleased too,” the man continued. “She has been doing so well that they will be pleased she is staying.”

  Mma Makutsi was interested. “Doing well, Rra? In all her subjects? Shorthand too?”

  “All of them,” he said. “In her last examination she got a very, very high mark, Mma. The college was very pleased.”

  Mma Makutsi hesitated. “A high mark, Rra? What was that?”

  “It was ninety-eight per cent, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. The man stared at her: he could not understand why she should look dismayed. Did she realise how high that mark was, or did she imagine that people should get one hundred per cent?

  “Ninety-eight per cent is a very high mark, Mma. It is almost impossible to get.”

  Mma Makutsi made a supreme effort. “I am pleased to hear that, Rra. That is very good.”

  It was bound to happen, she thought. Some day there would be somebody who would get ninety-eight per cent; there was a certain poetic inevitability to it. And people could not hope that their records would last forever; that was not what records were. They were made to be beaten by the next gener
ation; they were made to be bettered. And for existing record-holders there was no dishonour in that process—none whatsoever.

  “She must be very good at being a secretary, Rra,” she said.

  “You are kind to say that, Mma. She is.” He mused for a moment. “Ninety-eight per cent, Mma! Would you believe it?”

  “I do,” she said. “You see, I …” But she did not go any further. There were things that were best left unsaid, and this, she realised, was one of them.

  As the man crossed the room to speak to Phuti, Mma Makutsi walked to the window he had been working on and looked out. It was while she was standing there that she heard a chirpy, rather squeaky voice from below. She glared down at her shoes.

  Ninety-eight per cent, Boss! How about that? Beats ninety-seven per cent, we think! Okay, only by one per cent, but one per cent is all you need, Boss!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I DID NOT COME ABOUT A CAT

  WHEN CHARLIE RETURNED to the office he found that neither Mma Ramotswe nor Mma Makutsi was there. Mma Ramotswe had left early as there was a parents’ meeting at the school at which they were to receive a report on Puso’s progress, and Mma Makutsi had gone off to meet Phuti at her restaurant. There was a note from Mma Ramotswe on the door of the agency, though, that gave him his instructions.

  I have taken a taxi home. Leave my van in the garage when Fanwell shuts up for the day. You stay here until five o’clock and answer the phone. Write any messages down on the pad on my desk. There is milk for tea—if you want it—in the garage fridge and half a fat cake. God bless. PR.

  He was touched by the fact that she had left him milk for his tea and half a fat cake. He was touched, too, by the God bless, because he could not remember when anybody had last said that to him. She wanted God to look after him—that was what it amounted to. Mma Ramotswe cared about him. And what had he done for her? He had dented her van and lost—or as good as lost—the people he was meant to be following. He had also used the van for a purpose he knew she would not approve of—taking a glamorous, but annoying, young woman to the shops. And he had been seen by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  He had mentally prepared his report. He would tell her about the accident, of course, and he would tell her that the other driver had accepted full responsibility. He would try not to mention that it was Mr. Sengupta, but would do so if asked. He would say nothing about Alice, as there was no point incurring wrath unnecessarily—and he hoped that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would say nothing either. As for the surveillance—well, he had seen more or less where the other car had disappeared to, and he was sure he would be able to find the house if required. He would be positive about that, as he wanted this job. He wanted to be a success as a detective, and the thought of facing Mma Makutsi’s derision if he confessed to failing at his very first test was too much. He would do better next time, but for the moment the report would have to be as positive as possible.

  The following morning, Charlie was in the office when Mma Makutsi, who was first to arrive, came in the door.

  “Well, well,” she said benignly. “Nice and early today, Charlie. And very smart-looking too, if I may say so.”

  Charlie smiled. “I like to get in early,” he said. “Then I am ready for work.”

  “Very wise,” said Mma Makutsi, placing her handbag on the shelf it always occupied. “Phuti says that too. And Itumelang, for that matter. He likes to have his breakfast at five.”

  “Hah!” said Charlie. “That’s what babies are like.”

  Mma Makutsi threw him a sideways glance. “You have experience, Charlie? You know about babies?”

  “There are babies everywhere you turn, Mma. Everybody has a baby these days.”

  Mma Makutsi made a non-committal sound. Then she said, “What happened yesterday? Anything?”

  “I have a report to make,” said Charlie, somewhat officiously.

  Mma Makutsi nodded. “We’ll wait for Mma Ramotswe. It’s her case, you see. In this business, there is one person in charge of each case, understand? That is the way it works.”

  Charlie nodded. “I know that, Mma. It is the same in the garage business. One mechanic, one car.”

  A few minutes later, Mma Ramotswe arrived with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Charlie glanced at his former employer, and for a moment their eyes met. Neither said anything. He understands, thought Charlie. He knows, but he understands. He will not tell Mma Ramotswe about seeing me driving a girl around. He is a man, like me. We will not betray one another. Mma Makutsi put on the kettle, and Charlie, having volunteered to wash the mugs, retreated to the sink they shared with the garage. This was in a corridor that ran between the two parts of the building, and it meant that for a few moments he was out of earshot.

  “He says he has a report,” announced Mma Makutsi.

  “That’s good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We can hear all about it over our tea.”

  Mma Makutsi looked doubtful. “Heaven knows what he saw. Frankly I can’t imagine him noticing very much. You know how dozy these boys are.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised a finger to her lips. “Shh! We must give him a chance, Mma.”

  Charlie came back into the room and a few minutes later tea was served.

  “Right, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tell us what happened.”

  “There is one little problem I must deal with first,” he said. “There is a small dent in the van.”

  Mma Makutsi gasped, but Mma Ramotswe remained calm. “What happened, Charlie?”

  “A man did not stop at a stop sign. He came right out. I was able to take prompt evasive action …” He paused for the effect of this to be absorbed. “But unfortunately we made contact with one another.”

  “Made contact,” snorted Mma Makutsi. “Crashed.”

  Charlie ignored her. “The other driver admits it was his fault. He has given me his insurance details and telephone number. We can get it repaired at his expense—it will not be a big job.”

  “Where is it?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Where is my van?”

  “It’s round the back,” said Charlie. “I left it in the garage as you told me to, and this morning I put it round the back.”

  “I’d like to see it,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Charlie led her to the van, followed by Mma Makutsi.

  “You see,” he said, pointing to the dent made by Mr. Sengupta’s car. “It is not a big thing at all. They will fix it at the panel beaters. I can speak to them—we know them well. They’ll give us a special price. They can also fix that dent there, that historical dent.”

  Mma Ramotswe reached forward to touch the damaged metal. She had suspected that Charlie was probably minimising the damage, but she realised now that it was not extensive. She had caused many such dents herself on various occasions, some of them quite recent.

  “Well,” she said, “it’s not too bad.”

  Mma Makutsi stepped forward and peered at the damage. “It doesn’t look very good to me.” She turned to Charlie. “What speed were you doing?”

  Charlie sniffed. “I’ve told you: the other car didn’t stop when he should have. It’s not my fault. I wasn’t going fast.”

  Mma Ramotswe said hurriedly, “It’s all right. These things happen. Speak to those people about fixing it.”

  Charlie glanced defiantly at Mma Makutsi, who simply shrugged. In normal circumstances, he would have engaged in the argument she seemed determined to have, but he did not want to prolong the discussion in case anybody asked who the other driver was.

  They returned to the office, where Mma Ramotswe invited him to sit in the client’s chair and give his report on the surveillance.

  Charlie took a deep breath as he began his account. “I proceeded to the house of Mr. Sengupta,” he began.

  “Proceeded!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi.

  Charlie faltered. “That’s what people say …”

  “Of course they do, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We know what you mean.”

  “You went,” said Mma Makutsi. “
You mean to say that you went.”

  Charlie resumed his report, now pointedly addressing it only to Mma Ramotswe. “I went to the house, Mma Ramotswe. I found a good place to park the van—there is some scrubland, you see, and I was able to park under a tree. It gave me a good view of the house. I sat there for a long time. There was nothing happening in the house. Then a lady came out and stood in the sun for a while. She was breathing, I think. Then she went back in.”

  There was a snort from Mma Makutsi. “She was breathing? Are you sure?”

  Mma Ramotswe came to Charlie’s defence. “I think that Charlie meant she was taking the air.” She paused. “Carry on, Charlie.”

  “Then maybe half an hour later, maybe a bit more, the gate opened. A green Mercedes came out, driven by that lady, Miss Rose—the one you told me about. There was another lady in the car with her. I think that must have been the lady you called Mrs.”

  Mma Ramotswe urged him on. “And?”

  “I got into the van and followed them. I did not get too close, and I do not think they saw me.”

  “Where did they go?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “I was getting to that,” said Charlie peevishly. “I am trying to tell this story, but I cannot tell it if I am interrupted all the time.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Carry on, Charlie, we’re listening.”

  Charlie drew in his breath. “They went round the corner, Mma. Then they went to a street that was not very far away. They drove into a driveway there and the gate closed. That is when the accident happened and I had to return.”

  He stopped. He looked down at his hands. Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe, who looked at Charlie. In the garage next door, they heard Fanwell shout something to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; there was the sound of a car engine being fired, spluttering and then dying. Then silence.

  Mma Ramotswe fiddled with her pencil. She had a pad open in front of her, but she had not noted anything down.

  Mma Makutsi broke the silence. “Whose house was it?” she asked.

  Charlie shrugged. “How can I tell?”

  “You ask,” said Mma Makutsi. “You ask somebody. People know. There are no secrets in this town, Charlie.”