The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Phuti nodded.

  “And there are eggs and sausage in the sandwich, aren’t there? So the chips go with those.” She looked at him defiantly. “That is why they are there.”

  He handed the menu back to her. “It is going to be a very interesting restaurant, Grace,” he said.

  Mma Makutsi smiled at her husband. He was so generous, so encouraging. “Yes,” she said. “I have a very good feeling about it now.”

  Phuti hesitated. Then he closed his eyes and said, “So … s … s … so do I, Grace.”

  His stammer rarely manifested itself now, but when it did come back, it was because he felt doubt or foreboding. It was as powerful an omen as any of those signs that traditional people—people who lived all their lives in the bush, far from a town—could read in the way the wind moved in the trees, or the way a beetle scurried across a path, or a flock of birds rose up from a sheltering tree. Phuti knew that you should not ignore these signs, because as often as not they warned you of what was going to happen.

  She told him that the chef would be cooking them dinner before the restaurant opened officially. “It’s to show us what he can do,” she said. “He will do that tonight, and I shall invite Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to join us.”

  “That is very good,” said Phuti. “I am looking forward to it already.” But he was not—he was merely being supportive, as any good husband should be when his wife insists on embarking on something that he feels is not a good idea and he knows that it is far too late to express reservations. That is the point at which wholehearted support is required, and he would give it.

  MMA RAMOTSWE was pleased with the invitation that Mma Makutsi issued that day.

  “I cannot remember when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and I went out to dinner,” she said. “Now, let me think …”

  Mma Makutsi waited. “It will be very good, Mma.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will. This new chef of yours …”

  “Thomas. He is a very well-known chef. He has cooked in all the big hotels. Their standards are very high. We can expect some very good food.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. She was still trying to remember when she and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had last been out to dinner and was having difficulty in bringing the occasion to mind. But it was time for morning tea in the office, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Fanwell would be coming through shortly from the garage next door. She could ask him; perhaps he would remember.

  “This chef of yours,” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What did you say his name was?”

  “He is called Thomas.”

  “Thomas who?”

  Mma Makutsi looked out of the window. “He doesn’t use his other name, Mma. That is sometimes the way with … with chefs.”

  Mma Ramotswe said she found that very odd. “Is he ashamed of his name?”

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I don’t think so. He is a very pleasant, cheerful man. He does not look like somebody who is ashamed of his name.”

  “What about his omang?” asked Mma Ramotswe. The omang was the identity card that every citizen of Botswana had.

  “I haven’t seen it,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. It was a fundamental precaution to be taken before giving anybody a job. A person who did not have an omang was likely to be working illegally—and that had consequences; surely Mma Makutsi knew that.

  “If you haven’t looked at his omang, Mma Makutsi, then I’m afraid …” She trailed off.

  “He’s not illegal,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “You can tell when somebody’s illegal. Thomas is obviously a Motswana.”

  “From the way he talks? That doesn’t tell you much, Mma. Foreigners can speak Setswana very well. And English. You cannot tell just by listening to him.”

  Mma Makutsi obviously did not want to discuss the matter further. “Oh well,” she said. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She had switched on the electric kettle and it was beginning to make its familiar whistling sound, which signified that the water was reaching boiling point. As she got up to fill the two office teapots—one for ordinary tea and one for red bush—the door was pushed open and Fanwell appeared, closely followed by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Both were wiping their hands on the rough blue paper that had replaced their traditional lint.

  “This paper is no good for oil,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It does not absorb enough. We shall have to find some more of that lint, you know. That is what mechanics have always used. Now those people are trying to change everything.”

  It was never made clear who those people were. They were referred to from time to time by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni when he had occasion to complain about the vagaries of bureaucrats, or the car-makers who produced complicated electronics for their cars, or for any of those people who made life difficult for a small business.

  “It is the modern way,” said Mma Makutsi over her shoulder. “We have to move forwards, Rra. It is all for the sake of progress, Rra.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made a snorting sound and tossed his crumpled blue paper into the wastepaper bin. “I am not modern,” he said. “And there are many other people who are not modern. We do not want to move forwards at all. We want to stay exactly where we are, because there is nothing wrong with that place.” He looked at Mma Ramotswe, and then at Mma Makutsi, as if expecting a refutation of this defence of conservatism, but there was none. He decided, nonetheless, to repeat his position. “That place is the place we have always been, and if you think that where you have been is where you should be, then why go to another place that you do not know at all and may not be as good as the place you were in before somebody came along and said to you that you must go forwards—which is not what you wanted to do?”

  At first nobody answered, but then Fanwell, who had been listening intently, broke the silence. “That is true, Rra,” he said, “but sometimes there will be a reason to go forwards. If you think that it would be better to do things a different way, then surely you should say so—and people should listen to you.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gazed into his mug of tea. “If it is better, Fanwell—if it is better. I am happy to change if it is really better to do things in a new way, but only if people can show me that. That is the problem. There are many people who want to change things for the sake of change. That is what I object to.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up. “You are right, Rra. I think you are right. There is no reason to change things that we have simply because they are old. Old things can be very good at what they are doing. The fact that they are old does not matter.”

  This caught Mma Makutsi’s attention. “I’m not so sure, Mma Ramotswe,” she chipped in. “What about shoes?”

  They all turned to look at her, and then their collective gazes moved down towards her feet. She was wearing a pair of blue open-toed shoes. Although they did not appear old, they were nonetheless clearly not new.

  “I am very happy with my old shoes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “As you know, I have very wide feet.”

  Fanwell peered over the rim of his mug of tea at Mma Ramotswe’s feet, which could be seen under her desk. “It is not your fault, Mma,” he said. “I have an aunt who has feet like that. When she walks in the sand people sometimes think that her footprints look like an elephant’s. They say: Look, an elephant has gone this way.”

  Mma Makutsi threw him a glance. “Of course it’s nobody’s fault. Nobody can be blamed for their feet, and Mma Ramotswe’s feet are not all that wide. They are very good feet.”

  “Traditional feet,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  They all looked at him.

  “There is nothing wrong with having traditional feet,” he said, rather nervously. “They are the sort of feet that have done us very well for a long time.” He paused. “It’s as I was saying—there are things that have always worked well and do not need to be changed. We do not need to be trying to get these thin, modern feet that people talk about. They will be no use if things get difficult.”

  There was an awkward si
lence. Now Fanwell spoke. “What were you going to say about shoes, Mmaitumelang?” He used the traditional method of address: Mma Makutsi, as mother of Itumelang, her first-born, might be addressed as “Mother of Itumelang.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Fanwell. I was just going to say that shoes are an example of things that do not need to be replaced if they are doing a good job. Those shoes of Mma Ramotswe’s, those brown shoes—”

  Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “They are not actually brown, Mma. They used to be cream-coloured. They have become brown.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “Shoes will find the colour that suits them, and that is what they will be. And anyway it is more practical to have brown shoes in this country. There is a great deal of sand in Botswana, and brown is the right colour for shoes.”

  “But yours are blue,” pointed out Fanwell.

  Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant shrug. “It is also possible to wear blue shoes, or shoes of any other colour for that matter. All that I am saying is that those who wear brown shoes do so for a perfectly good reason. They are being practical. It is very important to be practical when it comes to shoes.”

  Both Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked up sharply at this. Of the many things for which Mma Makutsi had a reputation, the wearing of sensible shoes was not one. They would not say anything about that, though, as they knew all about Mma Makutsi’s prickliness on some matters. Shoes certainly fell into that category. Fanwell, though, with the openness—and perhaps the lack of discretion—of youth felt no such compunction.

  “I do not think those shoes you’re wearing are very practical,” he said.

  The atmosphere immediately became tense, but Fanwell, who was not picking this up, ploughed on. “You see,” he continued, “those shoes of yours have heels that are far too high. And too thin, Mma. Surely there is a big danger that one of the heels will get caught in a hole. There are many holes in Botswana—wherever you look, there are holes.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni interrupted him. “There are fewer holes in this country than in some other places, young man. There are many countries that are just one big hole, as far as I can make out.”

  “Yes,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is right. You should not go talking about holes like that. You’ll fall into one yourself if you’re not careful.”

  He did not appear to be discouraged. “I was only saying that you could get one of your heels stuck in a hole in the floor, for example.”

  “There are no holes in our floor here,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to defuse the situation. “I don’t think the danger is all that great.”

  “But what about outside?” challenged Fanwell. “You should see some of the holes in that car park near Riverwalk. Have you seen them, Mma?”

  “They aren’t serious holes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I think they’ve fixed them anyway.”

  “I’ve got eyes,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m not going to go and walk into a hole, Fanwell.”

  “Of course she isn’t,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Fanwell shrugged his shoulders. “I was just pointing something out,” he said. “But there’s another thing: those shoes go click, click, when you walk in them, Mma. They make this clicking sound. Click, click.”

  “So?” said Mma Makutsi.

  “They are not good shoes for a detective to wear,” said Fanwell.

  Mma Makutsi stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you saying, Rra?” she asked. “What is this click, click?”

  Fanwell put down his mug. “How can you creep up on anybody, Mma? They will hear you—click, click—and they’ll say: ‘There’s somebody coming, we must stop what we’re doing.’ That is what they’ll say, Mma, and that will mean that you will never get close enough to hear anything. That is what I meant, Mma; that is why those shoes are no good for detective work.”

  Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were silent. Mma Ramotswe thought that it was time to change the subject; she had been thinking about dinner.

  “We have been asked out,” she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Mma Makutsi has invited us to have dinner at her new restaurant this evening. It is not open yet, but this will be a special demonstration by the chef.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “That is very good news. Thank you, Mma Makutsi.”

  Mma Makutsi acknowledged this graciously. “That is all right,” she said. “My chef is planning to show us what he can do.”

  She cast her eyes downwards, in modesty, as she referred to her chef. But he was her chef, she thought, and she should not be ashamed of it. In due course she might get used to it, as people got used to changes in their circumstances. One might become president, for example, and feel, for the first few weeks at least, that it was strange that everybody should be opening the door for you and calling you “Mma President” but then you would become accustomed to it and you would be president, even in your dreams. The world of dreams, of course, could take some time to adjust to where you were in life. She still dreamed that she was Grace Makutsi, writing her school examinations in that stuffy classroom up in Bobonong, where you had to close your eyes tight to remember the facts that you had committed to memory. The main rivers of Africa are the following … In the north, the land rises to make a plateau … The three representatives of Botswana went to London to ask Queen Victoria … A prime number is one that … Or she dreamed that she was at the Botswana Secretarial College, but, curiously, knew that she had already left it and should not be there; dreams could be like that—you knew that there was something contradictory, something that did not make sense, and yet everything seemed so real. So you could be at the Botswana Secretarial College and find that there was Violet Sephotho in the front row, paying avid attention to what the lecturer was saying, and you wanted to tell everybody that she did not really mean it, that she did not really care about shorthand or filing, and that it was men she was thinking of. But you could not speak, you were mute, just as you sometimes cannot run in a dream when you really need to get away from something, and Violet Sephotho rose to her feet and stepped forward to receive the prize for the most attentive student and you were struck by the sheer injustice of it.

  Fanwell took a sip of his tea. “I am sure it will be very good,” he said. “You are very lucky.”

  A silence descended. Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had stopped thinking about dreams and was pouring a mug of tea.

  “You can come too, Fanwell,” said Mma Makutsi. “You are invited.”

  Fanwell grinned with pleasure. “I am already hungry,” he said.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I was trying to remember, Rra,” she said. “I was trying to remember when we last went out to dinner together.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned, and sat down on the spare chair near the filing cabinet. “It must be a long time ago,” he said. “I do not remember what we had to eat.”

  “Or where it was?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

  He shook his head. “I do not remember that either.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent. She had decided that they had never been out to dinner, but she did not want to spell it out. And looking across the room at Mma Makutsi, she could tell that she too seemed to be thinking: she had never been out to dinner with Phuti either. Well, thought Mma Ramotswe, all this was about to change.

  “I have never been to a restaurant,” announced Fanwell. “Ever.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his assistant and then threw an appreciative glance towards Mma Makutsi. He was grateful for her act of kindness in inviting the young man, who had had so little in his life, after all. He had always maintained that Mma Makutsi had a kind heart, whatever impression she gave of severity. “We should not confuse strictness with unkindness,” he said. “Sometimes they are both there at the same time.” Of course he had never been able to manage that himself; he had never been able to be strict with his apprentices. But that was
a matter he would get round to addressing some other time—maybe.

  “Time for work,” he said, and then trying to sound firm, he added: “Work, then dinner, Fanwell—that is the rule, I think.”

  Fanwell followed his employer out of the room, leaving Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe exchanging expressions of bemusement.

  “Sometimes I wonder what goes on in those boys’ heads,” said Mma Makutsi. “I do not think that their brains are organised in the same way as ours, Mma. They have different wiring, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is sometimes difficult to understand them,” she said. “But that is often the case, isn’t it, Mma? Men and women look at one another and wonder what the other is thinking. And I believe you’re right—we do have different brains from them. I think that is well known, Mma Makutsi.”

  Mma Makutsi nodded her agreement. “It is very sad for men to have these strange brains,” she said. “We must not be unkind to them.”

  “Or to anybody,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “I agree, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi collected the teacups and mugs, stacking them on the tray for washing before returning to her desk, where a pile of correspondence awaited her. She looked first at the letters, then across the room to Mma Ramotswe’s desk. They were partners in the business, although she accepted that Mma Ramotswe was the senior partner and she was the junior. Yet, even taking that into account, should a partner have to do secretarial work? She thought not. She should have a secretary herself; why not?

  Of course she knew what Mma Ramotswe would say if she raised the matter. She would point out, quite reasonably, that the business did not make enough money to employ another person. And she would nod and agree with that, but then she would say: “And Charlie?”

  Now the idea occurred. There was not enough work for Charlie to do as a detective—that was clear enough, whatever tasks were cooked up for him—but if he was going to be around the place, and paid, then why should he not perform secretarial duties? Charlie could type—like many young men he could operate a computer keyboard—and that meant that he could type out letters and even do some filing if he received a bit of instruction. She would have to be careful about that, of course, as incorrect filing could have severe consequences. “Put a letter in the wrong file,” said one of the lecturers at the Botswana Secretarial College, “and you can kiss goodbye to it.” That was true, she thought—it was absolutely true—and if she were to teach Charlie to file, she would drum that into him right at the beginning.