IF MMA RAMOTSWE had Sengupta affairs to keep her busy, Mma Makutsi was almost entirely preoccupied with the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café. The work on the kitchen had been accomplished even more quickly than promised, as had the painting and the delivery of the tables and chairs. There was now a café, even if the paint was still not completely dry here and there, and despite the fact that some of the kitchen shelves had yet to be cut to size and put up. What mattered was that the public could be invited to begin using the café at eight o’clock the next morning. Breakfast would be available until eleven o’clock, at which point lunch would be on the menu until two. Dinner would be served from six o’clock onwards, and the café would shut its doors at nine. This was to be the pattern of the new business.
Phuti had warned Mma Makutsi about staff. “That is going to be your problem, Grace,” he said. “There are plenty of people looking for work, but how many of these are the right person?” He shook his head sadly, as memories returned of his own experience at the Double Comfort Furniture Store. “I can tell you, that’s the problem every business faces—getting staff you can trust.”
She had taken the warning seriously: Phuti knew what he was talking about when it came to running a business. And when it came to unsuitable employees, his views were, of course, coloured by the fact that he had employed none other than Violet Sephotho in the bed department of the store. That had been a complete debacle, as he had eventually discovered that Violet’s impressive sales record was entirely attributable to the unconventional and unauthorised inducements she put the way of male customers. That was a famous case, but there was also the equally awkward case of the employee who was found to be stealing furniture from the store. The size of furniture normally prevents its being stolen from under the noses of the management, but in this case the employee had been removing items of furniture piece by piece, disassembling tables and chairs and then removing them leg by leg, seat by seat, over a period of days.
“You have to be careful, Grace,” said Phuti. “You never know.”
You never know. She had pondered the words. No, one never knew, but just as you never knew what difficulties you might encounter, you also never knew about the positive things the future might hold.
“I shall be very careful, Phuti,” she said. “But I have a good chef, remember, and he is the one who has chosen the waiting staff. He has the contacts, you see.”
Phuti looked doubtful. “But you are the boss. You should choose these people.”
“The chef is the one who’ll be working with them,” she said. “He must have a good relationship with them.”
Phuti remained sceptical. “You are the manager, Grace. A manager must manage.”
“I shall manage,” she reassured him. “I am getting ready to do a lot of managing.”
Phuti had another query. “Have you planned the menu yet?”
“The chef is doing that. That is his department.”
“I see.”
She sought to reassure him further. “He has been working on all of this, Phuti. He has found a good waiter and a good waitress. They are very experienced, apparently. And he has written out the menu. I am going to type it up.”
She handed her husband the sheet of paper that Thomas had passed on to her. There were greasy fingerprints down the side of it—“That is because it is written by a chef,” explained Mma Makutsi.
Phuti struggled to decipher the chef’s handwriting. “Small Mouth,” he said. “What is this about mouths? Small Mouth, and I see he has something called Big Mouth.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. “That is the fashionable term, Phuti. Small Mouth refers to the size of the portion. That is the first course, you see. You start with the Small Mouth and then you move on to the Big Mouth.”
Phuti shrugged. “Why doesn’t he say First Course and Second Course?”
Mma Makutsi did not answer the question. “What do you think about the dishes? They are very tempting, aren’t they?”
Phuti read down the list. Under Small Mouth there were various items on toast: Scrambled Eggs on Toast. Sardines and Baked Beans on Toast. Cheese and Pineapple on Toast. Sliced Sausages and Tomato Sauce on Toast. “There is a lot of toast,” he observed.
Mma Makutsi replied that this was quite normal. “Many people will want a quick snack,” she said. “They do not want to be sitting for a long time waiting for their food to be prepared. They want food they can eat quickly and then get on with their busy lives.” She paused. “These people are busy executives, you see. They are the people who are going to want toast.”
Phuti moved on to the Big Mouth list. She watched his lips move as he read—a habit of his that she always meant to talk to him about but had never broached. “This is a very interesting menu,” he said at last. “This chef …”
“He has a lot of experience,” Mma Makutsi said hurriedly. “He trained in these big hotels—the Sun, the Grand Palm—all those big, important places.”
Phuti did not argue. “I’m sure he did, Grace. It’s just that some of these dishes are …”
She finished the sentence for him. “Unusual. Yes, they will be the talk of the town. I am quite sure of that, Phuti.”
Phuti returned to the menu. “What is this Dish of Yesterday?” he asked, pointing to an item at the head of the list.
Mma Makutsi laughed nervously. “Oh, he told me about that when he gave me the menu. It is the leftovers from the day before.”
“Usually menus have a dish of the day,” said Phuti mildly. “I’ve never seen a dish of yesterday.” He glanced at her reproachfully. “You shouldn’t tell people that they’re having leftovers, you know. People don’t like that. It’s as bad as saying ‘second-hand food.’ ”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Rra! It is nothing like that.”
“I’m just expressing an opinion,” said Phuti. “I am not one to judge these things, I am saying what I think.”
She considered this. It was a curious thing to say; anybody who said anything at all was making a judgement, and she did not see how claiming that you were only expressing an opinion changed that. There was no time for such discussion, though, as Phuti Radiphuti had moved on to the next item on the menu.
“Tomato Soup with Floating Pumpkin Pieces,” he read.
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi defensively. “That is the soup.” She paused, and then added, “Of the day.”
“Not the soup of yesterday?”
“Hah,” she said. “No, it is not the soup of yesterday: it is tomato soup with pumpkin pieces.”
“They float?” asked Phuti.
“That’s what it says, Phuti. You see, these days it is very fashionable to have things floating in food. There are things called croutons, which are really pieces of fried bread—or that’s what you and I would call them—but they are croutons and they float on the top of soup. These bits of pumpkin will be like croutons.”
It was so far from Bobonong, she thought; so far. There had been no croutons in Bobonong.
“But does pumpkin float, Grace? I always thought that pumpkin was quite heavy. I do not think that it would float in tomato soup.” He waited for a reaction, but she remained silent. “So perhaps this will be tomato soup with sunken pumpkin pieces.” He paused again. “Perhaps it could be called Tomato Soup Surprise—the surprise would come when you found pieces of pumpkin at the bottom of your soup.”
Mma Makutsi was tight-lipped. “I do not think so,” she muttered. “I think that this pumpkin will float. The chef must have tried it out before.”
Phuti shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps.” He pointed to the item below the soup. “The Handsome Man’s Hungry Sandwich,” he read. “This says that it is a sandwich with beef, eggs, sausage, lettuce and … and chips.” He was puzzled by the chips. “Chips, Grace? Chips?”
“They are very popular,” said Mma Makutsi. “Look at Charlie and Fanwell—what do they eat if they get half the chance? Chips.”
“They are boys,” said Phuti. “They are young. They are not the sort of person you want to attract to the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café. They are suitable for ordinary, second- or third-class cafés.”
“Everybody likes chips,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have heard that the British High Commissioner serves chips if you have dinner at that place.”
“I do not think so,” said Phuti. “They will serve things that British people like to eat. And the same goes for the Americans.”
“They are always eating hamburgers,” said Mma Makutsi.
Phuti did not disagree. “Yes, they like hamburgers. But the point I was trying to make, Mma, is that chips do not go with sandwiches. You cannot put chips in a sandwich. People do not do that, Mma.”
“But chips go with eggs and also with sausages? They go with those things, don’t they?”
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.
“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 silence. 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.
Yes, she thought, Charlie could be a secretary. It would do him good to learn that there was nothing undignified for a young man to take on a job normally performed by a young woman. People had to learn not to be sexist about these things; if there could be female managing directors and engineers, then there could be male secretaries and nurses, and Charlie might as well get used to that sooner rather than later.
She would put the idea to Mma Ramotswe later—over dinner, perhaps.
THAT EVENING, shortly after six-thirty, when the sun had sunk into the Kalahari and the sky had turned the pale blue that comes at that hour, Mma Ramotswe, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Fanwell drove across the town to the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café, now almost ready to welcome the public. As Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni parked his truck they admired the newly painted sign—the work of the same hand that all those years ago had written The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency above Mma Ramotswe’s own premises. If one were to look for omens, then this might surely be one: since Mma Ramotswe’s sign had presided over a business that prospered (or, at least, stayed afloat), so too might Mma Makutsi’s sign announce a successful undertaking.
Or so Mma Ramotswe thought. “Very good,” she said as she surveyed the newly restored building. “That is a very welcoming sign. People will want to go in.”
“That is what a sign must do,” agreed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “If a sign is unfriendly, you will get no business.”
Fanwell was concerned about the name. “And if you’re not handsome?” he asked. “Where do you go then?”
“You are very handsome, Fanwell,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So that is not your problem.”
Fanwell appeared embarrassed, but at the same time pleased. “I am not,” he said modestly. “Charlie is handsome. I am just average. The girls always look at Charlie. If they look at me, they shake their heads and turn away.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe. “And if they look at Charlie, then they are very silly. We know that Charlie is dangerous to girls.” She paused, as if to consider an interesting possibility. “In fact, there are some young men who should wear a sign round their neck saying Beware.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “That is true, I think. Maybe a sign saying Girls beware—and cars beware too.”
“He is not that bad,” said Fanwell. “And now he is a detective, anyway.”
“Then there should also be a sign saying Clients beware.”
“We must not be unkind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Charlie is learning. He’s becoming more mature.”
“Yes,” said Fanwell. “Soon the young girls will think he is too old. He will not like that, I think. Hah!”
The subject of Charlie was dropped as Phuti Radiphuti’s car had drawn up beside them. They all went in together, Mma Makutsi proudly announcing as they entered the café, “Here we are, Mma Ramotswe—this is my new place.”
It was an important moment for her. She had not forgotten—nor would ever forget—how Mma Ramotswe had given her that first chance and was responsible, therefore, for everything that had flowed from it. Had she not found that job in Gaborone, then she might have ended up in Lobatse or somewhere else, and would then never have gone to that dance class and met Phuti Radiphuti. And then there would have been no fine husband, no new house, no baby, no Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café—all of this she owed to Mma Ramotswe. And here she was welcoming her, that kind woman who had changed her life, who had taught her so much, into a business that she had created herself. It was a proud moment indeed.
“It is a very good café,” said Mma Ramotswe as she looked around. “Those red tables, Mma—they are very smart. And the lights! They are very bright. Everybody will like those.”
“Yes, they will,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There will be big crowds coming here, Mma; very big crowds.”
Mma Makutsi made a modest gesture. “Word will take time to get out,” she said. “Rome was not built in a day. I have read that.”
“Rome took many weeks to build,” said Fanwell. “There were no bulldozers in those days.”
“That is true,” said Phuti. “Bulldozers were not invented until …”
They looked at him expectantly.
“… until much later,” he finished.
The chef appeared through a door at the back of the café. “So,” he announced in a booming, confident voice. “So, welcome everybody. Welcome to dinner.”
Introductions were made and they sat down at the table nearest the kitchen area. In the background, the two waiters, one a young man of extremely muscular build, and the other a young woman in a blue dress, stood at the ready.
“What have you prepared for us, Chef?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“I have prepared steak,” he said. “Steak with a special sauce. Potatoes in butter. Green vegetables and cauliflower with cheese on the top. It is called The Steak No. 1 Special in honour of Mma Ramotswe.”
This was greeted with delight—and laughter.
The waiter came to take the orders for drinks. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni ordered a Lion beer, as did Fanwell, after Phuti Radiphuti had explained that there would be no charge for either food or drink. Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe, neither of whom drank, ordered lemonade, and Phuti asked for water with a slice of lemon and some sugar.
“You should drink beer, Rra,” said the waiter. “That is the best drink for men.”
Phuti frowned. “I do not like beer,” he said.
The waiter’s jaw set. “Most men do,” he said.
Mma Ramotswe glanced anxiously at Mma Makutsi.
“He says that he wants water with lemon and some sugar,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is what he wants.”
The waiter shrugged. “Beer would be better,” he said. “But if that’s what you want …”
“It is,” said Phuti, adding, “if you don’t mind.”
The waiter turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen area.
“I’m going to have to talk to that young man,” said Mma Makutsi.
“Perhaps it’s his first job,” said Fanwell. He looked thoughtful. “I think I may have seen him somewhere before.”
“Where?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Does he live near your place?”
Fanwell shook his head. “I don’t think so. It is a long time ago maybe. His face looks familiar—you know how it is.”
“There are some people like that,” said Phuti Radiphuti. “You think that you know them, but you don’t really. They have the sort of face that looks familiar.”
Phuti and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni now struck up a conversation about a new van that Phuti had ordered for the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Fanwell joined in; he had views on the make of van and the conversation soon became quite technical. Mma Ramotswe was examining her surroundings, taking in the details of the décor and watching the activity in the kitchen.
“It’s a very good idea to let people see what’s going on in the kitchen,” she said. “That will stop them becoming impatient while they are waiting for their food.”
“Exactly,” said Mma Makutsi. “They will like that.”
The waiter returned with the drinks.
“Here’s your sugar water,” he said dismissively as he put a glass down in front of Phuti Radiphuti.
Phuti’s politeness prevailed over the waiter’s surliness. “Thank you, Rra,” he said.
Mma Makutsi bristled. “You do know who we are?” she muttered.
The waiter glanced at her. “You’re that woman,” he said.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m that woman.”
A few minutes later the food arrived. It was preceded by its aroma—a delicious waft of beef and gravy that would gladden the heart, thought Mma Ramotswe, of any citizen in Botswana. Cattle—and beef—were at the heart of the culture, and she imagined what her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, would have made of the sight of the large steak on the plate before her, surrounded by its steaming vegetables and pool of sauce and gravy.
Mma Makutsi felt a mixture of pleasure and pride—pleasure at the anticipation of the succulent steak; pride at the thought that she had chosen a chef who could so engage the senses. She leaned forward slightly to savour more fully the delightful smell arising from the plate of food, and it was at this point that she heard the small voice from below.
I wouldn’t touch that, Boss!
She froze where she was, her head tilted forward above the plate, furtively glancing at Mma Ramotswe beside her at the table. Had she heard anything? There was no reaction from her friend, who was gazing at her own plate with undisguised delight.
It’s a word of warning, Boss. You don’t have to listen to us, of course—you often don’t.
Mma Makutsi caught her breath. She leaned back and looked down at her shoes. She had changed out of the blue open-toed pair and was now wearing a pair of red shoes with white cloth rosettes on the toes. In the centre of each rosette was a small glass button that now looked upwards, for all the world like an eye upon her. On the side of each shoe was a diamante clasp. It was one of her best pairs, if not her very best, and she had only worn them a couple of times before. This occasion, she had decided, was sufficiently auspicious to justify taking them out of the drawer they shared with the special shoes that she wore to weddings and funerals.
These shoes had never said anything to her before. The shoes that seemed to speak were those who did the most work—the everyday, working shoes that had what she considered to be something of an old-fashioned union mentality: they were quick to complain about the slightest inconvenience, highly sensitive to questions of status, and quick to remind her of the rights of footwear. Her more formal shoes spoke less frequently, and tended to make comments that were obscure or highly allusive and not at all complaining. Perhaps these new shoes had picked up bad ways from the everyday shoes—had learned to make the sort of streetwise, cheeky remarks that working shoes made.
Don’t say we didn’t warn you, Boss! continued the high-pitched voice from below. This sauce is made of lies. That’s all we’ve got to say, Boss. That’s it.
She looked about her. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had already sliced off a piece of meat and had it on his fork. Phuti Radiphuti’s mouth was already full and he was rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture of gastronomic pleasure.
Oh dear, Boss, came the tiny voice. Too late!
She tried to put the shoes out of her mind. Her shoes often said things that proved to be untrue, and if she started to heed everything they said, then life would become unduly difficult. No, she would enjoy the meal, just as everybody else seemed to be doing.
It did not take them long to finish as there was little conversation between mouthfuls. At the end, Fanwell sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “I would like to eat in this restaurant every day,” he said to Mma Makutsi. “This is really good, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Fanwell.”
Mma Ramotswe suggested that the chef be called over to their table. “We must thank him properly,” she said.
Thomas came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a piece of paper towel. “Everything met with your approval?”
Phuti took it upon himself to be the spokesman. “Very much so,” he said. “That was first class, Rra.”
“Good,” said Thomas.
“May I ask where you are from, Rra?” said Mma Ramotswe. As she posed the question, Mma Makutsi glanced at her anxiously.
Thomas shrugged. “Where is any of us from?” he said. “We start this life as little, little children, and we are always running around. Here, there, everywhere. Then we get bigger and we are still looking for the right place for us in the world. Later on, we ask ourselves: Where am I going?”
“That’s very interesting, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But where are you actually from? Where is your village?”
Thomas crumpled up the piece of kitchen towel and tucked it into the pocket of his apron. “My village is the world,” he said. “That is where my heart is—in the world.”
“But where in the world?” persisted Mma Ramotswe. “The world is a big place, and most of us have one small place in that big place. That is where we are from, I think.”
Mma Makutsi now tried to change the subject. “I am from Bobonong myself,” she said. “And I am proud of that place, even if it is far away from everywhere. But this meal, Rra, was so good! I think people will be lining up to eat here.”
“I hope so,” said Phuti.
Thomas smiled and returned to the kitchen—with relief, mused Mma Ramotswe, as she watched him go.
“To think that he produced that meal all by himself,” said Phuti. “Sometimes it seems as if these chefs must have ten or twelve hands to keep all the pots and pans going at the same time.”
“But he’s got a person helping him,” said Fanwell. “I thought I saw a woman,” he explained. “There was a woman back there when we came in. Then she went out.”
“Was there?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“No, there wasn’t anyone,” said Mma Makutsi.
There was, came a small, almost inaudible voice from below.