The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe (24 page)

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.