The Handsome Man's Deluxe Café

  They both laughed, but Mma Ramotswe had been given something to think about. If proof were needed of the loyalty of Mma Makutsi, and of her concern for the reputation of the business, then it had just been provided and convincingly so. It was loyalty – pure and simple loyalty – and that was something which she could never have learned at the Botswana Secretarial College, but which had to come from somewhere deep down inside.

  Having parked the van at the top of the drive, they got out and made their way onto a large shady veranda that ran the length of the front of the house. An elegant cluster of chairs occupied one end of this veranda, and behind them there was a long bar for the serving of food and drinks. The chairs were covered with what looked like zebra skin and there was a distinct air of opulence about the place. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.

  A door opened and Miss Rose appeared.

  ‘Mma Ramotswe!’ she exclaimed. ‘And Mma Maputi.’

  ‘Makutsi.’ The correction was made in a tone of slight disapproval.

  ‘Of course – I’m sorry, Mma. I should know how annoying it is when people get your name wrong. If you’re called Chattopadhyay you know all about that.’

  They were still standing on the veranda. As Miss Rose turned to lead them into the house, she stopped and stared down the drive. ‘The gate —’ she began.

  Mma Ramotswe stopped her. ‘It is my fault, Mma, I am very sorry indeed. I seem to have hit the gate with my van. I shall pay for it to be fixed.’

  Miss Rose turned to face her. ‘No, Mma, it cannot be your fault. These electric gates are dangerous. They are always opening and closing according to some strange programme of their own.’ She paused. ‘And anyway, if it is anybody’s fault it is mine. I am the one who operated the switch for the gate to open when I saw your van coming. I must have pushed it the wrong way when you were halfway through.’

  Mma Ramotswe held up her hands. ‘I’m sure it was not you…’

  ‘No, it probably was,’ said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe gasped. ‘No, Mma, we must not blame Miss Rose.’

  ‘But she said it was her fault,’ said Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Miss Rose, throwing Mma Makutsi a sideways glance. ‘But let’s not waste our time talking about milk that has already been spilt.’

  ‘Nor crying over it,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘You cry over spilt milk, I think.’

  ‘I know that, Mma,’ muttered Miss Rose. ‘It is a figure of speech, I believe. I know about those things.’

  As they were led down a corridor into a large living room at the side of the house, Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mma Makutsi, ‘Please try to be tactful, Mma. Have a little tact.’

  She could feel Mma Makutsi bristling. ‘It was her fault that the gate closed as we were going through, Mma Ramotswe. You heard her. She said it, not me.’

  ‘I know, I know. But the point is, Mma, that she is the client. Remember what Clovis Andersen said about the client. You never argue with the client.’

  They had reached the end of the corridor and perforce the end, too, of their whispered conversation. The room into which they now went was large and formal, decorated in a somewhat heavy style with a great deal of gilt, fringes and tassels. On the wall there were pictures of idealised landscapes and buildings: Himalayas, Rajasthan, the Taj Mahal by moonlight.

  ‘This is very beautiful,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Rose. ‘It is very fine.’ She had become businesslike. ‘If you ladies sit down, I’ll fetch her.’

  ‘Before you do,’ said Mma Ramotswe, ‘can you tell me what you call this lady? You said that she could not remember her name.’

  Miss Rose smiled. ‘We call her Mrs. Just Mrs. That is the best thing. That is what she’ll expect you to call her.’

  Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to say something, but was silenced by a look from Mma Ramotswe. When Miss Rose left the room, though, she leaned across to Mma Ramotswe and said in a loud whisper, ‘But you cannot call somebody Mrs! Mrs is not quite the same as Mma, is it? Mrs needs to be Mrs Something, not just Mrs… Mrs Air!’

  ‘Hush,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She wanted to tell Mma Makutsi that this was a delicate enquiry – Mrs, after all, had no memory and was presumably in a distressed state – and their questioning would have to be very careful. She searched her own memory for any relevant passage from Clovis Andersen that she could quote to Mma Makutsi, but could think only of the advice he gave not to bully people when questioning them. The person to whom you are talking will always be readier to help if you are polite and friendly, he wrote. Never shine a light in somebody’s face. No third degree. He was right, of course, but she decided that now was not the time to discuss techniques with Mma Makutsi, and anyway, there were footsteps in the corridor outside.

  ‘This is Mrs,’ announced Miss Rose.

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and shook hands with the woman who had accompanied Miss Rose into the room. She saw a well-dressed Indian woman of about forty, perhaps slightly less, with what Mr J. L. B. Matekoni would have described as a ‘pleasing face’. A pleasing face was not necessarily beautiful in the conventional sense – it was, rather, comfortable. It was the sort of face that suggested equanimity.

  Mma Ramotswe introduced Mma Makutsi, who also shook hands. Then the four of them sat down around a low table.

  ‘The girl will bring us tea,’ said Miss Rose. ‘She will not be long. These hot afternoons make me want to drink tea.’

  ‘Tea is the thing,’ said Mrs. ‘It is always time for tea. Hot afternoons, cold afternoons – it doesn’t matter. Tea.’

  Mma Ramotswe listened to the voice. It was hard to place the accent – and she felt that she was never very good at that anyway – but the voice did not sound at all out of place. Sometimes when people had recently arrived from India she noticed that they spoke in what struck her as a rather pleasant, slightly musical way. This woman, though, seemed to speak in much the same accent as that of Miss Rose. For a few moments her thoughts wandered. If you lost your memory, why did you not lose your vocabulary, too? Surely words were a memory, just like the things that happened to you? And how would you still remember things like how to turn on a light or boil a kettle? How would you remember that tea is just the thing if you had forgotten everything else?

  These thoughts were interrupted by Miss Rose. ‘Mrs is happy to answer any questions you have, Mma Ramotswe. That is so, isn’t it, Mrs?’

  Mrs inclined her head. ‘I am very happy that these excellent ladies may be able to help me find out who I am. I shall certainly answer their questions, although…’ She left the sentence dangling.

  ‘Although you can remember nothing?’ supplied Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs. ‘It is all a blank. There is nothing there. It is as if I had started to live a few days ago, only.’

  Mma Ramotswe noticed the use of the word only. It was a speech pattern she had noticed in people from India: for some reason they liked the word only, just as people from other places had a fondness for certain words or expressions. The South Africans often said yes and no in quick succession – yes, no – or they said hey a lot at the end of sentences. And the Americans, she had noticed, had a fondness for the word like, which was dropped into their pronouncements for no particular reason. It was all extremely odd. But then, she thought, did we all want to speak the same way? No, that would be too dull, like hearing the same song all the time; one song, on and on, day after day.

  ‘When exactly was that?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘It was about two weeks ago,’ said Mrs, looking to Miss Rose for confirmation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Rose. ‘Two weeks ago today.’

  ‘So you do remember some things,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘I remember what happened recently,’ said Mrs. ‘I don’t remember what happened before I arrived at the house of these kind people.’ She nodded towards Miss Rose, who acknowledged the appreciation with a smile.

  Mma Makutsi
was sitting on the edge of her seat, such was her eagerness to ask a question. ‘This is amazing, Mma,’ she blurted out. ‘You can’t even remember your name? What about the names of your mother and father? Can you remember them?’

  Mrs frowned. Her expression was one of intense concentration. ‘I don’t think so. No, I cannot. There is nothing there.’

  ‘Are they still with us or are they late?’ asked Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Late,’ said Mrs.

  There was a silence. Then Mrs spoke again, hurriedly this time. ‘Or I imagine they will be late by now.’

  ‘Because you are of such an age that your parents would be likely to be late?’ asked Mma Makutsi.

  Mrs shrugged. ‘I do not know how old I am.’

  ‘Or where you went to school?’ pressed Mma Makutsi.

  ‘No, I do not remember that. I think I went to school because, well, I know how to write. But I do not know where this school was.’

  Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair. She was staring at Mrs with some intensity now. ‘So, what is ninety-five plus two?’ she asked.

  Mrs seemed momentarily taken aback, but then she answered: ‘Ninety-seven.’

  Catching the light, Mma Makutsi’s glasses flashed out their message. ‘So you can do addition. So you were taught that. And what is the capital city of Swaziland?’

  Mrs shook her head. ‘I do not know where Swaziland is,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But you do know where South Africa is? And America – do you know where America is?’

  Mrs looked helplessly at Miss Rose, who glanced disapprovingly at Mma Makutsi. ‘Please, Mma. This poor lady is embarrassed about what has happened to her memory. We must not confuse her. Please.’

  Mma Ramotswe realised that she would have to intervene, but before she could do so Mma Makutsi started to speak again. ‘I am not confusing her, Mma. I am trying to help her. Did you know you were in Botswana? Did you know where Botswana was?’

  Mrs remained silent and now it was Mma Ramotswe who spoke. ‘I think, Mma Makutsi, that Miss Rose is right. We must not upset this poor lady with questions about the capital city of Swaziland.’ She paused, looking pointedly in Mma Makutsi’s direction. ‘I think that there are many people who do not know what the capital city of Swaziland is. I could go out there in the street and ask people and I am sure that many of them would not know.’

  Mma Makutsi interrupted her. ‘But they would know where America is. They would know that, Mma.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mma Makutsi. The point is that this poor lady has lost some of the things that she knew but remembered some others. It seems to me that the things she has forgotten are the things about herself, while the things that she has remembered are the things that have nothing to do with her. That is perhaps the way this strange condition works.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Miss Rose, glowering at Mma Makutsi. ‘The brain is a very complex thing, Mma. If you look at a picture of it you will see all those ridges. It is like a loaf of bread that has come out of the oven very uneven. All those bumps going up and down.’

  ‘I have seen a picture too,’ muttered Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Well,’ continued Miss Rose, ‘those ridges, those bumps, are the different departments of the brain. Different matters are stored in different places. There is one section for facts and another section for feelings. There is probably a special section for love – I do not know, as I am not a brain scientist. But I am sure that there is a bit that makes you fall in love. And out of love, too. I am sure there is also a department for that.’

  ‘And for recipes,’ mused Mma Ramotswe. ‘Recipes have to go somewhere.’

  Miss Rose agreed. ‘That would be in the part that deals with facts,’ she said. She started to smile. ‘You do not find that recipe part in men’s brains, I think. Or it is not very big in a man’s brain.’

  ‘Nor is the bit for helping around the house,’ offered Mrs, grinning nervously.

  It was the first time they had seen her smile, and Mma Ramotswe responded warmly. ‘Oh, that is very true, Mma. Poor men. No, you are very right about that, Mma.’

  The tension that had grown up around the discussion of the capital of Swaziland seemed to dissipate. The maid, a young woman barely out of her teens, brought in a tray and laid it down on the table.

  ‘You have forgotten the sugar,’ said Miss Rose crossly. ‘Go and fetch it now now.’

  The maid scurried out of the room, Mma Ramotswe’s eyes following her.

  ‘That girl,’ said Miss Rose as she began to pour the tea. ‘That girl is always forgetting things.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s catching,’ said Mma Makutsi with a smirk.

  Miss Rose put down the teapot and looked at Mma Ramotswe. ‘As long as tactlessness isn’t catching, too,’ she said. ‘That would not be a good thing, would it?’

  Mma Ramotswe forced herself to smile. ‘Well, here is the tea, then. I am sure that it will be very good. And then I think we shall have to get back to the office. Mma Makutsi and I have correspondence to catch up on – it is always such a chore, but we have to do it.’

  The maid returned with the sugar and the tea was served. Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mrs took two spoonfuls and stirred them in vigorously. How did one remember that one took sugar, or were there some things that the body knew? Did those things – and perhaps things of the heart – survive the loss of memory, so that part of you, at least, was still there?

  Over tea they talked about other matters. A neighbour’s dog had bitten a child and Miss Rose spoke at length about that. Then there was some discussion about the water pipeline to the north and a sale of work that had taken place at Riverwalk. Nothing was said about loss of memory or the identity of Mrs. It was, thought Mma Ramotswe, one of those gatherings where there is a topic that must not be discussed, but which sits sullenly in the corner.

  Just as their conversation was winding down, Mr Sengupta appeared in the doorway and came to join them.

  ‘I heard voices,’ he said. ‘And I thought that I knew who one of them was.’ He smiled at Mma Ramotswe, who returned his friendly gesture.

  Miss Rose explained that her brother often worked at home. ‘He has an office here in the house,’ she said. ‘He is always working, working, working. Even in the middle of the night you see him in his office – in his pyjamas.’

  Mr Sengupta laughed. ‘Sometimes I am asleep at my desk. It looks as if I’m working, but I am actually sleeping.’

  Miss Rose now stood up. ‘We should allow our guests to leave,’ she said. ‘They will have many other things to do.’

  Mrs stood up too. Mr Sengupta glanced in her direction. ‘I hope these ladies will be able to help you,’ he said. ‘They are the best detectives in the country, I believe.’

  ‘I’m sure they are,’ said Mrs. ‘And I am appreciative of their efforts. If only I could get my memory back…’

  She crossed the room to stand next to Mr Sengupta.

  ‘So, ladies,’ said Miss Rose. ‘We shall wait for your findings.’

  As Miss Rose said this, Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mrs had half turned towards Mr Sengupta and was peering at the left shoulder of the blazer he was wearing. Then she suddenly brushed at the shoulder, as if removing a tiny piece of fluff. He barely took any notice of this, and continued to look at Mma Ramotswe in a slightly bemused way.

  As they made their way towards the door, Mma Ramotswe promised to be in touch when further lines of enquiry had been worked out.

  ‘I hope that you will discover something,’ said Miss Rose. ‘Mrs is very keen to find out who she is so that she can go back to her own home and her own people.’