Mma Ramotswe nodded reassuringly. She had no idea, though, how they could possibly proceed in this case. But she wanted to try, because she had taken to Mrs, and could imagine how terrible it must be to find yourself cast adrift in the world, not knowing who you are or where you are, but aware that there must be people who are missing you and wanting you home.
As they drove back to the office she did not take Mma Makutsi to task. There was no point in that, as there would only be an argument. So she said nothing until Mma Makutsi herself spoke.
‘Swaziland,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘The capital city is Mbabane, isn’t it?’
‘I believe it is,’ said Mma Ramotswe. But she did not wish to discuss Swaziland, or its capital. What she wanted to talk about was what she had seen.
‘Did you notice something, Mma?’ she asked. ‘When Mrs was standing next to Mr Sengupta back there, she brushed a piece of fluff off the shoulder of his blazer.’
‘I did not see that,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘And I don’t see why that should be important.’
Mma Ramotswe wanted to ask: what does Clovis Andersen say? What does he write about observing the little, apparently unimportant things?
‘It might tell us something,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It might tell us that Mr Sengupta and Mrs know one another quite well.’
‘Well, she is staying with them after all,’ pointed out Mma Makutsi.
‘Yes, I know,’ Mma Ramotswe said. ‘But don’t you think you only take fluff off the shoulders of somebody you have known for some time?’
‘No,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘I don’t think that, Mma.’
Chapter Five
Men Often Fail to Take Finer Points
Mma Makutsi’s lawyer was a small man, a wearer of horn-rimmed spectacles and a carrier of a neat leather attaché case with the initials KD on the flap: Karabo Disang. She was already standing outside her newly acquired premises when he drove up and parked under one of the several acacia trees that dotted the yard surrounding the building.
‘Well, Mma Makutsi,’ Karabo Disang said briskly, in his rather loud voice. ‘Here you are in front of your new domain.’ He waved a hand towards the building. ‘The subjects of your lease, as we lawyers call it.’
‘I’m very pleased, Rra,’ she said. ‘It’s a very important moment for me.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘You have the keys, Rra?’
The lawyer smiled as he flipped open the attaché case. Pulling out a bunch of keys, he dangled them ceremoniously before handing them over to Mma Makutsi. ‘I hope I’ve brought the right ones,’ he said dryly. ‘My office is full of keys, as I’m sure you will understand.’
The keys bore no label, which offended Mma Makutsi’s secretarial soul. One of the first things they had been taught at the Botswana Secretarial College was to attach labels to things. ‘Never forget,’ said the lecturer, ‘that things themselves have no idea what they are. A file cannot tell you what is in it.’ This witticism was greeted with laughter. ‘So label it, ladies! One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future.’
And Mma Makutsi, sitting in the front row and thrilled to be at college at last, had written on the first page of her virginal notebook: One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future. And here was a lawyer – of all people – failing to label a client’s keys.
‘It might be an idea to tie a tag to your keys, Rra,’ she suggested. ‘You know those brown tags with little pieces of string attached to them? You know those ones?’
The lawyer frowned. ‘I am too busy for such things, Mma. That is a secretary’s work.’
Mma Makutsi stared at him. She reached out, almost reluctantly, to take the proffered keys.
‘We lawyers are very busy,’ he went on. ‘We have to charge our time, you see. And if we sat about tying tags to keys, how could we charge that? You would have to work out whose key was which and then charge for that small amount of time that you spent tying a tag to it. It would be complex, Mma.’ He looked at her, as if to ascertain whether his point was understood.
Mma Makutsi’s eyes narrowed. ‘So secretaries are only for unimportant work? Is that your view, Rra?’
Mr Disang smelled danger. ‘Oh no, Mma. I would never say that. They are very important people. Without my secretary, do you know where I would be, Mma?’
She held him in her gaze. ‘Where is that, Rra?’
‘Nowhere, Mma,’ said Mr Disang, grinning in an ingratiating way. ‘She is the one who makes sure that everything runs smoothly. She is vital.’ He swallowed. ‘In every respect, Mma. In every respect.’
Mma Makutsi gestured to the building and began to walk towards it. ‘Should we inspect it, Rra?’
He was relieved to be in less contentious territory. ‘That is exactly what we should do, Mma. We should have a quick inspection – so that I can get back to the office and stop charging you.’
She stopped. There was silence apart from the chorus of cicadas. ‘You’re charging me now, Rra? For this visit? For talking about putting tags on keys?’
Mr Disang gripped his attaché case more tightly. ‘Oh no, Mma. That was careless of me. I wasn’t thinking, you see. There is no charge for this visit. Not a single pula, Mma. Not one.’
‘That’s very good,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘It wouldn’t seem right to pay for a conversation about tags and keys and so on. Nor for a quick walk about a building – or subjects, shall I say?’ She paused. ‘Not after I have paid so much for the drawing up of a lease.’
He was quick to agree. ‘Of course not, Mma.’
The building’s last use had been as a shop, and when they entered they saw that the previous tenant had left not only the shop fittings but some of the stock as well. The premises had been used by a firm of outfitters for both men and women, and in some of the display cases there was still the occasional blouse or belt. Most of the drawers had been cleared out, but in one there was a tangle of garish ties and three odd socks.
‘The tenant should have removed all this rubbish,’ said Mr Disang disapprovingly. ‘People!’
Mma Makutsi agreed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There are some people who are very sloppy. They just don’t care, do they, Rra?’
‘They do not,’ said Mr Disang vehemently. ‘They are useless rubbish, these untidy people. They go about the country making it untidy and expecting other people to clear up behind them.’
In spite of her earlier disapproval, Mma Makutsi found herself warming to Karabo Disang. She had strong views on litter and general sloppiness, and she was pleased to discover that these were shared. Some people, she knew, were unbothered by these matters and merely shrugged their shoulders. These were people for whom it was presumably not an affront that there should be discarded beer bottles and plastic bags lying about on the edge of the road, blown by the wind into small piles, caught on the wire of cattle fences. Well, if they had their way the country would soon be covered with rubbish; so much so, she imagined, that it would disappear altogether. People would say, ‘There used to be a Botswana somewhere around here, but we just can’t find it now – it seems to have disappeared.’ Hah! That would teach those who were unexercised about litter. There should be an anti-litter political party, she decided. It would campaign on a no-litter platform, with a promise that anybody who threw things down on the ground would be forced to spend their weekend clearing up. That would soon stop that. But the party would have to print leaflets to explain its policies to the voters, and everybody knew what one did with political leaflets – one threw them away, and that —
Her train of thought was interrupted by Mr Disang clearing his throat.
‘You are hoping to make this place into a restaurant, Mma,’ he said. He spoke tentatively – respectfully – as he realised that Mma Makutsi was no ordinary client. One could condescend to ordinary clients, but there was a certain sort of lady to whom one did not condescend, and this was one of them.
‘That is my plan, Rra,’ said Mma Makutsi rather absently, loo
king up at the ceiling now. The lights were still there but would have to be replaced, she felt, by something more in keeping with the ambience she had in mind for her restaurant.
‘That is very good,’ said Mr Disang. ‘I am sure that it will be a very popular restaurant.’ He paused. ‘Of course, if one is running a restaurant one needs somebody to cook. That is very important.’
Mma Makutsi glanced at him. ‘Obviously, Rra,’ she said. ‘If there is nobody to cook, then there will be no food. I don’t think there’s much point in having a restaurant with nothing on the menu.’
Mr Disang laughed. ‘It would be very easy to choose, though. I always find it difficult to make up my mind when I go to a restaurant and I see a whole page of choices. How can you decide in such circumstances? Imagine if you’re sitting down for your breakfast and your wife gives you a long list of things you can eat. Imagine that, Mma. What would you do?’
‘Or it could be the wife sitting down and the husband giving her the menu,’ snapped Mma Makutsi. ‘I believe there are some husbands who cook for their wives. I have heard of these people…’ She left the remark unfinished, demonstrating through the look she gave Mr Disang that she certainly did not think he fell into this category.
Mr Disang laughed again, but more nervously now. ‘Of course, Mma, of course.’ He hesitated. ‘But, as I was saying, you will need a cook, I think.’
‘They call them chefs,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘A cook is any old cook; a chef is much more special.’
‘That is very true,’ said Mr Disang. ‘They are very talented people, these chefs.’
Mma Makutsi started to cross to the other side of the room. Mr Disang followed her.
‘I was thinking that I might be able to help you,’ he said. ‘If you are going to look for a chef, then I think I know one who might be interested in the job. He is a famous chef, I think. He is very good.’
Mma Makutsi looked at her lawyer. She noticed that there were small beads of perspiration on his brow. He must be one of those people who sweat easily, she thought. ‘Who is this chef?’ she asked.
‘I know him quite well,’ said Mr Disang. ‘He is a person I see from time to time. He is probably the best chef in Botswana – or so I’ve heard people say.’
Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. ‘But if he is such a famous chef, then why would he want to come and work for me?’ she asked. In business matters she tended to optimism, but she was realistic, too. ‘If you’re a famous chef, then surely you’re very busy cooking at those big hotels. The Sun. The Grand Palm. They are the places where all the famous chefs go.’
Mr Disang seemed unworried by the objection. ‘There are chefs who have done all that,’ he said dismissively. ‘They have worked in all those big places and then they think: I need a new challenge. That is what they think, Mma.’
Mma Makutsi stared at him appraisingly. He noticed, and his confidence seemed to grow visibly. ‘I can arrange for you to see him, Mma,’ he pressed. ‘Think about it: you’ll have no need to worry about finding a chef for your new restaurant. All that will be fixed up.’
She hesitated, and sensing her hesitation, he continued: ‘You know it makes sense, Mma.’
She gazed out of the window into the yard outside. The previous occupants had left that in a messy state too: there were old barrels, an untidy pile of firewood, the chassis of an ancient car like a skeleton long since stripped of its clothing of flesh. There was much to do: tidying the place up; and then there would be the decoration; and the fitting out of the kitchen. If a chef were to be identified at this stage, then that at least would be one thing less on the list of things to be done.
‘You can bring him to see me, Rra?’ she asked.
Mr Disang nodded. ‘There will be no problem with that. Today, tomorrow – whenever you want to see him, I will bring him for an interview. You will be very pleased with him.’
‘What is his name, Rra?’
She noticed that Mr Disang looked away.
‘Well, Rra: what is he called?’
Mr Disang cleared his throat. ‘He is called Thomas.’
‘Thomas what, Rra?’
This was greeted by a long silence. Then Mma Makutsi said, ‘Thomas what, Rra? People are not just called Thomas – unless they are in the Bible.’
Mr Disang laughed nervously. ‘Oh, that is very funny, Mma. People in the Bible have only one name – that is quite true. They are not called Makutsi or Ramotswe…’
‘Or Disang,’ supplied Mma Makutsi.
‘No,’ said Mr Disang. ‘There are no Disangs in the Bible.’
‘Well?’ asked Mma Makutsi. ‘What is his family name, Rra? Thomas what?’
Mr Disang fingered his tie. ‘I am not quite sure, Mma. I don’t think he uses one.’ He suddenly brightened, as if an idea had occurred to him. ‘No, that’s right. He’s one of these people who don’t really use a family name any more. I believe they feel that it’s old-fashioned.’
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. ‘Old-fashioned? What’s old-fashioned about having a family name? Maybe they think it’s old-fashioned to have family at all – these people who have no family name. They’re everywhere, it seems. Pah!’
Mr Disang had not expected quite so spirited a response. ‘Don’t blame me, Mma. I always use my family name, as you know, but these chefs are very… very creative people. They have creative views.’
Mma Makutsi was not convinced. ‘I think he may be one of these people with an embarrassing name. You come across them, you know. I came across somebody the other day whose first name was Voetsek. Can you imagine being called that?’ Voetsek was the word widely used in southern Africa to tell people to go away. It was a very abrupt, dismissive word.
Mr Disang said he thought that was cruel. ‘What are parents thinking of when they call a child something like that?’
Mma Makutsi took the view that they were not thinking at all. ‘Many people do not think,’ she observed. ‘They get up in the morning and there is nothing in their heads – nothing. It is a big problem.’
‘But we must soldier on,’ said Mr Disang. ‘Those of us who are always thinking must bear the burden for them.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes it is very hard, Mma – very hard.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Can you ask this Thomas Nobody to come and see me tomorrow?’
Mr Disang beamed with pleasure. ‘I can do that, Mma. And he will cook something for you so that you can see how good he is.’
The offer reassured her. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, she thought. And then she tried to remember where she had come across that saying before; was it something that Clovis Andersen had said in The Principles of Private Detection? It certainly had the Andersen ring to it. All cats are grey in the dark, he had written in one chapter. So remember that how much you can see of a situation depends on how much light you can shine upon it. Well, that was clearly true, just as she felt that the proof of the pudding was in the eating, especially when it came to the appointment of a chef. She smiled at the thought. She might ask this Thomas Whoever to make her a pudding at his interview and then she could test it right there and then and say, The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Of course, the chef might not see the humour, but then Mma Makutsi felt that men often failed to grasp these finer points until they were explained to them. That was not to think less of men, of course – it was simply the way things were.
Chapter Six
I Am Not Rude Any More
Mma Ramotswe had been aware of the fact that something was preying on Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s mind. It was not that anything out of the ordinary had been said: their conversation recently had been much as it usually was – mostly concerned with day-to-day things: the doings of the two foster children, the prospects for the beans in his special vegetable patch, the need to get a decorator to brighten up the paintwork on the veranda, as it was six years since it had last been painted. This was the stuff of ordinary existence; small matters, yes, but the ones that all
married couples talked about, and that provided, at least for most people, a sufficient list of conversational topics.