The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café

  The young man was almost too astonished to speak. But he just managed, “Yes, Mma, that is true.”

  “And now you can take a letter, Charlie. I shall dictate and you can write it down—then you can type it up.”

  Charlie rapidly busied himself with his preparations. “Fire away, Mma,” he said. “I am ready.”

  And he thought: I would do anything for this woman—anything.

  IF THE DAY STARTED WELL for Charlie, it did not for Mma Makutsi. She was late arriving at work; Mma Ramotswe had dictated her letter, and Charlie, inordinately proud of his handiwork, had typed it, handed it over for signing, and addressed the envelope by the time she came into the office.

  She lowered herself dispiritedly into her seat. “It is all over,” she said, her voice flat and without emotion. “Everything is finished now.”

  Mma Ramotswe, who had been examining a set of suspect receipts passed on by a client, pushed the papers aside. “Mma?” she said with concern. “What is it, Mma?”

  There was defeat in Mma Makutsi’s voice. “This. The paper. Today.” She held out the folded newspaper, which Charlie took and passed on to Mma Ramotswe.

  She knew what it was before she read it. This would be the review of the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café by the self-appointed restaurant critic and markedly undistinguished graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College, Violet Sephotho. Mma Makutsi was right; this was the end.

  Our renowned restaurant critic visits a new establishment! shouted the headline on the front page. See page 6 for the full story.

  With the air of one who dreads what she is about to read, Mma Ramotswe turned to page six.

  De Luxe? the review began.

  Not in my dictionary! Of course anybody can call a business anything these days and get away with it. Anything at all. There’s a place in town that calls itself the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Says who? What about the CID? What about the FBI? They may have something to say about that claim. So when an outfit sets up calling itself the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café, the warning bells sound loud and clear. Who are these handsome men? Where’s the luxe? When I went there, there were certainly no handsome men—and I even looked under the tables to make sure. There were a few men around, but even their mothers would not have described them as handsome. So that was a bad start—in my view, at least.

  And then it got worse. The waiter appeared and took my order. I’m not sure if you can write things down correctly when you’re drunk, but at least he tried. I had to help him to spell sausage, which is not a good sign. If there’s one thing a waiter should be able to do, it’s to spell s-a-u-s-a-g-e.

  I looked around the place. The less said about the décor, the better. Next time I go there—not that there’s likely to be a next time—I’ll take a tin of paint with me and try to sort out the places where the painter forgot to go: all part of the service!

  My food took thirty-eight minutes to arrive—I timed it. I was hungry by then, but not hungry enough to eat what was put before me; you’d have to be starving to eat anything at this place. Better to go hungry than to spend the next few days sick, I always say!

  I looked at the food and smelled it. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t go there—just don’t go there! So here are my scores (out of ten) for the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café: atmosphere: zero; décor and cleanliness: zero; service: minus one; food: minus ten. Believe me—give this place a very wide berth (five miles, to be on the safe side)! VS.

  Mma Ramotswe finished reading and laid the newspaper down on her desk. She looked at Mma Makutsi, whose large round glasses were flashing out a message that was hard to interpret but could hardly be cheerful.

  “Not a good review?” asked Charlie.

  Neither answered him. Then Mma Ramotswe said, “That woman is full of venom, Mma. She is like a snake.”

  “Snakes do not write in the newspapers,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “That is the difference. Snakes cannot harm you by what they write.”

  Charlie had now picked up the newspaper and was working his way through the review. “Ow!” he exclaimed. “This is one big lie, Mma. People will see that. They’ll know who this VS is.”

  “No, they won’t,” said Mma Makutsi. “They won’t know who she is and they’ll believe every word of it.” She paused before continuing. “I am finished now. I have wasted all that money of Phuti’s and for nothing. I have discovered something about the chef and the waiter. And the waitress too.”

  Mma Ramotswe suspected what was coming, but waited to hear it.

  “They are all related,” said Mma Makutsi. “He dropped his omang on the floor when he went out to the stores and I picked it up. I saw his real name. I asked the waiter, and he told me everything. He was drunk and had had a fight with his father. He told me everything. He is not a real chef. My lawyer is his brother and always tries to help him, but it never works … And now they have all handed in their notice and said that they have had enough, and so there is nobody to run the restaurant. It’s the end, Mma Ramotswe—it’s the end.”

  Mma Ramotswe grimaced. It was difficult to see what could be done and she felt at a loss as to what to say to Mma Makutsi. Should she recommend that she simply walk away from the business; that she close it down and cut her losses rather than letting them mount up? What if she advertised for replacements and found another set of these types, every bit as bad as the last lot?

  Mma Makutsi needed help, and she could not provide it. Her thoughts turned to Mma Potokwane. Catering was something she knew about, and was good at. Was there a chance—just a chance? She glanced at her watch. It would take them twenty minutes or so to get out to the Orphan Farm and when they arrived she imagined Mma Potokwane would be ready to serve tea and fruit cake. Mma Makutsi and Mma Potokwane had had their differences in the past, but there was no doubt of Mma Potokwane’s ability to deal with a crisis.

  “I think we should go for a drive,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “There’s no point sitting here and brooding.”

  “I’m finished,” said Mma Makutsi. “There’s no point in doing anything.”

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. “Never say that, Mma.”

  “But it’s true,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am a big failure, Mma.”

  Charlie, his sympathy engaged by the outrageous review, shook his head vigorously. “No, Mma, you are not a failure. Ninety-seven per cent—remember?”

  “That was a long time ago,” she muttered. “This is different. This is a … a whole new area of failure.”

  There was no point in wallowing in misery, thought Mma Ramotswe. “Come on, now, Mma,” she coaxed. “Let’s go somewhere where we can look calmly at what you might do.”

  Mma Makutsi rose from her desk. “A big failure,” she muttered, to nobody in particular. “That’s me.”

  Nobody else heard it—but she did: from down below, at floor level, came the voice of her shoes, a voice that was at the same time tiny and crowing.

  We warned you, Boss. Did you listen to us? You did not. Result? Failure—big time!

  THE CHILDREN WERE SINGING when they arrived. That’s something, thought Mma Ramotswe—the sound of children’s voices was a reminder that however bad things might look, they were not as bad as all that. Children’s singing is like the light; or like the much-needed rain at the end of a drought. It is the thing that will comfort us and remind us that there is good in the world, and hope too.

  “Listen to that,” said Mma Ramotswe, as they got out of the van. “Listen to that lovely song, Mma Makutsi. That is one that we sang ourselves, isn’t it? All about a bird that looks after the fields when the people are away and warns them when the locusts try to eat the crops.”

  Mma Makutsi made a non-committal sound.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily, “it is the same song. That was a very helpful bird, that one.”

  “Maybe,” said Mma Makutsi. Then she muttered: “There are no helpful birds—not in real life.”

  They walked over to the block where Mma
Potokwane had her office. When they knocked, they could hear voices within. Mma Potokwane’s assistant came out to greet them. “She’s busy right now,” she said, “but she will be ready to see you in a few minutes. I can fetch you tea, Mma Ramotswe—or you can wait until Mma Potokwane is ready.”

  “I shall wait, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not too hot and I am not thirsty.”

  They took a seat in the small waiting room. There were pictures of children on the walls, including a photograph of one of the orphans who had done particularly well in the recent school-leaving examinations. The assistant, noticing that Mma Ramotswe was looking at the photograph with interest, said, “That is a very clever girl, Mma. She came to us when she was three and has been with us since then. She won one of the scholarships to Maru-a-Pula School and now Mr. Taylor is getting her something that will take her to university. She wants to be a vet. Think of that, Mma—one of our children becoming a vet. She will be able to take care of the few cattle we have here—and the goats too, I think.”

  “It is a very good thought,” said Mma Ramotswe. She turned to Mma Makutsi. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” said Mma Makutsi, barely audibly.

  The door to Mma Potokwane’s office opened and a woman dressed in a flowery dress stepped out. She smiled benignly at Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi before making her way out of the room. Behind her, framed in the office doorway, stood the familiar, generous-sized figure of Mma Potokwane.

  “You must come in, Bomma,” she said. “I have finished interviewing.”

  This warm greeting drew a smile from Mma Ramotswe, even if Mma Makutsi gazed down at the floor. Mma Ramotswe saw Mma Potokwane glance at Mma Makutsi in a concerned way. She had picked up that something was wrong; of course she would—if you were responsible for the welfare of two hundred people, children and housemothers, cooks and cleaners, then you learned to read moods.

  They sat down while Mma Potokwane’s assistant put on the kettle.

  “I was interviewing a new housemother,” said Mma Potokwane brightly. “That lady who went out—I think she’ll get the job. She had ten children of her own, you know, and now … well, she says that since the youngest has grown up she doesn’t know what to do with her time.”

  “Ten children is too many,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Potokwane caught Mma Ramotswe’s eye; a silent message was exchanged.

  “Children are good for Botswana,” said Mma Potokwane evenly. “We still have a lot of room in this country.”

  Mma Makutsi said nothing.

  “Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Potokwane, “I can tell that something is wrong.”

  “I am fine,” sniffed Mma Makutsi.

  “No, you aren’t, Mma. I can tell that you are not fine. You are very unhappy about something.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing, “It’s this new café, isn’t it?”

  Mma Makutsi looked straight ahead of her. She took off her glasses and began to polish them. Mma Potokwane signalled to her assistant to fetch the fruit cake tin.

  “It is very difficult running a business,” began Mma Makutsi.

  “Of course it is,” said Mma Potokwane. “Probably even harder than running an orphan farm.”

  The implicit compliment winkled a response out of Mma Makutsi. “I have had trouble with my chef,” she said.

  Mma Potokwane nodded her head in agreement. “That man is very troublesome. He is not really a cook, you know. That business about having worked in the Grand Palm—complete nonsense.”

  Mma Makutsi seemed surprised to hear that Mma Potokwane knew about Thomas Disang. “You know of him, Mma?”

  Mma Potokwane looked sympathetic. “Many people know about him,” she said. “He is what they call a chancer, I think.”

  “And the waiter?”

  “He is his son, I believe,” said Mma Potokwane.

  Mma Makutsi turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Everybody will be laughing at me,” she said. “My name is going to make people laugh and laugh. They’ll say: ‘Mma Makutsi,’ and then people will start laughing.”

  “They will not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They will not laugh.”

  “No,” said Mma Potokwane. “Not if you …” She trailed off.

  “Not if I what?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “Not if you change everything,” said Mma Potokwane.

  Mma Makutsi pointed out that after Violet Sephotho’s review it would make no difference. “The Disangs have handed in their notice and gone,” she said, “but people will still remember that Sephotho woman’s warning. That is what this place is like, Mma. It is a village. You do not forget things in a village.”

  Mma Potokwane was not discouraged. “You change the name,” she said. “You change the clientele. You get a new chef. You change everything.”

  “I don’t see how you can change the clientele,” objected Mma Makutsi.

  The assistant had now prepared the tea. There was fruit cake, too—generous, therapeutic slices appeared on plates.

  “You don’t want handsome men,” explained Mma Potokwane. “You don’t want that crowd.”

  Mma Makutsi said nothing but was listening intently.

  “You want women, Mma. Women like places where they can go and talk to other women.”

  Mma Ramotswe began to smile. “Of course they do. Of course.”

  “So, instead of the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café, you have the Ladies’ Afternoon Café.”

  There was a long silence. In the distance, the children had stopped singing while Mma Potokwane had been speaking. Now there was only the sound of cicadas screeching outside. Somewhere, far away, a car’s engine whined.

  Mma Makutsi was the first to speak. “The Ladies’ Afternoon Café,” she intoned, giving each word its full weight. “The Ladies’ Afternoon Café.”

  Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands together. “That will be very popular, Mma! Everybody will go … or, rather, all ladies will go.”

  “Not all,” conceded Mma Potokwane. “But enough. And you needn’t have a full menu—they’re always lots of trouble. You will just have scones and cake.”

  “And tea,” interjected Mma Ramotswe.

  “Of course.”

  “Red bush tea and ordinary tea.”

  Mma Potokwane repeated the formula. “Red bush tea and ordinary.”

  Mma Makutsi was thinking. “I’ll need people to do all this.”

  Mma Potokwane lowered her eyes modestly. “I can manage it to begin with,” she said. “Later on we can get a manager to take over from me. I have a retired housemother in mind who would love to do it. She is a famous baker of scones.”

  Mma Makutsi looked enquiringly at Mma Ramotswe, who signalled that this was clearly a good idea. “Mma Potokwane is good at getting people to do things,” she said. “You can count on her.”

  “So I needn’t worry about anything?” asked Mma Makutsi, her tone now distinctly more cheerful.

  “Nothing at all,” said Mma Potokwane. “In fact, you can forget about everything. You can go back to doing what you do so well, Mma, which is being one of the best detectives in the country.”

  This flattery had an instant effect. “You’re very kind, Mma Potokwane,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Potokwane made a self-effacing gesture. “I do not like to see my friends in difficulty.” She paused. “Which is why I have a piece of news for you, Mma Ramotswe.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “News, Mma? Good or bad?”

  Mma Potokwane laughed. “Have a piece of fruit cake first, Mma. Fruit cake goes with …”

  They waited.

  “Fruit cake goes with good news,” concluded Mma Potokwane.

  THAT EVENING, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat out on their verandah later than usual. It was a Friday evening, and Motholeli and Puso were both away on sleepovers with friends. As a result, the house was quieter than usual, prompting Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to turn on a radio, which Mma Ramotswe immediately switched off. “If you don’t mind, Rra,??
? she said, “it will be more peaceful without music.” He did not mind; Mma Ramotswe was right—they did not need any distraction: there was so much to talk about.

  “So,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “you went out to Mma Potokwane’s place?”

  “We did,” said Mma Ramotswe, sipping from the glass of guava juice she had poured. “She was on her usual good form.”

  “That woman,” he mused. “She’s like a …” He searched his mind for a way of describing their formidable friend. A railway engine? A bolt of lightning? A determined cow? No, that was uncomplimentary, and he did not mean to be disrespectful. A stately hippopotamus, then? No, that was worse.

  “She is like a matron,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Don’t you think?”

  “Of course. Yes.” That was it. She was like a matron and she was a matron. And we needed matrons, he thought—we needed them. He had read that hospitals were getting rid of matrons and appointing all sorts of people who were not matrons to run them—people who did not wear matrons’ blue and white uniforms and did not have watches pinned onto their fronts. How would such people know how to run a hospital—or a children’s home, for that matter? Who were these people to imagine that they could do the things that matrons had always done? No wonder hospitals were full of infections and people lying in unmade beds; matrons would never have tolerated that—not for one moment.

  “So what did Matron say?” he asked.

  They both smiled at the question. Mma Ramotswe took another sip of guava juice and told him about her renaming—and effective takeover—of Mma Makutsi’s café. “Actually,” she said, “Mma Makutsi was rather pleased. I think she had realised that running a restaurant or a café may sound exciting but is really extremely hard work; I would never try to run one, Rra—never. She seemed pleased to be handing over the responsibility to Mma Potokwane.” She paused. “And the terms were good too—from my point of view.”