The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe (25 page)

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.

H
OUSEHOLDS DO NOT RUN THEMSELVES
, Mma Ramotswe had often observed: there is shopping, cleaning, repairing, and organising to do—and all of these, for some reason, seemed to be the responsibility of women, or almost always.

She thought that only one of these functions could not be described as a chore. No matter how much one tried to take a positive view of cleaning—no matter how frequently one told oneself that sweeping and dusting had their moments, it was difficult to see the whole business as anything but a use of time that could be more profitably and enjoyably spent doing something more satisfying. Even organising, which sounded as if it could be interesting, was really all about telling other members of the household what to do, checking up to see that they had done it, and asking them to do it when it transpired—as it usually did—that they had not got round to doing it yet. No, shopping really was the sole item in the positive column of these household accounts.

Mma Ramotswe liked to do her shopping weekly, usually on a Friday afternoon. She knew that this was far from being the best day to pay a visit to the supermarket, as it was inevitably full of people
buying provisions for the weekend. When a Friday coincided with the end of the month, and therefore with payday, the supermarket was even more crowded—this time with people whose kitchen cupboards had grown empty as money ran out. It was not hard to spot these people as they tended to help themselves to snacks from the contents of their trollies as they went around, to compensate for the short rations of the previous few days. That was perfectly all right, she felt, as long as the food from which they took these advance helpings was already measured and priced for the cashier. All that was happening there was that people were eating food that they were going to pay for anyway.

But this was not always so, and there were those who ate without paying. Mma Ramotswe had witnessed one particularly bad case only a few weeks earlier. She had been in the fruit and vegetable section of the supermarket when a woman—traditionally built, as Mma Ramotswe herself was—had come into sight, pushing a trolley and surrounded by five young children. This woman had stopped, looked over her shoulder, and then whispered instructions to her charges. The children waited for a moment or two and then fanned out across the supermarket floor, grabbing pieces of fruit from the counters and stuffing them into their mouths. They were, Mma Ramotswe thought, rather like a swarm of locusts descending on the land, picking the best of what they saw, munching hungrily as they marched across the landscape.

Almost too shocked to speak, she had stood there with her mouth agape at the sheer effrontery of the behaviour on display. When she eventually recovered, she called out to the woman, now only a few yards away from her, “Excuse me, Mma. Excuse me.”

The woman looked up, as if surprised to be addressed. “Yes, Mma? What is your problem?”

“Problem? I have no problem,” said Mma Ramotswe. “
You
have a problem, Mma.”

The woman had stared at her with undisguised irritation. “Why do you say I have a problem, Mma? I have no problem that I can see. If there are any problems, they must be
your
problems, not mine.”

Mma Ramotswe pointed at two of the youngsters, one of whom was halfway through a banana while the other gnawed at a large apple. “Your children, Mma, are eating the fruit.”

“So,” said the woman. “So, they are eating fruit. That is good for them, is it not? Does the government not say,
Eat lots of fruit and you will be very healthy
? Do they not say that, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe marvelled at the woman's brazenness. “But the government doesn't tell you to eat other people's fruit.”

The woman's irritation increased. “This fruit does not belong to anybody yet. It has not been bought. We are not taking fruit from anybody.” She paused before delivering her final shot. “So please mind your own business, Mma.”

With that, the woman had marshalled her brood of children—some still with their mouths full—and drifted away in the direction of the bread counter. Mma Ramotswe had stood quite still, hardly able to believe what she had seen. Mind her own business? But it was her business. When other people behaved dishonestly it
was
the business of others, because if we did not react to the bad behaviour of others, then we weakened the whole of society, and that was definitely part of everybody's business.

She hesitated. There is an inbuilt human reluctance to inform on other people; nobody likes to be thought of as a sneak, as somebody who runs to the authorities. And yet it was her duty, she felt, to warn the store that this woman and her little band of locusts were eating food that did not belong to them. So she went to one of the desks and told the young woman there what was happening. “Now they have gone to the bread counter,” she said. “They will be helping themselves there too, unless you stop them.”

The young woman shrugged. “We know that woman. She is always bringing her children in here.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for something further to be said, but the young woman simply shrugged again.

“You should stop them, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Can't prove anything,” said the young woman. “They never do it when we're watching. They are very clever.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at her in disbelief, but this merely elicited another shrug. And with that, the incident, it seemed, was closed. But she thought about it—both there, in the supermarket, as she did her own shopping, and afterwards, as she drove home in the white van. She thought of what her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, or even Seretse Khama himself would have said about this. They would have said:
This is not what Botswana needs.
And they were right, she felt, although she was relieved that, being late, they had been spared the sight of what she had witnessed.

On this occasion there was no such shocking incident at the supermarket, but there was nonetheless a meeting. This was with Mma Potokwane, whom Mma Ramotswe encountered in the supermarket's sauce and condiment section. Mma Potokwane was examining a jar of extra-strong pickle with the expression of one who is doubtful as to whether her palate will be able to bear the heat.

“Ah, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Do you know whether this sauce is as hot as the jar claims? The label has a picture of a man with fire coming out of his mouth. Look.”

She handed her friend the jar for scrutiny. “I believe this is very hot,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But the picture is an exaggeration, I think. I do not think it will set you on fire.” For a moment she pictured Mma Potokwane with flames coming out of her mouth. She imagined herself reaching for a fire extinguisher and covering her friend in white foam, or pushing her down to the ground and covering her head with a fire blanket. It would be an undignified end to a meal.

The jar of sauce found its way into Mma Potokwane's trolley, and the conversation moved on from sauce to the possibility of a
chat after they had both finished their shopping. An arrangement was made: they would meet in forty minutes at the café near the outside stairs. “There is something I need to talk about, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is quite a serious matter, I'm afraid.”

Mma Ramotswe did not relish spending the next forty minutes worrying, and so she asked Mma Potokwane what it was about.

“It is rather hard to explain,” said Mma Potokwane. “It is to do with Mma Makutsi. I shall tell you once we sit down and can chat.”

To do with Mma Makutsi? This hardly helped, and by the time she found herself with Mma Potokwane at the Equatorial Café she was feeling thoroughly anxious. But even then, the conversation did not go straight to the subject of Mma Makutsi, but meandered gently in that direction, by way of a discussion of orphans, cake, and guilt, and one or two other subjects of equal importance.

The subject of orphans was triggered by Mma Ramotswe's enquiry as to whether any new children had arrived at the Orphan Farm.

“There is a young boy,” said Mma Potokwane. “He has recently come in. It is very sad. He lost his parents in a mining accident up at Selebi-Phikwe.”

“Both parents?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “The mother as well as the father? Did they both go down the mine together? At the same time, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane waved the question aside. “There are many women who go down mines,” she said. “Women are always going down mines these days.”

Mma Ramotswe looked dubious. “Are you sure, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane was sure. “I could tell you some very sad stories,” she said. “But what is the point? The fact of the matter is that the poor child has no parents. That is what we have to deal with. It does not matter how the parents were lost.”

“But it's unusual for two parents to be lost in the same mining disaster, don't you think?”

“The Lord works in strange ways,” said Mma Potokwane, closing down the discussion. “That is all I have to say on the subject.”

They had moved on to cake, having ordered a slice each to eat with their tea. Mma Potokwane had told the waitress that she wanted a large piece, and she was sure that Mma Ramotswe felt the same. “None of your thin slices,” she warned. “I have seen you serve some very thin slices here. We do not want any of those, if you please.”

Mma Ramotswe had nodded her agreement. “I see no reason why we should not have a large slice,” she said. “Or even two. I do not feel guilty about eating cake any more. I used to, but no longer.”

“You are very wise,” said Mma Potokwane. “How did you do it, Mma? Did you stop thinking about the things that made you feel guilty?”