Александр Макколл Смит - The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café

‘That is a very good way of dealing with somebody like Violet Sephotho,’ Mma Makutsi had said, chuckling at the recollection. ‘That uncle would have regarded her as a challenge – somebody who clearly needed to be saved, and he would have made a big effort to do so.’

But now Itumelang was asleep and Mma Makutsi was sitting in the kitchen, aware that she would have to start cooking the evening meal, but too excited by the news she had received that day to concentrate on any mundane task. She sat like that for almost twenty minutes, going over in her mind her short, businesslike conversation with the lawyer. Her offer for the lease of the premises had been accepted and, under the power of attorney she had granted him, he had signed it. Nothing remained to be done. For the next five years she was to be the tenant of the commercial premises on Plot 1432 Extension Two, Gaborone; she, Grace Makutsi, daughter of the last Hector Makutsi, of Bobonong – just that and nothing else, but now, all rather suddenly, it seemed, Mrs Radiphuti, mother of Itumelang Radiphuti, and tenant in her own right of commercial premises. It was almost too much to take in, and when Phuti eventually came home she was still thinking of it all with the warm glow that comes from the contemplation of something deeply satisfying, something that one cannot quite believe has happened.

Phuti had been aware that the lawyer would phone that day and he knew immediately. ‘Good news?’ he said, as he entered the kitchen. ‘I think I can tell.’

She nodded, and he stepped forward to embrace her.

‘It is all arranged,’ she said. ‘He has signed the lease for me and I am now the tenant.’

Phuti patted her on the shoulder. ‘My Grace,’ he said fondly. ‘You are a very clever woman. I am proud of you.’

She thought: It’s your money , but she did not say it. Instead she said, ‘I cannot wait, Phuti. He said we can pick up the keys tomorrow.’

‘I’ve spoken to that painter,’ said Phuti. ‘He says that he is ready to start the moment we buy the paint.’

‘Good. And the carpenter?’

‘He will be ready to start next week. He says the painter can start as long as he doesn’t do the part where the cupboards are going. Then he’ll come in and start building all the other things. And the electrician. That Zimbabwean we use at the store says that he will drop everything and come to us the moment we need him.’

Mma Makutsi smiled. She had become aware of Phuti’s influence, but had yet to become used to the ease with which he could get tradesmen to dance attendance.

‘I think we could open in about a month,’ she said.

‘As soon as that?’

‘Yes. We will need to find a chef and waiters, but that will be easy. There are always people searching for jobs. There are far too many chefs, I think.’

Phuti nodded. He assumed that she knew what she was talking about. He was not sure why there should be such an over-abundance of chefs, but perhaps she was right. ‘And a name, Grace? You said that you would think of a suitable name for your restaurant.’

She had already given that some thought, and a name had come into her mind unbidden. It was exactly the right name for her business and she now announced it to Phuti: ‘The Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café.’

Phuti hesitated. ‘For… for handsome men?’ he asked. He was not a handsome man himself; he knew that.

‘Yes,’ said Mma Makutsi. Then she laughed. ‘Not that other men are discouraged, Rra. All will be welcome.’

‘Then why call it the Handsome Man’s place? Why not just the De Luxe Café?’

‘Because I want it to be a fashionable restaurant, Phuti.’ She considered again what she had said about everybody being welcome. That would need some qualification. ‘But I do not want any riff-raff coming in and eating there,’ she continued. ‘I want this to be a big important stop on the circuit.’

Phuti thought of the riff-raff, and found himself feeling sorry for them. Presumably these people – whoever they were – had to eat somewhere, and he did not like the thought of them wandering around, excluded from this… this circuit, whatever that was. ‘What circuit?’ he asked. ‘What is this circuit?’

Mma Makutsi made a vaguely circular movement with her hand. ‘It is the circuit for fashionable people,’ she said. The circular movements became wider. ‘It is that circuit.’

‘Oh,’ said Phuti. And then added, ‘I see.’

Chapter Four

Electric Dogs and Other Things

The meeting at the Sengupta house had been arranged by Mma Makutsi, who had pointedly insisted on setting it up.

‘It will look better,’ she said, ‘if I telephone to arrange a time to see these people.’

Mma Ramotswe looked up enquiringly. ‘But I can do that, Mma. Thank you, anyway.’

Mma Makutsi shook her head. ‘No, it would be better if I did it, Mma. If you phone, then they will think that we are the sort of outfit where the bo —’ She almost said boss, but stopped herself. ‘… where the senior director has to phone herself.’

Mma Ramotswe smiled inwardly. There were two things that had become apparent from this exchange. The first of these was that Mma Makutsi wanted to ensure that she was included in the visit to the Sengupta house, rather than staying behind to keep the office open. The second of these was that even if, as a result of a slip of the tongue on Mma Ramotswe’s part, she had now become a co-director, she nonetheless acknowledged that she was the junior co-director, if there could be such a thing. That, at least, was reassuring.

Now, they drew up in front of the Sengupta house. It was an area where the plots were lined with substantial whitewashed walls; the gates set into these walls were generally far from modest – statements of the importance of the people who lived behind them. As they arrived, Mma Ramotswe thought of her own gate on Zebra Drive – a ramshackle affair that had never fully recovered from being hit several years ago by Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s green truck. He had said that he would repair it – and he would certainly be capable of doing that – but somehow it was never done, and the gate languished, tipped at an angle, on its twisted supports. She had raised the subject with him, of course, but that did not seem to make much difference, even when she reminded him that although he was always prepared to respond to Mma Potokwani’s request to fix the water borehole pump at the Orphan Farm or attend to her increasingly eccentric minibus, still he could not find the time to repair his own gate. ‘I shall do it,’ he said. But that, she reflected, was what all husbands promised; every wife, she imagined, had a mental list of things that her husband should do but realistically never would do.

They had been seen, perhaps by a hidden camera, and the gate started to slide open to admit them.

‘An electric gate,’ said Mma Makutsi.

‘You could have one,’ said Mma Ramotswe, as she swung the white van onto the driveway. ‘Phuti could afford to put electric gates on your new house.’

‘We do not need one,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘We have two dogs now. They sleep outside in a shed. One is very fat – like a barrel on legs. They bark and bark if somebody comes. That is enough.’

‘Perhaps you can get electric dogs now,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Maybe that will be the new thing.’

Mma Makutsi let out a hoot of laughter. ‘Electric dogs…’

And then, with a sudden impact, the front wing of the tiny white van hit the edge of the electric gate. The van came to a shuddering stop, as did the gate.

Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. ‘I have hit the gate, Mma,’ she said.

For a few moments Mma Makutsi said nothing. Then she turned to Mma Ramotswe and put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘The important thing, Mma, is that we are all right.’