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

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.

She understood, of course, that spouses could not share absolutely everything. Just as she needed to have time to herself to think about womanly things, so too did Mr J. L. B. Matekoni need to be able to ponder the things that men ponder. She knew that there were women who did not like the idea of their husbands thinking about things without their permission, but she was definitely not such a person. She had known somebody like that – a woman who lived in Mochudi who was married to a rather harassed-looking man. Mma Ramotswe had learned from a mutual friend that this woman made a point of knowing exactly where her husband was at any time, whom he was talking to, and everything that he said and was said to him. She insisted on collecting the mail from their post-box so that she could open any letters addressed to him – and reply on his behalf if needs be. Eventually it had all been too much for him and he had simply run away, not with any real idea as to where he was heading, but running as fast as his oppressed legs would carry him on the road into Gaborone. His wife had pursued him in her car and had eventually brought him down in what appeared to be a very competent rugby tackle, right in front of an astonished group of schoolchildren who were travelling into Gaborone on a school outing.

She had told this story to Mma Makutsi, who had shaken her head and announced that in her view that was no way to run a marriage.

‘It is quite understandable for a woman to keep an eye on her husband,’ said Mma Makutsi, ‘but she should not make him feel that he is a prisoner. Men need to be given air. They need to feel that they are free…’

‘Exactly,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

‘… even if they are not really free,’ continued Mma Makutsi. ‘It is called the illusion of freedom.’

Mma Ramotswe was impressed with the term, but thought that she would express it somewhat differently. ‘Or kindness to men,’ she ventured. ‘It is kindness to men not to sit on them too much.’

‘That is true,’ said Mma Makutsi, suppressing a smile at the thought of Mma Ramotswe sitting on Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. He would find it difficult to breathe, she felt, and the consequences could be serious. It was indeed true that men needed air.

In spite of this recognition of the masculine need for space, Mma Ramotswe felt that in the case of Mr J. L. B. Matekoni it was necessary to be watchful for any signs of moodiness or preoccupation on his part. Some years earlier, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni had suffered a bout of depression. He had fully recovered, but she had been warned by Dr Moffat to keep an eye out for recurring symptoms. ‘If he becomes withdrawn or indecisive,’ the doctor had said, ‘this could be a warning that the depression is coming back. Be aware.’

So far there had been no such signs, and she had assumed that the pills he had been prescribed had not only dealt with that bout of the illness but also warded off any recurrence. However, as she noticed him sitting in his chair with a fixed, rather worried expression on his face, she wondered whether it was time to make an enquiry. She had waited for her opportunity, which now presented itself, a couple of days after Mma Makutsi had assumed occupation of her restaurant premises.

They had finished their dinner and Mma Ramotswe had settled the children in their rooms for the night. Motholeli was now being given more homework, and was busying herself with that at the new desk they had recently installed in her bedroom. Puso, who had tired himself out in a game of football, had fallen asleep even before Mma Ramotswe had turned out his light. She had tucked him in, smoothed the sheets about him, and then stood for a moment gazing fondly at the young boy’s head upon the pillow. She imagined the world of dreams through which he now tumbled – a world of strange and heroic games of football, of bicycles and model cars, of boyish schemes and pranks. She smiled at the thought. We are all sent the dreams we yearn for, she thought; no matter how unhappy or fraught our waking world may be, we are sent dreams in which we can do the things the heart really wants us to do.

Returning to the living room, she found Mr J. L. B. Matekoni sitting with his head in his hands. This was her chance: if one sat with one’s head in one’s hands, it was tantamount to a declaration that something was wrong.

‘Are you worried about something?’ she asked. As she spoke, she moved to the side of his chair and laid a hand gently upon his shoulder.