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

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni made a snorting sound and tossed his crumpled blue paper into the wastepaper bin. ‘I am not modern,’ he said. ‘And there are many other people who are not modern. We do not want to move forwards at all. We want to stay exactly where we are, because there is nothing wrong with that place.’ He looked at Mma Ramotswe, and then at Mma Makutsi, as if expecting a refutation of this defence of conservatism, but there was none. He decided, nonetheless, to repeat his position. ‘That place is the place we have always been, and if you think that where you have been is where you should be, then why go to another place that you do not know at all and may not be as good as the place you were in before somebody came along and said to you that you must go forwards – which is not what you wanted to do?’

At first nobody answered, but then Fanwell, who had been listening intently, broke the silence. ‘That is true, Rra,’ he said, ‘but sometimes there will be a reason to go forwards. If you think that it would be better to do things a different way, then surely you should say so – and people should listen to you.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni gazed into his mug of tea. ‘ If it is better, Fanwell – if it is better. I am happy to change if it is really better to do things in a new way, but only if people can show me that. That is the problem. There are many people who want to change things for the sake of change. That is what I object to.’

Mma Ramotswe looked up. ‘You are right, Rra. I think you are right. There is no reason to change things that we have simply because they are old. Old things can be very good at what they are doing. The fact that they are old does not matter.’

This caught Mma Makutsi’s attention. ‘I’m not so sure, Mma Ramotswe,’ she chipped in. ‘What about shoes?’

They all turned to look at her, and then their collective gazes moved down towards her feet. She was wearing a pair of blue open-toed shoes. Although they did not appear old, they were nonetheless clearly not new.

‘I am very happy with my old shoes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘As you know, I have very wide feet.’

Fanwell peered over the rim of his mug of tea at Mma Ramotswe’s feet, which could be seen under her desk. ‘It is not your fault, Mma,’ he said. ‘I have an aunt who has feet like that. When she walks in the sand people sometimes think that her footprints look like an elephant’s. They say: Look, an elephant has gone this way. ’

Mma Makutsi threw him a glance. ‘Of course it’s nobody’s fault. Nobody can be blamed for their feet, and Mma Ramotswe’s feet are not all that wide. They are very good feet.’

‘Traditional feet,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni.

They all looked at him.

‘There is nothing wrong with having traditional feet,’ he said, rather nervously. ‘They are the sort of feet that have done us very well for a long time.’ He paused. ‘It’s as I was saying – there are things that have always worked well and do not need to be changed. We do not need to be trying to get these thin, modern feet that people talk about. They will be no use if things get difficult.’

There was an awkward silence. Now Fanwell spoke. ‘What were you going to say about shoes, Mmaitumelang?’ He used the traditional method of address: Mma Makutsi, as mother of Itumelang, her first born, might be addressed as ‘Mother of Itumelang’.

Mma Makutsi smiled at the compliment. ‘Thank you, Fanwell. I was just going to say that shoes are an example of things that do not need to be replaced if they are doing a good job. Those shoes of Mma Ramotswe’s, those brown shoes —’

Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. ‘They are not actually brown, Mma. They used to be cream-coloured. They have become brown.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Mma Makutsi quickly. ‘Shoes will find the colour that suits them, and that is what they will be. And anyway it is more practical to have brown shoes in this country. There is a great deal of sand in Botswana, and brown is the right colour for shoes.’

‘But yours are blue,’ pointed out Fanwell.

Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘It is also possible to wear blue shoes, or shoes of any other colour for that matter. All that I am saying is that those who wear brown shoes do so for a perfectly good reason. They are being practical. It is very important to be practical when it comes to shoes.’

Both Mma Ramotswe and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked up sharply at this. Of the many things for which Mma Makutsi had a reputation, the wearing of sensible shoes was not one. They would not say anything about that, though, as they knew all about Mma Makutsi’s prickliness on some matters. Shoes certainly fell into that category. Fanwell, though, with the openness – and perhaps the lack of discretion – of youth felt no such compunction.

‘I do not think those shoes you’re wearing are very practical,’ he said.

The atmosphere immediately became tense, but Fanwell, who was not picking this up, ploughed on. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘those shoes of yours have heels that are far too high. And too thin, Mma. Surely there is a big danger that one of the heels will get caught in a hole. There are many holes in Botswana – wherever you look, there are holes.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni interrupted him. ‘There are fewer holes in this country than in some other places, young man. There are many countries that are just one big hole, as far as I can make out.’

‘Yes,’ snapped Mma Makutsi. ‘Mr J. L .B. Matekoni is right. You should not go talking about holes like that. You’ll fall into one yourself if you’re not careful.’

He did not appear to be discouraged. ‘I was only saying that you could get one of your heels stuck in a hole in the floor, for example.’

‘There are no holes in our floor here,’ said Mma Ramotswe, trying to defuse the situation. ‘I don’t think the danger is all that great.’

‘But what about outside?’ challenged Fanwell. ‘You should see some of the holes in that car park near Riverwalk. Have you seen them, Mma?’

‘They aren’t serious holes,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘I think they’ve fixed them anyway.’

‘I’ve got eyes,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘I’m not going to go and walk into a hole, Fanwell.’

‘Of course she isn’t,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

Fanwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was just pointing something out,’ he said. ‘But there’s another thing: those shoes go click, click , when you walk in them, Mma. They make this clicking sound. Click, click. ’

‘So?’ said Mma Makutsi.

‘They are not good shoes for a detective to wear,’ said Fanwell.

Mma Makutsi stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you saying, Rra?’ she asked. ‘What is this click, click ?’

Fanwell put down his mug. ‘How can you creep up on anybody, Mma? They will hear you – click, click – and they’ll say: “There’s somebody coming, we must stop what we’re doing.” That is what they’ll say, Mma, and that will mean that you will never get close enough to hear anything. That is what I meant, Mma; that is why those shoes are no good for detective work.’

Mma Makutsi, Mma Ramotswe and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni were silent. Mma Ramotswe thought that it was time to change the subject; she had been thinking about dinner.

‘We have been asked out,’ she said to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘Mma Makutsi has invited us to have dinner at her new restaurant this evening. It is not open yet, but this will be a special demonstration by the chef.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘That is very good news. Thank you, Mma Makutsi.’

Mma Makutsi acknowledged this graciously. ‘That is all right,’ she said. ‘My chef is planning to show us what he can do.’