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

She cast her eyes downwards, in modesty, as she referred to her chef . But he was her chef, she thought, and she should not be ashamed of it. In due course she might get used to it, as people got used to changes in their circumstances. One might become president, for example, and feel, for the first few weeks at least, that it was strange that everybody should be opening the door for you and calling you ‘Mma President’ but then you would become accustomed to it and you would be president, even in your dreams. The world of dreams, of course, could take some time to adjust to where you were in life. She still dreamed that she was Grace Makutsi, writing her school examinations in that stuffy classroom up in Bobonong, where you had to close your eyes tight to remember the facts that you had committed to memory. The main rivers of Africa are the following… In the north, the land rises to make a plateau… The three representatives of Botswana went to London to ask Queen Victoria… A prime number is one that… Or she dreamed that she was at the Botswana Secretarial College, but, curiously, knew that she had already left it and should not be there; dreams could be like that – you knew that there was something contradictory, something that did not make sense, and yet everything seemed so real. So you could be at the Botswana Secretarial College and find that there was Violet Sephotho in the front row, paying avid attention to what the lecturer was saying, and you wanted to tell everybody that she did not really mean it, that she did not really care about shorthand or filing, and that it was men she was thinking of. But you could not speak, you were mute, just as you sometimes cannot run in a dream when you really need to get away from something, and Violet Sephotho rose to her feet and stepped forward to receive the prize for the most attentive student and you were struck by the sheer injustice of it.

Fanwell took a sip of his tea. ‘I am sure it will be very good,’ he said. ‘You are very lucky.’

A silence descended. Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had stopped thinking about dreams and was pouring a mug of tea.

‘You can come too, Fanwell,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘You are invited.’

Fanwell grinned with pleasure. ‘I am already hungry,’ he said.

Mma Ramotswe looked at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘I was trying to remember, Rra,’ she said. ‘I was trying to remember when we last went out to dinner together.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni frowned, and sat down on the spare chair near the filing cabinet. ‘It must be a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I do not remember what we had to eat.’

‘Or where it was?’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.

He shook his head. ‘I do not remember that either.’

Mma Ramotswe was silent. She had decided that they had never been out to dinner, but she did not want to spell it out. And looking across the room at Mma Makutsi, she could tell that she, too, seemed to be thinking: she had never been out to dinner with Phuti either. Well, thought Mma Ramotswe, all this was about to change.

‘I have never been to a restaurant,’ announced Fanwell. ‘Ever.’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked at his assistant and then threw an appreciative glance towards Mma Makutsi. He was grateful for her act of kindness in inviting the young man, who had had so little in his life, after all. He had always maintained that Mma Makutsi had a kind heart, whatever impression she gave of severity. ‘We should not confuse strictness with unkindness,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they are both there at the same time.’ Of course he had never been able to manage that himself; he had never been able to be strict with his apprentices. But that was a matter he would get round to addressing some other time – maybe.

‘Time for work,’ he said, and then trying to sound firm, he added: ‘Work, then dinner, Fanwell – that is the rule, I think.’

Fanwell followed his employer out of the room, leaving Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe exchanging expressions of bemusement.

‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on in those boys’ heads,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘I do not think that their brains are organised in the same way as ours, Mma. They have different wiring, I think.’

Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘It is sometimes difficult to understand them,’ she said. ‘But that is often the case, isn’t it, Mma? Men and women look at one another and wonder what the other is thinking. And I believe you’re right – we do have different brains from them. I think that is well known, Mma Makutsi.’

Mma Makutsi nodded her agreement. ‘It is very sad for men to have these strange brains,’ she said. ‘We must not be unkind to them.’

‘Or to anybody,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

‘I agree, Mma.’

Mma Makutsi collected the teacups and mugs, stacking them on the tray for washing before returning to her desk, where a pile of correspondence awaited her. She looked first at the letters, then across the room to Mma Ramotswe’s desk. They were partners in the business, although she accepted that Mma Ramotswe was the senior partner and she was the junior. Yet, even taking that into account, should a partner have to do secretarial work? She thought not. She should have a secretary herself; why not?

Of course she knew what Mma Ramotswe would say if she raised the matter. She would point out, quite reasonably, that the business did not make enough money to employ another person. And she would nod and agree with that, but then she would say: ‘And Charlie?’

Now the idea occurred. There was not enough work for Charlie to do as a detective – that was clear enough, whatever tasks were cooked up for him – but if he was going to be around the place, and paid, then why should he not perform secretarial duties? Charlie could type – like many young men he could operate a computer keyboard – and that meant that he could type out letters and even do some filing if he received a bit of instruction. She would have to be careful about that, of course, as incorrect filing could have severe consequences. ‘Put a letter in the wrong file,’ said one of the lecturers at the Botswana Secretarial College, ‘and you can kiss goodbye to it.’ That was true, she thought – it was absolutely true – and if she were to teach Charlie to file she would drum that into him right at the beginning.

Yes, she thought, Charlie could be a secretary. It would do him good to learn that there was nothing undignified for a young man to take on a job normally performed by a young woman. People had to learn not to be sexist about these things; if there could be female managing directors and engineers, then there could be male secretaries and nurses, and Charlie might as well get used to that sooner rather than later.

She would put the idea to Mma Ramotswe later – over dinner, perhaps.

That evening, shortly after six-thirty, when the sun had sunk into the Kalahari and the sky had turned the pale blue that comes at that hour, Mma Ramotswe, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni and Fanwell drove across the town to the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café, now almost ready to welcome the public. As Mr J. L. B. Matekoni parked his truck they admired the newly painted sign – the work of the same hand that all those years ago had written The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency above Mma Ramotswe’s own premises. If one were to look for omens, then this might surely be one: since Mma Ramotswe’s sign had presided over a business that prospered (or, at least, stayed afloat), so too might Mma Makutsi’s sign announce a successful undertaking.

Or so Mma Ramotswe thought. ‘Very good,’ she said as she surveyed the newly restored building. ‘That is a very welcoming sign. People will want to go in.’

‘That is what a sign must do,’ agreed Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘If a sign is unfriendly, you will get no business.’