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

These shoes had never said anything to her before. The shoes that seemed to speak were those who did the most work – the everyday, working shoes that had what she considered to be something of an old-fashioned union mentality: they were quick to complain about the slightest inconvenience, highly sensitive to questions of status, and quick to remind her of the rights of footwear. Her more formal shoes spoke less frequently, and tended to make comments that were obscure or highly allusive and not at all complaining. Perhaps these new shoes had picked up bad ways from the everyday shoes – had learned to make the sort of streetwise, cheeky remarks that working shoes made.

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.

Chapter Fourteen

Tiny Points of Light

Households 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.’