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

Mma Ramotswe knew that what he said was true. There were people who preyed on others: many of them came from outside the country, she believed, but it was not only foreigners who were to blame.

‘This woman told the man at the gate that she needed to see me and that she was a friend. He let her in – it was not his fault. These men think that if one Indian person comes asking for another Indian person then she must be a relative or friend. It is natural – I am not blaming him. So this woman came to the door and my sister was the first to speak to her. You tell her, Rosie.’

Miss Rose leaned forward in her chair. ‘I had never seen her before in my life, Mma Ramotswe. She was a stranger – a complete stranger.’

‘We know most members of the Indian community here in Gaborone,’ explained Mr Sengupta. ‘You see people at weddings. The big festivals, too – Diwali and so forth. My sister will have met just about every Indian lady in the town – but not this lady, you see, Mma. Not her.’

‘So she was a visitor?’ asked Mma Ramotswe. ‘Or somebody who was working for some firm? South African maybe?’

Mr Sengupta raised a hand. ‘No, unfortunately not, Mma. It would have been simple if that had been the case, but it was not. This lady was completely without any connection in Gaborone, or the rest of Botswana, for that matter.’

‘It was as if she came from nowhere,’ said Miss Rose.

Mr Sengupta laughed. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. She is the lady from nowhere, Mma.’

From behind them, Mma Makutsi joined in the conversation. ‘She has to come from somewhere. Nobody comes from nowhere. We all come from somewhere.’

Mr Sengupta half turned in his chair to address her. ‘Yes, Mma, that is correct. So perhaps I should say of this lady that she appeared to come from nowhere.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Rose. ‘She appeared to come from nowhere. But perhaps that is just where she is from. Nowhere.’ She made an airy gesture to demonstrate the curious state of coming from nowhere.

Mr Sengupta’s head started to bob about once more. ‘We must not get confused. This lady obviously comes from somewhere, but it is not clear where that place is. And what makes this a rather unusual case is that she doesn’t seem to know where she comes from.’

‘Or her name,’ said Miss Rose. ‘Can you believe that, Mma? She doesn’t know what her name is.’

Mma Ramotswe frowned. Clovis Andersen had said something in his book about a case of his in which somebody suffered from amnesia. This person could not remember what had happened to him when he was found lying by the side of a road. He had been hit by a car, it transpired, and it was only much later he began to remember the sequence of events. ‘Was she involved in an accident?’ asked Mma Ramotswe. ‘Sometimes people cannot remember what happened to them if they have an injury to their head. It is not unknown.’

‘No, it is not,’ said Mr Sengupta. ‘And that was the first thing that I suspected. Obviously I could not send her back out onto the street, could I, Mma?’

‘Of course not.’ She knew, though, that there were people who would do exactly that in similar circumstances.

‘So I got my friend, Dr Moffat, to take a look at her,’ Mr Sengupta continued. ‘You know him, Mma?’

‘Yes, I know him.’

‘He said that there was no sign of any head injury and that she seemed to be quite healthy in other respects.’

‘Very strange,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

‘Stranger than strange,’ agreed Mr Sengupta. ‘So we told her she could stay with us. We couldn’t let an Indian lady wander around not knowing who she was – or where she was.’

‘Did she really not know where she was?’ asked Mma Makutsi. ‘Not even that she was in Gaborone?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You read about these things, but I’m sure they can’t be true. How can you forget everything?’

‘I assure you, Mma, she had no idea,’ said Mr Sengupta. ‘I am not a person who is easily fooled, you know. I asked her if she knew that she was in Botswana, and she simply looked at me blankly. Like this.’ He affected what he thought would be the look of somebody who had no idea of being in Botswana.

Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. ‘What did Dr Moffat say about her story?’ she asked.

‘He said that he thought she was telling the truth. He said that sometimes people claim not to remember things in order to get themselves out of trouble. This lady did not appear to be lying. He said that he thought it was genuine amnesia.’

Mma Ramotswe looked pensive. ‘I assume that you want me to find out who this lady is?’

Mr Sengupta sat back in his chair. ‘That is why we are here, Mma.’

‘But why do you want to find this out, Rra? Is it for you to do that?’

Mr Sengupta sighed. ‘There are two reasons for that, Mma Ramotswe. One is that I have taken this lady into my house. And once you have done that, then you cannot walk away, can you?’

‘You cannot,’ said Mma Makutsi from behind him. ‘You cannot walk away.’

‘And the second reason,’ Mr Sengupta continued. ‘The second reason has to do with the immigration people. This lady has no papers – no passport, no driving licence, nothing. I went to see them about getting her permission to stay in the country and they kicked up a very big fuss. They said they cannot receive an application from a person with no name and no address. They said that the most likely thing is that she is from Zimbabwe and that they will have to push her back over the border.’

Mma Makutsi knew what that entailed. ‘She will be in trouble,’ she said. ‘Things are not easy there and she would have to find somebody to look after her.’

‘That’s quite right,’ said Mr Sengupta. ‘So I asked them if we could buy some time. I asked, if I engaged somebody to find out who she is, would they delay expelling her? They said that they would – provided the person I got to look into it is suitable.’

‘We are very suitable,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘We are the only detective agency in Botswana.’

‘That is what I said to them,’ said Mr Sengupta. ‘And you’ll be happy to hear, Mma, that they said the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency would be perfectly acceptable for this enquiry.’ He paused. ‘They have given us six months. That is very good, as it gives us a lot of time to sort things out.’

Miss Rose now spoke. ‘Will you take on this case, Mma Ramotswe? Will you find out who this poor lady is?’

Mma Ramotswe did not need any time to consider. She could imagine how uncomfortable the woman’s situation would be, how confusing and frightening it must be not to know why you are where you are. Of course she would help.

‘We shall do this for you,’ she said, glancing across the room at Mma Makutsi, who nodded enthusiastically. ‘We shall do our best.’

‘We cannot guarantee results,’ chimed in Mma Makutsi, ‘but my co-director and I will do our best, Mr Sengupta.’

Co-director! It was as Mma Ramotswe had imagined it would be. There should be a new saying, she thought – after all, somebody had to be the first to coin a saying, no matter how well known and widely used it later became. This one, she thought, could become popular: Give a secretary a new title, and it sticks . She smiled at the thought. Life was like that: it revealed just how true all the sayings were. In that respect, at least, there were never any real surprises, no matter how surprising things seemed to be on the surface.

Chapter Three

The Only Purring Baby in Botswana

Mma Ramotswe returned home that evening well before Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. He had a meeting of the Mechanical Trades Association and did not get back to Zebra Drive until shortly after seven, by which time she had fed the children and was busy preparing a stew for their own dinner. It was this stew that he smelled as he walked in the back door, took off his work shoes, and went into the kitchen to greet his wife.