The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe (26 page)

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I read an article in a magazine. I was at the dentist and there was a magazine for the patients to read. I read an article under a headline that said:
Why you shouldn't feel guilty any more.
I started to read it but then the dentist called me in and I had to leave it in the waiting room.”

“It's always very annoying when that happens,” said Mma Potokwane. “Sometimes I'm listening to something on the radio—something interesting—and one of the housemothers calls me for one emergency or another. It is always the same—you miss the ending.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent. “I have a confession to make, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane raised an eyebrow. Had Mma Ramotswe been eating too much cake? Was that weighing on her?
Cake can weigh on people
 … She smiled at the thought: it certainly could, and it weighed heavily on her, perhaps, as on other traditionally built people.

“After the dentist had finished,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “I went back into the waiting room … and took the magazine.” She paused. “It was very old, and I was just going to borrow it.”

Is that all?
thought Mma Potokwane. If that was all that troubled Mma Ramotswe, then hers must be an unburdened conscience indeed; although small things could always exert an undue influence
on those whose lives were otherwise largely spotless. She had known a man, a cousin of her husband, who had been tormented by an ancient act of minor dishonesty and had dwelt on what he had done until he had made himself sick with guilt and worry. And it was such a small thing: a matter of a neighbour's chicken that had wandered into his hen-coop and, rather than being sent back, had been allowed to stay. That was all, and yet he had dwelt on the incident for years and the neighbour could not understand why he kept being given chickens as a present on every conceivable occasion—Christmas, Botswana Day, Seretse Khama's birthday, and so on. “What have I done to deserve such a kind neighbour?” the recipient of this continued largesse had asked—a question that only made it worse for the donor, who thought:
If only he knew that I am not kind—I am a stealer of chickens.
Eventually he had confessed his torment to Mma Potokwane's husband, who had simply laughed and told him to forget the whole matter as he had more than made up for his wrongdoing. Rra Potokwane told the neighbour, in fact, who went round to see the cousin and told him that he should give the matter no further thought, as he himself had done exactly the same thing with one of his chickens that had wandered across the boundary between their properties. And this, it seemed, had been the absolution that the cousin had wanted all along, and he was released from self-reproach, although he distrusted his neighbour thereafter on the grounds that he seemed so unmoved by his own wrongdoing. If he could so easily overlook something like that, what else could he overlook?

“People are always taking magazines from waiting rooms,” said Mma Potokwane. “Dentists don't mind about it—they know that it happens all the time.”

“I intended to take it back.”

Mma Potokwane was sure that Mma Ramotswe had done exactly that, but no, it appeared that she had not. “I lost it,” she said. “I read the article about guilt and it made me feel so guilty that I decided to
take the magazine back the next day. But then I lost it, Mma. I don't know what happened to it.”

Mma Potokwane laughed. “I thought it told you not to feel guilty.”

“But I did.”

“So what happened next?” asked Mma Potokwane.

“I bought a new magazine and took it to the waiting room. I told the receptionist that I had bought a present for the waiting room. It was so that other people could enjoy the magazine while they waited to have their teeth looked at. I said that it would take their minds off what lay ahead.”

Mma Potokwane thought that this would have been a great comfort for those facing the dentist's drill. Mma Ramotswe, though, had more to tell.

“The receptionist laughed,” she continued. “She said: you must be another of those people who take our magazines and then regret it.”

“Oh,” said Mma Potokwane. Then she added, “That lady is not very sympathetic, Mma. That was not a kind thing to say to somebody who had stolen a … borrowed a magazine and then felt bad about it.”

With orphans, cake, and guilt all disposed of, it was time for Mma Potokwane to broach the subject of Mma Makutsi. “Mma Makutsi,” she said simply, “has, I believe, some café or other.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “She is very proud of it,” she said. “We went there for a meal the other day. She has a chef—”

Mma Potokwane interrupted her. “A chef called Disang.”

Mma Ramotswe was cautious. “I think he's called Thomas.”

“Yes, Thomas Disang.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her cup. She feared where this was going. “Isn't Mma Makutsi's lawyer called Disang?”

“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “That is his name. But it's also the name of the chef. And of the waiter. And the waitress, for that matter.”

A fresh pot of tea arrived, and Mma Potokwane raised her cup
to take a deep draught. She was a quick drinker of tea, and always managed two or three cups to Mma Ramotswe's one. “Yes. They are all Disangs—and they are all relatives of that lawyer of hers.”

“It is a common name,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are hundreds of Disangs.”

“It is certainly a common name,” agreed Mma Potokwane. “But I can tell you this, Mma—those Disangs in that restaurant are all one family. The chef is the lawyer's brother. The waiter is the chef's son, and the waitress is the son's wife.”

Mma Ramotswe reflected on this. It was not uncommon for people to look after their relatives—it was a very African thing. If your cousin was in need, for instance, why not help him? Surely it was wrong, according to the old traditions, to let somebody close to you suffer need. Yes, but … and that
but
was a very big one. That desire to help was one of the roots of the vine of corruption that had smothered so much of Africa.

“Does Mma Makutsi know all this?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane shook her head. “I do not think she knows. And there is another thing she doesn't know: that Disang man cannot cook.”

Mma Ramotswe remembered their dinner. “But he can cook, Mma. He's very good. He cooked for us the other night.”

Mma Potokwane shook her head slowly. “He did not cook, Mma. That meal was cooked by somebody else.”

“But he was there in the kitchen,” protested Mma Ramotswe. “They served it to us directly from the kitchen. He was there. I saw him.”

Mma Potokwane poured herself another cup of tea. “It was cooked by one of my housemothers,” she said. “She told me.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at her friend. She remembered what Fanwell had said about seeing a woman in the kitchen. She groaned inwardly. “You may as well tell me everything, Mma,” she said.

Mma Potokwane put down her cup. “She mentioned it to me casually,” she said. “She wasn't trying to hide anything. I had gone to
inspect her kitchen and had complimented her on her cooking. Then she said that she had recently cooked a meal for some people in a restaurant. She is the aunt of that chef. She said that she was very surprised that he had found a job in a restaurant as he is one of the worst cooks she knows. She also said that he is a good-for-nothing who never sticks at any job.”

“Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. It was all she could think of to say.

“So I'm afraid those Disangs are taking advantage of Mma Makutsi,” continued Mma Potokwane. “It will end in disaster, I'm afraid.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I'm afraid it will too.”

“And it gets worse,” said Mma Potokwane.

“How can it get worse, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane refilled her teacup. “That waiter—the chef's son—he's even more hopeless than his father. Apparently he spilled a whole plate of stew over one of the customers yesterday. I heard about it from our infant teacher, who was there. She said there was a terrific row and the waiter stormed off without apologising. The poor customer was covered in stew and had to clean himself up as best he could.”

“That is not good,” sighed Mma Ramotswe.

“And it gets even worse than that,” said Mma Potokwane. “Did you see the
Botswana Daily News
? They had something on the front page. It said:
Read our restaurant reviewer's assessment of a new café—in tomorrow's
Daily News.”

Mma Ramotswe tried to be positive. “That can help sometimes,” she said. “Often these places really want a review. It can be an advertisement.”

“Except for one thing,” said Mma Potokwane. “Do you know who has recently become their restaurant reviewer?” She did not wait for an answer. “She signs her reviews with her initials:
VS.
”

“VS?”

Mma Potokwane let her friend work it out for herself. A louder
sigh came, and that sigh was more of a groan. “Violet Sephotho?” ventured Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane nodded. “I'm afraid so,” she said.

“Oh my goodness,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is
very
bad.” She paused. “What does that woman know about restaurants?”

“Nothing,” said Mma Potokwane. “But then many people who write about things know nothing. As you yourself might say, Mma Ramotswe—that is well known. How does Violet get any of her jobs, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe knew the answer but did not want to spell it out. The two women looked at one another—they understood.

“She must know a journalist,” said Mma Potokwane. “She must know one of those journalists very well.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Violet Sephotho, sworn enemy of Mma Makutsi and graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College with barely fifty per cent in the final examinations, was incorrigible. There was no low to which she would not stoop in pursuit of her ambitions, which were money and men, in either order. The two goals, in fact, were intertwined: men brought money, or if they did not, they were not the sort of men in whom Violet was interested.

Mma Ramotswe stared out of the window of the Equatorial Café as this new piece of information sank in. Gaborone, although a city, was really a small town, as most cities were. Everybody read the
Botswana Daily News
and bad publicity in that quarter would kill Mma Makutsi's restaurant stone dead. People believed what they read—for the most part—and few, if any, of them would know that the initials
VS
stood for Violet Sephotho. And even if they did, not everybody knew about Violet's track record and would assume that a restaurant review would be written by somebody who had all the necessary experience and judgement to write such a thing.
VS
 … that could stand for
Very Suspect
, thought Mma Ramotswe, or perhaps
Very Spiteful.

Mma Potokwane shook her head sorrowfully. “She will be writing something very bad, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe was deep in thought. There had been no indication from Mma Makutsi that things were going wrong, although now that she came to think about it she had seemed a bit subdued over the last day or two since the restaurant opened. She was not sure how hands-on Mma Makutsi was planning to be with her restaurant—she had many other things in her life, after all. It was possible that she was intending to leave the whole thing to Mr. Disang, and if that were the case, she might not have heard of these disturbing incidents and might be assuming that everything was going well. That was unlikely, though: What was the point of having a restaurant if you were not going to take a reasonably active interest in it? It was not as if Mma Makutsi needed a business purely to make money; since her marriage to Phuti she had been in the fortunate position of not having to worry much about money—the Double Comfort Furniture Store was doing well, by all accounts, and then there were all those Radiphuti cattle. No, the restaurant had not come into existence simply to make money.

She turned her gaze away from the window and back to Mma Potokwane. “This is a big disaster, Mma,” she said.

Mma Potokwane nodded gravely. “It is not at all good. In fact, it is bad, Mma. It is very bad all round.”

More tea was poured. They were both thinking the same thing: How would Mma Makutsi be told? It was not Mma Potokwane's responsibility—Mma Makutsi was Mma Ramotswe's friend and colleague—but when you were a matron the problems of others tended to be your problem too. Mma Ramotswe knew that she would have to raise the subject with Mma Makutsi, but she was not looking forward to witnessing the distress that her friend would feel when she found out. The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café was not only a café—it represented more than that in Mma Makutsi's mind: it was her own business, her own creation, the emblem of everything she
had accomplished. It was about having achieved ninety-seven per cent; having struggled against all the odds; having acted on her initiative. Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes and sighed. She would find a time to speak to Mma Makutsi, but that time had not yet arrived.

Mma Potokwane, full of sympathy for this difficult situation, took it upon herself to move the discussion on.

“It's one of your cases that's worrying you, isn't it?” the matron said.

“It is, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane reached out and patted Mma Ramotswe's arm. “Friends can always tell.”

There had been numerous occasions, Mma Ramotswe now reminded herself, when Mma Potokwane had not only been able to tell but had been able to help as well, though she was not sure whether even Mma Potokwane could do much about the complicated circumstances in which she now found herself.

Clasping her teacup in both hands, Mma Ramotswe related how Mr. Sengupta had approached her, how Charlie had pointed out Maria's house, and how Maria had inadvertently provided the key to the whole situation. “That poor woman,” she said. “She must have suffered so much and then she hits back and the police come after her.”