Free The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

Disang, grinning in an ingratiating way. “She is the one who makes sure that everything runs smoothly. She is vital.” He swallowed. “In every respect, Mma. In every respect.”
    Mma Makutsi gestured to the building and began to walk towards it. “Should we inspect it, Rra?”
    He was relieved to be in less contentious territory. “That is exactlywhat we should do, Mma. We should have a quick inspection—so that I can get back to the office and stop charging you.”
    She stopped. There was silence apart from the chorus of cicadas. “You’re charging me now, Rra? For this visit? For talking about putting tags on keys?”
    Mr. Disang gripped his attaché case more tightly. “Oh no, Mma. That was careless of me. I wasn’t thinking, you see. There is no charge for this visit. Not a single pula, Mma. Not one.”
    â€œThat’s very good,” said Mma Makutsi. “It wouldn’t seem right to pay for a conversation about tags and keys and so on. Nor for a quick walk about a building—or subjects, shall I say?” She paused. “Not after I have paid so much for the drawing up of a lease.”
    He was quick to agree. “Of course not, Mma.”
    The building’s last use had been as a shop, and when they entered they saw that the previous tenant had left not only the shop fittings but some of the stock as well. The premises had been used by a firm of outfitters for both men and women, and in some of the display cases there was still the occasional blouse or belt. Most of the drawers had been cleared out, but in one there was a tangle of garish ties and three odd socks.
    â€œThe tenant should have removed all this rubbish,” said Mr. Disang disapprovingly. “People!”
    Mma Makutsi agreed. “Yes,” she said. “There are some people who are very sloppy. They just don’t care, do they, Rra?”
    â€œThey do not,” said Mr. Disang vehemently. “They are useless rubbish, these untidy people. They go about the country making it untidy and expecting other people to clear up behind them.”
    In spite of her earlier disapproval, Mma Makutsi found herself warming to Karabo Disang. She had strong views on litter and general sloppiness, and she was pleased to discover that these were shared. Some people, she knew, were unbothered by these matters and merely shrugged their shoulders. These were people for whom it was presumably not an affront that there should be discarded beerbottles and plastic bags lying about on the edge of the road, blown by the wind into small piles, caught on the wire of cattle fences. Well, if they had their way the country would soon be covered with rubbish; so much so, she imagined, that it would disappear altogether. People would say, “There used to be a Botswana somewhere around here, but we just can’t find it now—it seems to have disappeared.” Hah! That would teach those who were unexercised about litter. There should be an anti-litter political party, she decided. It would campaign on a no-litter platform, with a promise that anybody who threw things down on the ground would be forced to spend their weekend clearing up. That would soon stop that. But the party would have to print leaflets to explain its policies to the voters, and everybody knew what one did with political leaflets—one threw them away, and that—
    Her train of thought was interrupted by Mr. Disang clearing his throat.
    â€œYou are hoping to make this place into a restaurant, Mma,” he said. He spoke tentatively—respectfully—as he realised that Mma Makutsi was no ordinary client. One could condescend to ordinary clients, but there was a certain sort of lady to whom one did not condescend, and this was one of them.
    â€œThat is my plan, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi rather absently, looking up at the ceiling now. The lights were still there but would have to be replaced, she