The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe Read Online Free Page B

fifteen years ago, and I am very proud of it. My sister took it a bit later, but she is also proud to be a citizen.”
    â€œI am happy to hear that,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was not sure where the story was going. Mr. Sengupta had said that he was leading a quiet life, but not so quiet, it seemed, that he had no need to consult the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
    Mr. Sengupta suddenly looked grave. “Then something happened,” he said. “Something very unexpected.”
    They waited. For a full minute he sat in silence before continuing. “A woman came to our house,” he said. “She was an Indian person, like us. She walked up to the house. We have a man at the gate. These days people like us have a man at the gate to watch out for people who think they can steal our possessions. They think that just because we are Indian we will have a lot of money and they can come and help themselves to it.”
    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.
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œYes,” 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.”
    â€œOr 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