Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 (23 page)

Of course she had
suspected that these girls were not sitting on the wall just because it was any
wall. This was the Radio Gabs wall, and these young ladies were watching the
entrance to the radio station. And if one were to ask oneself why girls like
this would be watching the entrance to the radio station, it was surely not to
see who went in, but who came out. And amongst those who were likely to come
out, in terms of good looks and general interest to fashion-conscious girls of
seventeen or so, who could it be but Mr Spokes Spokesi, the well-known
disc-jockey and radio personality? Spokes Spokesi’s show, which stretched
from nine in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon,
Cool Time with
Spokes
, was a favourite of younger people in Gaborone. The apprentices
listened to it while they were working—although Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, when
he could bear it no longer, would switch off their radio in a gesture of
defiance. He at least had good taste and a limited tolerance for the inane
patter which such radio stations pumped out with great enthusiasm. Mma Ramotswe
would have had a similar lack of interest in Spokes except for one thing: he
was the second name on the list of Mma Holonga’s suitors, unlikely though
that was, and this meant that she would have to speak to him at some
stage.

“Do you listen to this station?” she asked
casually.

Constance clapped her hands. “All the time! All the
time! It’s the best station there is. The latest music, the latest
everything, and …”

“And Spokes, of course,”
supplied Kokotso. “Spokes!”

Mma Ramotswe pretended to look
blank. “Spokes? Who is this Spokes? Is he a band?”

Kokotso
laughed. “Oh, Mma, you’re out of touch. Spokes does a
show—the best show you can listen to. Can he talk! Oh my! You hear him
talking about music and you can just see him sitting there in front of the
mike. Oh!”

“And is he good-looking too?” asked Mma
Ramotswe.

“He’s fabulous,” said Constance. “The
best-looking man in Gaborone.”

“In all Botswana,”
suggested Kokotso.

“My!” said Mma Ramotswe. “And will
we see him if we sit here long enough? Will we see him coming out?”

“Yes,” said Constance. “We come here once a week usually
just to see Spokes. He talks to us sometimes; sometimes he just waves. He
thinks that we work in that building over there and are just sitting here to
pass the lunch hour. He doesn’t know that we come to see him.”

Mma Ramotswe tried to look intrigued. “How old is this Spokes?”
she asked.

“Just the right age,” said Constance.
“He’s twenty-eight. And his birthday is …”

“The twenty-fourth of July,” said Kokotso. “We shall come
here on that day with a present for him. He will like that.”

“You are very kind,” said Mma Ramotswe. She studied the girls
for a moment, trying to imagine what it must be like to worship somebody who
was, after all, almost a stranger to them. Why did people behave this way with
entertainers? What was so special about them? And then she stopped, for she had
remembered Note Mokoti and her own feelings for him all those years ago when
she was hardly older than these girls. And the memory made her humble; for we
should not forget what it is to be young and to have ideas and attitudes that
may later seem so fanciful.

“Will he be out soon?” she
asked. “Will we have to wait long?”

“It
depends,” said Constance. “Sometimes he sits inside and talks to
the station manager for hours. But on other days he comes out the moment his
show goes off the air and he gets into his car. That is his car over there,
that red one with the yellow curtains in the back. It is a very smart
car.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at the car. First Class Motors, she
thought dismissively, but then Kokotso grabbed her arm and Constance whispered
in her ear: Spokes!

He came out of the front door, dressed in his
hip-hugging jeans, his shirt open to the third button down, a gold chain round
his neck; Spokes Spokesi himself, Gaborone icon, silver-tongued rider of the
airwaves, good-looking, confident, ice-cool, flashing white teeth.

“Spokes!” murmured Kokotso, and as if he had heard her barely
articulated prayer, he turned in their direction, waved, and began to make his
way over the car park to where they sat.

“Hiya, girls! Dumela and
all the rest of it, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!”

Kokotso dug
Mma Ramotswe in the ribs. “He’s coming to speak to us,” she
whispered. “He’s seen us!”

“Hallo there,
Spokes,” called out Constance. “Your show today was great.
Fantastic. That band you played at ten o’clock. To die for!”

“Yes,” said Spokes, who was now standing before them, smiling
his devastating smile. “Good sound. A good sound.”

“This lady hasn’t listened to you yet, Spokes,” said
Kokotso, gesturing towards Mma Ramotswe. “Now she knows. She’ll be
listening tomorrow morning, won’t you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe
smiled. She did not like to lie and would not lie now. “No,” she
said. “I won’t be listening.”

Spokes looked at her
quizzically. “Why not, Mma? My music’s wrong for you? Is that it?
Maybe I can play some more oldies.”

“That would be
nice,” said Mma Ramotswe politely. “But please don’t worry
about me. You play what your listeners want to hear. I’ll be all
right.”

“I like to please everybody,” said Spokes
agreeably. “Radio Gabs is for everyone.”

“And
everyone listens, Spokes,” said Kokotso. “You know we
listen.”

“What are you doing today, Spokes?” asked
Constance.

Spokes winked at her. “You know I’d like to
take you to the movies, but I have to go and look after the cattle. Sorry about
that.”

They all laughed at this witticism, Mma Ramotswe included.
Then Mma Ramotswe spoke.

“Haven’t I seen you before,
Rra?” she said, looking at him closely, as if inspecting him.
“I’m sure that I’ve seen you.”

Spokes drew back
slightly, but seemed bemused. “You see me here and there. Gaborone is not
a big place. You might have seen my picture in the papers.”

Mma
Ramotswe looked doubtful. “No, it wasn’t in the papers. No
…” She paused, as if trying to drag something out of her memory,
and then continued, “Yes! That’s it. I remember now. I’ve
seen you with that lady who owns the hair-braiding salons. You know the one.
I’ve seen you with her somewhere or other. A party maybe. You were with
her. Is she your girlfriend, Rra?”

Her remark made, she watched
its effect on him. The easy smile disappeared, and in its place there was a
look of anxiety. He glanced at the young girls, who were looking at him
eagerly. “Oh that lady! She is my aunty! She is not my
girlfriend!”

The girls giggled, and Spokes leaned forward to
touch Kokotso lightly on the shoulder. “Meet you later?” he asked.
“Metro Club?”

Kokotso squirmed with pleasure.
“We’ll be there.”

“Good,” said Spokes,
and then, to Mma Ramotswe, “Nice meeting you, aunty. Go
carefully.”

MMA MAKUTSI listened intently to
what Mma Ramotswe had to say when she returned that afternoon from her meeting
with Constance, Kokotso, and Spokes.

“I have spent two days on
this matter so far,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have met and interviewed
two of the suitors on Mma Holonga’s list, and neither of them is in the
slightest bit suitable. Both can only be interested in her money. One by his
own admission—he said it himself, Mma—and the other by the way he
behaved.”

“Poor Mma Holonga,” said Mma Makutsi.
“I have read that it is not easy being rich. I have read that you can
never tell who is really interested in you or who is interested only in your
money.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed. “I am going to have to speak
to her soon and tell her what progress I have made. I am going to have to say
that the first two are definitely unsuitable.”

“That is
very sad,” said Mma Makutsi, thinking how sad it was, too, that there was
Mma Holonga with four suitors and there was she with none.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE PARACHUTE JUMP, AND A
UNIVERSAL TRUTH ABOUT THE GIVING AND TAKING OF ADVICE

M
MA RAMOTSWE was hoping that Mma Potokwane would forget all about
the parachute jump which Charlie, the older apprentice, had agreed to take over
from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Unfortunately, neither Mma Potokwane nor Charlie
himself forgot, and indeed Charlie had actively been seeking sponsorship.
People were generous; a parachute jump was a considerably more exciting project
than a sponsored walk or run—anybody could do those. A parachute jump
required courage and there was always the possibility that it could go badly
wrong. This made it difficult to refuse a donation.

The jump was
planned for a Saturday. The plane would take off from the airport, out near the
ostrich abattoir, would circle the town and would then fly out towards Tlokweng
and the orphan farm. At the appropriate moment the apprentice would be given
the signal to jump and would land, it was hoped, in a large field at the edge
of the orphan farm. All the children would be there, waiting to see the
parachute come down, and the ranks of the children would be swelled by several
press photographers, an official from the Mayor’s office—the Mayor
himself would be away at the time—a colonel from the Botswana Defence
Force (invited by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni) and the Principal of the Botswana
Secretarial College (invited by Mma Makutsi). Mma Ramotswe had invited Dr
Moffat, and had asked him whether he could possibly bring his medical bag with
him—just in case anything went wrong, which she was certain it would not.
She had also invited Mma Holonga, not only because she was something of a
public figure who might be expected to attend a charity event as a matter of
course, but also because she wanted to speak to her. Apart from these people,
the public at large could attend, if it wished. The event had been given wide
publicity in the papers, and even Spokes Spokesi had mentioned it on his show
on Radio Gabs. He claimed to have done a parachute jump himself, and that it
was nothing, “as long as you were brave enough.” But things could
go wrong, he warned, although he did not propose to say anything more on that
subject just then.

Charlie himself seemed very calm. On the day before
the jump, Mma Ramotswe had a private word with him at the garage, telling him
that there would be no dishonour in his withdrawing, even at this late
stage.

“Nobody will think the less of you if you phone Mma
Potokwane right now and tell her that you have changed your mind. Nobody will
think that you are a coward.”

“Yes, they will,” said
Charlie. “And anyway, I want to do it. I have been practising and I know
everything there is to know about parachutes now. You count ten—or is it
fifty?—and then you pull the cord. So. Like that. Then you keep your feet
together and you roll over on the ground once you land. That is all there is to
it.”

Mma Ramotswe wanted to say that it was not so simple, but
she kept her own counsel.

“You could come with me, Mma
Ramotswe,” said Charlie, jokingly. “They could make an extra big
parachute for you.”

Mma Ramotswe ignored this. He could be right,
of course; perhaps you needed an especially large parachute if you were of
traditional build, or perhaps you just came down faster. But then parachutists
of traditional build would land more softly and comfortably, being better
padded, and those of particularly traditional build might just roll over when
they landed, as barrels do when you drop them.

“Well,” she
said, after a while, “in your case you must be hoping to land on your
bottom, which is much bigger than normal. That will be the best place for you
to land. Put your feet up when you get close to the ground and sit
down.”

The apprentice looked annoyed, but he did not say
anything. Instead, he looked in a small mirror which he had hung on a pin near
the door that led from the garage into the office. He could often be found
standing before this mirror, preening himself, or doing a small, shuffling
dance while he looked at his reflection.

ON THE day
in question, they all met at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors: Mma Ramotswe; the two
children, Motholeli and Puso; Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; Mma Makutsi; and the younger
apprentice. Charlie himself had been collected from his home several hours
earlier and driven to the airfield by the pilot of the light aircraft from
which he was to jump.

They drove out to the orphan farm in Mma
Ramotswe’s tiny white van and in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck, Mma
Makutsi travelling in the van with Mma Ramotswe and the children sitting in the
back. Motholeli’s wheelchair was secured in the back of the van by a
system of ropes which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had devised, and this gave her a very
good view of the passing countryside. People waved to her, and she waved back,
“like the Queen,” she said. Mma Ramotswe had told her all about the
Queen Elizabeth and about how she had been a friend of Sir Seretse Khama
himself. She loved Botswana, explained Mma Ramotswe, and she did her duty all
the time, all the time, visiting people and shaking their hands and being given
flowers by children. She had been on duty for fifty years, Mma Ramotswe said,
just like Mr Mandela, who had given his whole life for justice and had never
once thought of himself. How unlike these people were modern politicians, who
thought only of power and tricks.