Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (14 page)

T
HROUGHOUT THE REST
of that morning, Mma Ramotswe could settle to nothing. She had some letters to write, and these she dictated to Mma Makutsi, whose pencil hovered over the pad while Mma Ramotswe struggled to keep her thoughts from wandering. It was the tiny white van, of course, that was preying on her mind. She felt as a relative might feel in a hospital waiting room, anticipating the results of an operation, ready to judge the outcome by the expression on the surgeon's face. In this case her vigil was made all the more trying by the fact that she could hear noises coming from the garage, a clanking sound at one point, a thudding of metal on metal at another; at least relatives of those in hospital were not treated to quite such vivid and immediate sound effects.

“You have already said that, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Makutsi pointed out politely. “You have already said that you will be available for a meeting on that day. Now I think you need to say …”

“Oh, I cannot concentrate, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I'm sitting here and just through the wall over there my van is being taken to pieces. And it will not be good news, you know, at the end of it all.”

Mma Makutsi thought that this was probably true, but she did her best to comfort her employer. “You never know, Mma. There are miracles from time to time. There could be a miracle for your van.”

Mma Ramotswe appreciated this but knew that there would be no miracle. And when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni came into the office half an hour or so later, wiping his hands on a piece of lint, she knew in an instant what was to come.

“I'm very sorry, Mma Ramotswe,” he began. “The engine is just too old …”

He did not finish, for Mma Ramotswe had let out a wail and Mma Makutsi had leapt to her feet to comfort her.

“Don't cry, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “You mustn't cry.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stood awkwardly witnessing this show of female distress and the solidarity it provoked. He would have liked to have comforted his wife, too, to put his arm about her, but he was still covered in grease, and this seemed to him now to be a moment to which he could add little. So he inclined his head and slipped discreetly out of the office, leaving the two women together.

“I'm sure that he'll get you another van,” said Mma Makutsi. “And you'll come to love that one too. You'll see.”

Mma Ramotswe struggled to control herself. “I should not cry over a little thing like this,” she sniffed. “There are big things to cry over, such big things, and I am wasting my tears. It is only a van.”

“It's a van you have loved a lot,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know how it feels.” She had loved her lace handkerchief, a small thing really, but one which for a time had been her only special possession. Everything else had been entirely functional, designed to meet the requirements of a life of poverty and hardship; that handkerchief had been about beauty, and fineness, and the possibility of something better.

“It is like a bit of Botswana's history,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is like a bit of Botswana's history that is about to be thrown on the heap. Just like that.”

Mma Makutsi was not entirely convinced by this analogy but at least it gave her an idea. “Perhaps the museum would take it,” she ventured. “They have some old ox-carts there. Your van could stand beside them.”

Mma Ramotswe thought this unlikely. They would not want an old white van; there were plenty of old vehicles about and there was no reason for her van to be singled out. She was not famous in any way, and nobody would be interested in a van just because she had driven it. She pointed this out to Mma Makutsi, who shook her head vigorously. “Museums are very interested in ordinary things these days,” she said. “They like to show how life is for ordinary people—for you and me.”

As Mma Makutsi spoke, Mma Ramotswe imagined how the museum might have a section devoted to ordinary people themselves, perhaps keeping a few ordinary people on display, sitting in chairs or reading newspapers, cooking possibly, washing their clothes, and so on. Mma Makutsi herself could be an exhibit, or at least her glasses could be on show in a special case, together with her ninety-seven-per-cent certificate from the Botswana Secretarial College. Some people might be interested in that— Mma Makutsi, for one.

“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “I see you are smiling. You'll feel better soon, Mma. It's not the end of the world, you know.”

BUT IT WAS
—or so it increasingly seemed to Mma Ramotswe as the day wore on. She ate her lunch alone at her desk—Mma Makutsi had shopping to do—and when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni popped his head round the door to say that he was going off on
some errand, she barely heard him, hardly acknowledged him. She was not to know that his errand was to a colleague in the motor trade, whom he had telephoned that morning to arrange for the purchase of a van, a small blue one, that had done a relatively low mileage and that was described, in the language of the trade, as “very clean.”

This van he brought back to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors less than an hour later. He parked it outside the entrance to the garage and went inside to fetch Mma Ramotswe.

“You just come outside and see something,” he said, taking her hand.

For a moment she thought that he might be leading her to see her triumphantly restored van; but then she thought, no, that cannot be—he has bought a new one. He seemed pleased and excited, and she made an effort to smile. He may not understand how I feel about my old van, she thought, but he is trying to do his best for me and I must make him think I am pleased.

The two apprentices, who were standing conspiratorially at the entrance to the garage, watched as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni led her round the side of the building. Charlie made a thumbs-up sign, a sign of encouragement. Fanwell did nothing; he caught Mma Ramotswe's eye and then looked away.

“There,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There it is!”

The blue van was parked under the acacia tree, in the precise spot that the old van used to occupy. It was slightly bigger than the tiny white van—a medium-sized blue van, one might say—and it had been lovingly washed and polished, its chrome fittings glinting even in the shade of the tree.

Mma Ramotswe stopped in her tracks. “It is a very beautiful van,” she said. She made a supreme effort to sound enthusiastic, but it was hard. She swallowed. “Very beautiful.” She turned to face her husband. “And you have bought it for me?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni inclined his head graciously. “I have bought it for you, Mma Ramotswe. It is yours. Your new van.”

She reached out to take his hand, and squeezed it. “You are a good husband,” she whispered. “You are a kind man.”

He looked proud. “It is no more than you deserve.”

He led her by the hand to stand beside the new van. She saw herself reflected in its gleaming surface; a white van would reflect nothing—the world vanished beside it—but in the blue of this van there was a traditionally built woman standing beside a man in khaki. Both were distorted, as in a mischievous hall of mirrors; the man had become squat, mostly trunk, with stunted limbs; the woman had become more traditionally built than ever—a wide expanse of woman, bulging like the continent of Africa itself.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reached forward and opened the driver's door. The old van's door had squeaked when opened; this one moved silently on well-greased hinges, revealing a pristine interior. It was hard to believe that the van was not brand-new, that it had not rolled fresh from a factory floor down in Port Elizabeth.

Everything was in place, and perfect. On the floor, which was covered with a dark rubber mat, specially cut squares of paper had been laid to protect the shoes of the driver; and on this paper was printed the motto of the garage that had supplied the van:
At Your Service, Sir!
Or Madam, thought Mma Ramotswe, although she understood that cars and vans were usually the preoccupation of men, while women thought of keeping families going, of the home, of making the world a bit more beautiful and comfortable, of the stemming of humanity's tears. Or some women did. And some men, too, did not think of cars.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gestured that Mma Ramotswe should get in. “It is all ready to drive,” he said. “We can go down the road and back again. You can get the feel of it, and I can help you with anything.”

Again she forced a smile. She tried to show her gratitude, for she did feel gratitude, profound gratitude, that she had a husband like this, who loved her so, he would seek out a special van for her and make a gift of it.

“It is very beautiful, Rra,” she said. “And this blue. It is like the sky.”

“That is why I chose it,” he said. “They had a red van, but I said no. You were not a person to drive a red vehicle. I told them that. Red vehicles are for young men.” He tossed his head in the direction of the two apprentices, who were watching from a distance. “You know how young men are.”

She knew. But she also remembered her visit to Fanwell's house, and learning that his entire salary kept that large family alive. She could not talk about this, though. The mission had been a clandestine one, so she could not say,
Well, there are some young men who do good things
—which is what she would have said otherwise.

She lowered herself into the driver's seat. It felt so different from the seat of the old van, which was much smaller and less padded. Over the years, though, the tiny white van's seat had moulded to her particular shape, with the result that it was like a supporting hand beneath her. This seat was an alien shape; it might give in the right places in the future, but for now, comfortable though it was, it felt unfamiliar and rather disconcerting. Driving along in such a seat would be a bit like driving an armchair, Mma Ramotswe thought, but did not say. What she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was, “It is the last word in comfort, Rra. It is very, very comfortable. Surely this seat comes from the Double Comfort Furniture Shop!”

He appreciated the joke. “Maybe, Mma Ramotswe. Maybe. We shall have to ask Phuti Radiphuti about it.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni walked round the front of the van and
got into the passenger seat. “We can go for a drive now,” he said. “That is the ignition there. See? See how easily the engine starts. And listen—listen to how quiet it is.”

Mma Ramotswe had to admit that the engine was indeed quiet. But then, “Where are the gears, Rra?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “Gears are largely a thing of the past, Mma Ramotswe. Or at least changing them is a thing of the past. This is an automatic van.”

Mma Ramotswe had been in an automatic vehicle before but had not paid much attention to what was going on. She remembered thinking that some people might find it useful not to have to change gear all the time, but she was not sure whether she was one of those drivers. In fact, she felt that she probably was not, as she found that leaving one hand on the gear lever and steering with the other was a comfortable driving position. She suspected, too, that Mma Potokwane would agree with her; the matron of the orphan farm, Mma Ramotswe had observed, changed gear in the same way as she stirred the mixture for one of her famous fruit cakes: with vigour and a strong circular movement.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni instructed Mma Ramotswe in the ways of automatic gearboxes and helped her through the initial steps of starting and stopping such a vehicle. Then they left for a brief drive down the Tlokweng Road before doubling back and returning to the garage.

“It runs very sweetly,” said Mma Ramotswe as she finally drew to a halt beside the garage. “And the ride is so smooth.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni beamed with pleasure. “It will be a great change after your late van,” he said. She nodded her agreement. Yes, it would be a great change. Her late van, with all its quirks and noises, its unpredictability at times, its modesty and discomfort, was a world away from the insulated, air-conditioned cocoon that was the driving cab of this new van. And although reliable
transport was always a reassurance, and this new van was clearly reliable, the tiny white van was somehow more human, more like us, more natural than this gleaming construction of blue-painted metal.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not entirely insensitive. “I know,” he said quietly, laying a hand on her arm, “I know that you will miss the old van. But you'll get used to this one soon, you know. And then it will become your new friend.”

She nodded grimly. Her pretence at cheerfulness and gratitude had slipped; she simply could not keep it up. “I loved my tiny white van,” she stuttered. “I loved it, you know.”

He looked down. “Of course you did. You're a loyal lady, Mma Ramotswe, but machines come to the end of their lives, Mma— just like people. And I know it can be as hard to say goodbye to them as it is to say goodbye to people. I know that.”

They got out of the new blue van. Mma Ramotswe did not dare to look in the garage as she went back to the office. She did not want to see the tiny white van sitting there, alone, facing whatever fate it was that awaited machines that had served their purpose and now had no further work to do for us.

BY THE END
of her first day at the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, Violet Sephotho had sold four beds. It was Phuti Radiphuti's practice to speak to the head of each department at a meeting convened immediately after closing time—to take a report on sales and to discuss delivery requirements for the following day. That afternoon had been a busy one, and there had been strong activity in the dining-room department, where two large tables and a dozen chairs had been sold between lunch time and the time of the sales meeting. In soft furnishings, a large leather sofa that had been slow to sell, and that was about to be
discounted further, had suddenly been snapped up by a rather mousy man who had been brought in by his larger, domineering wife. That sale was the subject of warm congratulations by Phuti. “We shall never stock a sofa that large again,” he said. “The people in this country do not like big sofas like that. It is not the way we see things in Botswana.”

There had been murmurs of agreement on this. The sofa would not be missed, it was felt.