Tears Of The Giraffe (14 page)

“Who is she?”

The younger retrieved her stick and looked up at Mma Makutsi. “She is a very important lady, that one! She comes to the house and sits in the chairs and drinks tea. That is who she is.”

The other one chuckled. “But she is also a very tired lady,” she said. “Poor lady, she works so hard that she has to go and lie down in the bedroom a lot, to regain her strength.”

The younger one burst into a peal of laughter. “Oh yes,” she said. “There is much resting done in that bedroom. He helps her to rest her poor legs. Poor lady.”

Mma Makutsi joined in their laughter. She knew immediately that this was going to be much easier than she had imagined it would be. Mma Ramotswe was right, as usual; people liked to talk, and, in particular, they liked to talk about people who annoyed them in some way. All one had to do was to discover the grudge and the grudge itself would do all the work. She felt in her pocket for the two fifty pula notes; it might not even be necessary to use them after all. If this were the case, she might ask Mma Ramotswe to authorise their payment to her uncle.

“Who is the man who lives in this house?” she said. “Has he no wife of his own?”

This was the signal for them both to giggle. “He has a wife all right,” said the older one. “She lives out at their village, up near Mahalaype. He goes there at weekends. This lady here is his town wife.”

“And does the country wife know about this town wife?”

“No,” said the older woman. “She would not like it. She is a Catholic woman, and she is very rich. Her father had four shops up there and bought a big farm. Then they came and dug a big mine on that farm and so they had to pay that woman a lot of money. That is how she bought this big house for her husband. But she does not like Gaborone.”

“She is one of those people who never likes to leave the village,” the younger maid interjected. “There are some people like that. She lets her husband live here to run some sort of business that she owns down here. But he has to go back every Friday, like a schoolboy going home for the weekend.”

Mma Makutsi looked at the kettle. It was a very hot day, and she wondered if they would offer her tea. Fortunately the older maid noticed her glance and made the offer.

“And I’ll tell you another thing,” said the younger maid as she lit the paraffin stove underneath the kettle. “I would write a letter to the wife and tell her about that other woman, if I were not afraid that I would lose my job.”

“He told us,” said the other. “He said that if we told his wife, then we would lose our jobs immediately. He pays us well, this man. He pays more than any other employer on this whole street. So we cannot lose this job. We just keep our mouths shut …”

She stopped, and at that moment both maids looked at one another in dismay.

“Aiee!” wailed the younger one. “What have we been doing? Why have we spoken like this to you? Are you from Mahalaype? Have you been sent by the wife? We are finished! We are very stupid women. Aiee!”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “I do not know the wife. I have not even heard of her. I have been asked to find out by that other woman’s husband what she is doing. That is all.”

The two maids became calmer, but the old one still looked worried. “But if you tell him what is happening, then he will come and chase this man away from his own wife and he might tell the real wife that her husband has another woman. That way we are finished too. It makes no difference.”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “I don’t have to tell him what is going on. I might just say that she is seeing some man but I don’t know who it is. What difference does it make to him? All he needs to know is that she is seeing a man. It does not matter which man it is.”

The younger maid whispered something to the other, who frowned.

“What was that, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

The older one looked up at her. “My sister was just wondering about the boy. You see, there is a boy, who belongs to that smart woman. We do not like that woman, but we do like the boy. And that boy, you see, is the son of this man, not of the other man. They both have very big noses. There is no doubt about it. You take a look at them and you will see it for yourself. This one is the father of that boy, even if the boy lives with the other one. He comes here every afternoon after school. The mother has told the boy that he must never speak to his other father about coming here, and so the boy keeps this thing secret from him. That is bad. Boys should not be taught to lie like that. What will become of Botswana, Mma, if we teach boys to behave like that? Where will Botswana be if we have so many dishonest boys? God will punish us, I am sure of it. Aren’t you?”

MMA MAKUTSI looked thoughtful when she returned to the Austin in its shady parking place. The uncle had dropped off to sleep, and was dribbling slightly at the side of his mouth. She touched him gently on the sleeve and he awoke with a start.

“Ah! You are safe! I am glad that you are back.”

“We can go now,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have found out everything I needed to know.”

They drove directly back to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe was out, and so Mma Makutsi paid her uncle with one of the fifty pula notes and sat down at her desk to type her report.

“The client’s fears are confirmed,” she wrote. “His wife has been seeing the same man for many years. He is the husband of a rich woman, who is also a Catholic. The rich woman does not know about this. The boy is the son of this man, and not the son of the client. I am not sure what to do, but I think that we have the following choices:

(a) We tell the client everything that we have found out. That is what he has asked us to do. If we do not tell him this, then perhaps we would he misleading him. By taking on this case, have we not promised to tell him everything? If that is so, then we must do so, because we must keep our promises. If we do not keep our promises, then there will be no difference between Botswana and a certain other country in Africa which I do not want to name here but which I know you know.

(b) We tell the client that there is another man, but we do not know who it is. This is strictly true, because I did not find out the name of the man, although I know which house he lives in. I do not like to lie, as I am a lady who believes in God. But God sometimes expects us to think about what the results will be of telling somebody something. If we tell the client that that boy is not his son, he will be very sad. It will be like losing a son. Will that make him happier? Would God want him to be unhappy? And if we tell the client this, and there is a big row, then the father may not be able to pay the school fees, as he is doing at present. The rich woman may stop him from doing that and then the boy will suffer. He will have to leave that school.

For these reasons, I do not know what to do.”

She signed the report and put it on Mma Ramotswe’s desk. Then she stood up and looked out of the window, over the acacia trees and up into the broad, heat-drained sky. It was all very well being a product of the Botswana Secretarial College, and it was all very well having graduated with 97 percent. But they did not teach moral philosophy there, and she had no idea how to resolve the dilemma with which her successful investigation had presented her. She would leave that to Mma Ramotswe. She was a wise woman, with far more experience of life than herself, and she would know what to do.

Mma Makutsi made herself a cup of bush tea and stretched out in her chair. She looked at her shoes, with their three twinkling buttons. Did they know the answer? Perhaps they did.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A TRIP INTO TOWN

O
N THE morning of Mma Makutsi’s remarkably successful, but nonetheless puzzling investigation into the affairs of Mr Letsenyane Badule, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and undoubtedly one of the finest mechanics in Botswana, decided to take his newly acquired foster children into town on a shopping expedition. Their arrival in his house had confused his ill-tempered maid, Mma Florence Peko, and had plunged him into a state of doubt and alarm that at times bordered on panic. It was not every day that one went to fix a diesel pump and came back with two children, one of them in a wheelchair, saddled with an implied moral obligation to look after the children for the rest of their childhood, and, indeed, in the case of the wheelchair-bound girl, for the rest of her life. How Mma Silvia Potokwane, the ebullient matron of the orphan farm, had managed to persuade him to take the children was beyond him. There had been some sort of conversation about it, he knew, and he had said that he would do it, but how had he been pushed into committing himself there and then? Mma Potokwane was like a clever lawyer engaged in the examination of a witness: agreement would be obtained to some innocuous statement and then, before the witness knew it, he would have agreed to a quite different proposal.

But the children had arrived, and it was now too late to do anything about it. As he sat in the office of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and contemplated a mound of paperwork, he made two decisions. One was to employ a secretary—a decision which he knew, even as he took it, that he would never get round to implementing—and the second was to stop worrying about how the children had arrived and to concentrate on doing the right thing by them. After all, if one contemplated the situation in a calm and detached state of mind, it had many redeeming features. The children were fine children—you only had to hear the story of the girl’s courage to realise that—and their life had taken a sudden and dramatic turn for the better. Yesterday they had been just two of one hundred and fifty children at the orphan farm. Today they were placed in their own house, with their own rooms, and with a father—yes, he was a father now!—who owned his own garage. There was no shortage of money; although not a conspicuously wealthy man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was perfectly comfortable. Not a single
thebe
was owed on the garage; the house was subject to no bond; and the three accounts in Barclays Bank of Botswana were replete with pula. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could look any member of the Gaborone Chamber of Commerce in the eye and say: “I have never owed you a penny. Not one.” How many businessmen could do that these days? Most of them existed on credit, kowtowing to that smug Mr Timon Mothokoli, who controlled business credit at the bank. He had heard that Mr Mothokoli could drive to work from his house on Kaunda Way and would be guaranteed to drive past the doors of at least five men who would quake at his passing. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could, if he wished, ignore Mr Mothokoli if he met him in the Mall, not that he would ever do that, of course.

So if there is all this liquidity, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, then why not spend some of it on the children? He would arrange for them to go to school, of course, and there was no reason why they should not go to a private school, too. They would get good teachers there; teachers who knew all about Shakespeare and geometry. They would learn everything that they needed to get good jobs. Perhaps the boy … No, it was almost too much to hope for, but it was such a delicious thought. Perhaps the boy would demonstrate an aptitude for mechanical matters and could take over the running of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. For a few moments, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni indulged himself in the thought: his son, his
son,
standing in front of the garage, wiping his hands on a piece of oily rag, after having done a good job on a complicated gearbox. And, in the background, sitting in the office, himself and Mma Ramotswe, much older now, grey-haired, drinking bush tea.

That would be far in the future, and there was much to be done before that happy outcome could be achieved. First of all, he would take them into town and buy them new clothes. The orphan farm, as usual, had been generous in giving them going-away clothes that were nearly new, but it was not the same as having one’s own clothes, bought from a shop. He imagined that these children had never had that luxury. They would never have unwrapped clothes from their factory packaging and put them on, with that special, quite unreproducible smell of new fabric rich in the nostrils. He would drive them in immediately, that very morning, and buy them all the clothes they needed. Then he would take them to the chemist shop and the girl could buy herself some creams and shampoo, and other things that girls might like for themselves. There was only carbolic soap at home, and she deserved better than that.

MR J.L.B. Matekoni fetched the old green truck from the garage, which had plenty of room in the back for the wheelchair. The children were sitting on the verandah when he arrived home; the boy had found a stick which he was tying up in string for some reason, and the girl was crocheting a cover for a milk jug. They taught them crochet at the orphan farm, and some of them had won prizes for their designs. She is a talented girl, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; this girl will be able to do anything, once she is given the chance.

They greeted him politely, and nodded when he asked whether the maid had given them their breakfast. He had asked her to come in early so as to be able to attend to the children while he went off to the garage, and he was slightly surprised that she had complied. But there were sounds from the kitchen—the bangings and scrapings that she seemed to make whenever she was in a bad mood—and these confirmed her presence.

Watched by the maid, who sourly followed their progress until they were out of sight near the old Botswana Defence Force Club, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the two children bumped their way into town in the old truck. The springs were gone, and could only be replaced with difficulty, as the manufacturers had passed into mechanical history, but the engine still worked and the bumpy ride was a thrill for the girl and boy. Rather to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s surprise, the girl showed an interest in its history, asking him how old it was and whether it used a lot of oil.

“I have heard that old engines need more oil,” she said. “Is this true, Rra?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni explained about worn engine parts and their heavy demands, and she listened attentively. The boy, by contrast, did not appear to be interested. Still, there was time. He would take him to the garage and get the apprentices to show him how to take off wheel nuts. That was a task that a boy could perform, even when he was as young as this one. It was best to start early as a mechanic. It was an art which, ideally, one should learn at one’s father’s side. Did not the Lord himself learn to be a carpenter in his father’s workshop? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. If the Lord came back today, he would probably be a mechanic, he reflected. That would be a great honour for mechanics everywhere. And there is no doubt but that he would choose Africa: Israel was far too dangerous these days. In fact, the more one thought about it, the more likely it was that he would choose Botswana, and Gaborone in particular. Now that would be a wonderful honour for the people of Botswana; but it would not happen, and there was no point in thinking about it any further. The Lord was not going to come back; we had had our chance and we had not made very much of it, unfortunately.

He parked the car beside the British High Commission, noting that His Excellency’s white Range Rover was in front of the door. Most of the diplomatic cars went to the big garages, with their advanced diagnostic equipment and their exotic bills, but His Excellency insisted on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“You see that car over there?” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to the boy. “That is a very important vehicle. I know that car very well.”

The boy looked down at the ground and said nothing.

“It is a beautiful white car,” said the girl, from behind him. “It is like a cloud with wheels.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned round and looked at her.

“That is a very good way of talking about that car,” he said. “I shall remember that.”

“How many cylinders does a car like that have?” the girl went on. “Is it six?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled, and turned back to the boy. “Well,” he said. “How many cylinders do you think that car has in its engine?”

“One?” said the boy quietly, still looking firmly at the ground.

“One!” mocked his sister. “It is not a two-stroke!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s eyes opened wide. “A two-stroke? Where did you hear about two-strokes?”

The girl shrugged. “I have always known about two-strokes,” she said. “They make a loud noise and you mix the oil in with the petrol. They are mostly on small motorbikes. Nobody likes a two-stroke engine.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “No, a two-stroke engine is often very troublesome.” He paused. “But we must not stand here and talk about engines. We must go to the shops and buy you clothes and other things that you need.”

THE SHOP assistants were sympathetic to the girl, and went with her into the changing room to help her try the dresses which she had selected from the rack. She had modest tastes, and consistently chose the cheapest available, but these, she said, were the ones she wanted. The boy appeared more interested; he chose the brightest shirts he could find and set his heart on a pair of white shoes which his sister vetoed on the grounds of impracticality.

“We cannot let him have those, Rra,” she said to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They would get very dirty in no time and then he will just throw them to one side. This is a very vain boy.”

“I see,” mused Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thoughtfully. The boy was respectful, and presentable, but that earlier delightful image he had entertained of his son standing outside Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors seemed to have faded. Another image had appeared, of the boy in a smart white shirt and a suit … But that could not be right.

They finished their shopping and were making their way back across the broad public square outside the post office when the photographer summoned them.

“I can do a photograph for you,” he said. “Right here. You stand under this tree and I can take your photograph. Instant. Just like that. A handsome family group.”

“Would you like that?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “A photograph to remind us of our shopping trip.”

The children beamed up at him.

“Yes, please,” said the girl, adding, “I have never had a photograph.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood quite still. This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: “That is me.” And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.

He caught his breath, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of pity for these two children; and pity mixed with love. He would give them these things. He would make it up to them. They would have everything that other children had been given, which other children took for granted; all that love, each year of lost love, would be replaced, bit by bit, until the scales were righted.

He wheeled the wheelchair into position in front of the tree where the photographer had established his outdoor studio. Then, his rickety tripod perched in the dust, the photographer crouched behind his camera and waved a hand to attract his subject’s attention. There was a clicking sound, followed by a whirring, and with the air of a magician completing a trick, the photographer peeled off the protective paper and blew across the photograph to dry it.

The girl took it, and smiled. Then the photographer positioned the boy, who stood, hands clasped behind him, mouth wide open in a smile; again the theatrical performance with the print and the pleasure on the child’s face.

“There,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Now you can put those in your rooms. And one day we will have more photographs.”

He turned round and prepared to take control of the wheelchair, but he stopped, and his arms fell to his sides, useless, paralysed.

There was Mma Ramotswe, standing before him, a basket laden with letters in her right hand. She had been making her way to the post office when she saw him and she had stopped. What was going on? What was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doing, and who were these children?