To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) (17 page)

She asked him what she should do. Should she tell Calviniah that her daughter was seeing two men? How did one put that tactfully? Did you say, “Your daughter is being very wise, Mma. If you want to avoid being left with one boyfriend, make sure that you have a spare one all the time”? That was one way of conveying the information, but she was not sure that it would make much difference to the recipient. No parent likes to hear that sort of news about their offspring.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought for a while before he gave his answer. When he spoke, his opinion was firm. “You do not tell her anything about this, Mma Ramotswe. That is my advice to you. Stay quiet. Forget that you ever found this out about this Nametso lady. Say nothing, Mma.”

She asked him why.

“Because it will not help for her to know this about her daughter. It will only make it worse if the mother comes along and chides her for carrying on with men.”

“Why, Rra? Why will it make it worse?”

“Because the young woman will be angry with her mother. She will tell her to mind her own business.”

As she considered this answer, Mma Ramotswe suddenly had a moment of epiphany. Yes, that would explain it. It was obvious, once one came to think of it.

“I think I know what to do,” she said. “I think it is clear now.”

He waited for her to explain.

“When a child behaves badly,” Mma Ramotswe said, “it is often because it wants attention. That is so, don’t you think, Rra?”

He shrugged. “I am not a great expert in these things, Mma. Usually it is women who know why children do the things they do.”

“Well, I think that is true,” Mma Ramotswe said. “Children behave badly because their parents are not giving them the attention they want. So the child thinks: If I do something bad, then at least my mother or my father will
have
to look at me.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked out at the darkening garden. The last rays of sun had gone now, and there was only a faint glow left in the sky. “But if she wanted her mother to see what she was doing, she would have told her about it. How can she expect to get her mother’s attention if the mother has no idea what she’s doing?”

“That is a very difficult question, Rra.”

He nodded. “Well, what’s the answer?”

Mma Ramotswe had a cup of red bush tea on the table beside her. She reached for this, but she had let it become cold, and so she put it down without taking a sip.

“What if the mother does know?” she asked.

“But you said that she’s avoiding her mother. That is why I thought that Calviniah wouldn’t know.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Perhaps, Rra. Perhaps. But what if she
does
know and doesn’t want me to know that she knows? What if it is the mother who is ashamed of the daughter? What if Calviniah wants me to do something, but cannot bring herself to tell me what her daughter is up to?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. This was becoming too complicated for him. He was on firm ground when it came to mechanical issues and the like, but he felt that the sort of complexities with which Mma Ramotswe had to concern herself in her work were sometimes beyond him. “Who can tell, Mma?” he said at last.

They lapsed into silence. A bird flew past the house, a late returner to the safety of its branch. Mma Ramotswe smiled to herself, a memory triggered. As a child, she had walked one evening with her father in the bush on the edge of Mochudi, a place of thorn trees and scrub grass, criss-crossed by meandering paths. Cattle walked that way, and somewhere in the distance there was the sound of cattle bells. The sun had set, but there were a few precious minutes of light left—a time when the sky was still pale with the day’s last moments. And a pair of guinea fowl had suddenly clattered up in front of them, fussing and anxious, and had flown up into the branches of a nearby tree. Her father had said—and she remembered his words—“Night is not always a friend, my darling.” It was a strange thing for him to say, and it was equally strange that she should remember his words with such clarity after all these years. But she nurtured any memory of that great man, her father, tended it as one might tend a delicate plant; always, forever.

She wondered what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking about. She had reflected in the past on how two lives might be led as one, but only on the outside; on the inside very different thoughts might be in the minds of husband and wife. Was he thinking right now, for instance, of something somebody had said to him at the garage? Or of some mechanical problem that had not been resolved that day and would have to be dealt with the following morning? Or was he thinking of something altogether different? Money? Cattle? Or rain, perhaps, because everybody was thinking of rain now, so great was their longing.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” she said quietly. “You may be thinking of something important.”

He laughed. “I am not thinking of anything very much, Mma. Just my dinner.”

“Is that what men think about?” she asked playfully. “Mma Potokwane says it is. She says that men think of meat all the time. Steak. That is what she says.”

“Some of the time, maybe,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I was wondering when we would be having dinner tonight.” He glanced at his watch and then, becoming aware that she had noticed, he looked apologetic. “Although I am still happy to talk about this lady with her two boyfriends—and to tell you what I think you should do.”

She was pleased. She wanted his view on what was to her an uncomfortable choice.

“I would do nothing,” he said. “Calviniah is not a proper paying client, Mma. She is a lady who is unhappy because her daughter is being unkind to her.”

She nodded. Calviniah was not a client—that was true enough—and yet she was a friend, even if one with whom she had lost touch.

“Because,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued, drawing out the word as if to give himself time to think of what was to follow, “because, Mma, there is so much unhappiness in the world, and can the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency deal with all of it? I do not think so, Mma Ramotswe.” He shook his head sadly. Mma Ramotswe, for all her talent, for all her generosity of spirit, could not deal with all that unhappiness—just as he could not rectify all the mechanical problems that beset the world. Everywhere, all the time, there were cars making peculiar noises, cars begging for a change of oil, cars listing to one side or another because of faulty suspension—oh, it hurt the head just to think of all those unattended mechanical faults—and yet Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors could not, on its own, bring an end to all of that.

“No,” he concluded. “No, Mma. You cannot. You should think of other things now, and leave that young woman to lead her life in the way in which she wants to. Ladies who have two boyfriends will eventually trip up over one of them and learn their lesson. She will eventually call one of them by the other’s name, or do something like that, and then there will be trouble.” He paused. “And the poor mother will be there, I suppose, when the daughter comes back to her and says, ‘Oh, Mummy, I have been a foolish, foolish girl.’ And the mother will take her back, because that is what mothers always do, Mma. And that will be that.”

She looked at him. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not go in for long speeches, but this one, lengthy though it was, was firm and decisive.

“So you think I should forget about the whole thing, Rra?”

“Yes,” he said. “And are you not hungry now, Mma? It is getting late and most people—not all, of course, but most people—will have had their dinner.”

She sighed. “You’re probably right. I should forget about it. And we should have our dinner.”

He reached out to touch her lightly on the forearm. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not physically demonstrative, but this gesture spoke volubly to all the love he felt for this woman, and for so much else in the world: for the kindness of women, for the touching concern a woman could have for the unhappiness of another, for the willingness of women to make dinner, day after day, for their husbands. There were men who cooked, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reminded himself, and perhaps he should do that himself—just to show her that he valued her so much and, incidentally, that he was not one of those old-fashioned men who would never change.

On impulse, he said, “Mma Ramotswe—would you teach me how to cook?”

She was unprepared for this, but touched. “I will do that, Rra. Yes, I will do that. When would you like to start?”

He had not thought about that. There were immediate projects, and there were more general projects. There was a difference. “Next month?” he said.

She smiled. “That will be a good time to start, Rra. When the rains come.”

“Yes,” he said. “When the rains come.”

W
HILE MMA RAMOTSWE
and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were having their conversation about Calviniah—and cooking—Charlie was standing anxiously at the front door of Queenie-Queenie’s parental home listening to the loud barking of a dog. Queenie-Queenie had told him that her parents had a dog, and that in her opinion it was too dangerous to be kept in the house.

“That dog has big-time psychological problems,” she said. “One of these days he is going to eat somebody—I mean, really eat them, Charlie. No, I’m not exaggerating: you should see his teeth.”

Charlie made a face. “They should tie him up,” he suggested. “They should tie him up in the back yard, where he cannot easily bite people who come to the house.”

“They tried that,” Queenie-Queenie retorted. “But he ate the rope. And he likes to sleep on the sofa. He is unhappy if he cannot sleep on the sofa. He growls and growls. He is a very bad dog, Charlie.”

“I do not like dogs like that,” Charlie muttered.

“Just ignore him,” Queenie-Queenie advised. “If you look into the eyes of that dog, he will bite you. Just look up at the ceiling or out of the window; then he will forget to bite you. That’s the best way of dealing with him.”

Charlie did not enjoy that conversation. He was already intimidated by the thought of Queenie-Queenie’s domestic circumstances—by the disparity between her social position and his—and to add the threat of an unfriendly dog hardly helped. He had also been worrying about Hector’s offer of a job. He was not at all sure that he wanted to work for somebody who was prepared to sabotage the cars of his debtors, but he had not been sure how to refuse. If he said no, then Queenie-Queenie’s father might well be offended—Hector, after all, was his only son, and he must approve of what he did. Yet, in spite of this uncertainty, he had made up his mind. He would refuse to do Hector’s bidding—he would not work for him.

And now, on the evening of his first invitation to have dinner with her father—her mother was away—that dreadful dog was starting up. He drew in his breath and made sure that his shirt was tucked properly into his trousers. He had polished his shoes and bought a new pair of laces. He had paid his cousin five pula to wash and iron his second pair of trousers—his church trousers, as his mother used to call them—and they, at least, looked smart enough, although one leg was fraying at the bottom. Nobody would notice that, though, especially if he crossed his legs in such a way that the good leg obscured the bad one.

Queenie-Queenie answered the door. He noticed how she smiled when she saw him, and his heart gave a leap. She would not smile like that, he thought, if she did not love him. She loves me…The words, uttered but not sounded, brought on a feeling that Charlie had rarely, if ever, experienced before—a feeling of pride, of gratitude, almost of relief. Nobody had been proud of him before, or at least nobody had expressed it; and he was not sure if he had been loved, even by his parents. His mother had been too busy, with too many mouths to feed and with her work as a domestic servant for an ungrateful employer; she had not had the time to love her children, because all her energy was spent in simply keeping them alive. And his father had been a drinker who spent all his time in the shebeen, and sometimes did not even recognise his children when he came home. It was no surprise, then, that there had not been much family life and that everyone had gone their separate ways as soon as an opportunity presented itself. And now there was somebody for whom he was special: me, he thought, me! Charlie! Special!

Queenie-Queenie whispered, “You aren’t nervous, are you?”

He looked down at his shoes, at his new laces, tied too tightly, perhaps. “Me?” He affected a laugh. “Why should I be nervous?”

But then he thought: I should be honest, because you must be honest with somebody who loves you. And so he said, “Yes, I am very nervous, Queenie. I am shaking inside my shoes.”

She looked down at his shoes. “You have new laces, I see. They are very smart.”

He smiled. “You like them?”

“Yes, I like laces like that.”

She glanced over her shoulder, into the room that opened up from the entrance hall behind her. Charlie followed her gaze. There was bulky, expensive furniture of the sort he had seen in Phuti Radiphuti’s furniture store: heavy chairs and a sofa covered in shiny grey leather. Those sofas cost more than he earned in a year, he reflected; more than his entire year’s wage as an apprentice detective. He could buy one sofa, at the most, and then have no money for anything else for twelve months; no money for food, even, or for bus fares or new laces, let alone new shoes. He would just have a sofa to sit on and not even anywhere to put it, because there would be no money for rent. He would have to put his sofa under a tree somewhere, at the edge of town, and live on it, eating lizards and birds’ eggs and even the remains of old sandwiches, crusts, thrown out of bus windows by passengers. He would sit on his sofa and eat such things and wait for something to happen.

Queenie-Queenie reached out and patted his shoulder. Even that had an electric effect on him, sending a shiver of pleasure down into his chest—into his heart, he felt; right into his heart.

“You don’t need to be nervous, Charlie,” she said. “The daddy is looking forward to meeting you.”

Charlie swallowed. “You have told him?”

She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But I did say: ‘Daddy, there is a really nice boy I want you to meet.’ That is what I said, Charlie, and he said, ‘I am always happy to meet nice boys, Queenie, if that is what you want me to do.’ ”

Charlie took some comfort from this, but not much. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

Queenie-Queenie brushed this aside. “Of course he’ll like you, Charlie.”

“And if I tell him that we want to get married? What will he say then? Will he say, ‘And how many cattle do you have?’ ”

“If he says that, then you should say to him, ‘There will be plenty of cattle in the future.’ ”

That, thought Charlie, was not the way it worked, but he did not have the chance to express these doubts, as Queenie-Queenie had begun to usher him through the hall and into the room beyond. As he walked beside her, Charlie was aware of the fact that his shoes were squeaking. He had not noticed it before, and perhaps it was caused by the expensive wooden floor underfoot, but they were definitely squeaking. He tried not to put too much weight on his step, which helped, but led to his using a strange, rather exaggerated gait, as if he were walking on hot coals.

“You shouldn’t walk like that,” whispered Queenie-Queenie. “My father won’t like a boy who walks like that.”

Charlie bit his lip. He was not sure that it was a good idea to have accepted Queenie-Queenie’s invitation. He did not belong here, in this house of expensive furniture, with its noisy floor and its…He looked up at the light fittings. He had never seen anything like this. Ten bulbs? Twenty? He had a single bulb in his room—a single, dim bulb that ran on electricity that he knew his uncle stole by attaching an illegal wire to a nearby cable. To live by stolen light, in a room shared with young cousins, one of whom still wet the bed, and another whose feet had an unpleasant odour, and now to be here, under the glare of a costly light fitting probably brought all the way from Johannesburg by some fancy electrician; that was to invite exposure. Queenie-Queenie’s father would see through him immediately. He would say, “This is not what you are used to, is it, young man?” And he would have to hang his head and say nothing because there was nothing he could say.

Queenie-Queenie’s father was sitting on one of the large leather sofas. On the wall behind him was a large picture of a giraffe, painted on dark velvet. Beside the sofa, on a glass-topped table, a table lamp in the shape of an eagle was surmounted by an elaborate tasselled shade in a silvery material.

“Ha!” said the father. “So here you are, Mr. Charlie.”

Charlie had expected a traditional greeting, and was taken aback. He muttered a few indistinct words.

Queenie-Queenie’s father said, “What?”

“I said I am very happy to meet you, Rra.”

Queenie-Queenie’s father acknowledged the sentiment with a nod of his head. Then he introduced himself. “I am called Isaiah. That is my name. Isaiah.”

Charlie bit his lip again. “I am Charlie,” he said.

“I know that,” said Isaiah.

“Charlie is a detective,” said Queenie-Queenie. “I’ve told you that already, I think, Daddy. A private detective.”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I knew that too. You work for those ladies, don’t you? That Mma Ramotswe.”

“I do,” said Charlie. “She is my boss.”

Isaiah gestured for Charlie to sit down. The leather upholstery of the chair on which he sat squeaked in protest.

“Sometimes I think these chairs are still alive,” said Isaiah. “I think they are saying to us: Do not sit on us too heavily, please.”

Queenie-Queenie laughed, and Charlie followed her example. “You would not want a chair to walk away on its legs,” he said.

This amused Isaiah. “That is very funny—a chair walking away on its legs. That is very funny.”

This was followed by silence. Queenie-Queenie had now taken a seat on the sofa, beside her father. She glanced at Charlie before turning to address Isaiah.

“Charlie and I are going out together,” she said.

Her father looked at Charlie. “So, you are going out. Where are you going?”

Charlie was not sure how to respond. Was this a joke, or was it an enquiry?

“Out,” said Queenie-Queenie. “We go out together, Daddy.”

Her father said nothing. Then, after a minute or so of now rather painful silence, Queenie-Queenie went on, “And Charlie would like to ask you something.”

Isaiah closed his eyes briefly. “There are many questions to be asked,” he said.

From somewhere inside the house there came the sound of a door opening. Then, bounding into the room came a large brown dog. Stopping in its tracks when it saw Charlie, the animal bared its teeth.

“Meat!” shouted Queenie-Queenie.

Charlie looked at her in astonishment. “You’re giving him meat?”

“No, that’s his name. Meat! Down!”

The dog began to crouch, but then rose and walked slowly towards Charlie, its body moving in a curiously sinuous motion.

“Just hold out your hand,” said Queenie-Queenie. “He won’t bite you.”

Watched with unconcealed amusement by Queenie-Queenie’s father, Charlie extended a hand. The dog sniffed at it, and then licked it. Its demeanour now was friendly rather than threatening.

Isaiah laughed. “You see? You see—he likes you.” He paused. “Meat is a good judge of character, you know.”

The dog was now sniffing at Charlie’s shoes. Then he lay down at his feet, looking up at him.

“That’s amazing,” said Isaiah. “Look at that, Queenie! See that? Meat likes your young man.”

Queenie-Queenie’s pleasure was obvious. “I am happy that he likes him. That is very good, Daddy.”

Isaiah was observing Charlie with interest. “Questions,” he said abruptly. “We were talking about questions.”

Charlie looked down at the dog. There was no reason to be frightened of it; Isaiah was a different matter. He transferred his gaze to Queenie-Queenie, who smiled encouragingly. “We would like to get married, Rra,” he blurted out. Then he added, “Soon. Maybe next month.”

Queenie-Queenie beamed with pleasure. “You hear that, Daddy?”

Isaiah threw a glance at his daughter before looking back at Charlie. “You say you’re a detective. You’re not a policeman?”

“Private detective,” Queenie-Queenie interjected. “He looks into important questions for private people. It is not crime—it is not that sort of thing.”

“Let him talk,” snapped Isaiah.

“I am not police,” said Charlie. “I am on the civil side.”

“The civil side?”

“Yes, business. Private affairs. That sort of thing.”

Isaiah nodded. “We are traditional people,” he said. “We still follow our Botswana customs.”

Queenie-Queenie looked anxious. “Charlie is very traditional,” she said. “He respects all the traditions, don’t you, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at her pleadingly. He knew exactly why traditions had been raised: this was all about
bogadi,
the bride price.

“It will be some time before Charlie can pay what is needed,” Queenie-Queenie said. “There are many people these days who do it that way.”

Charlie wanted to add that there were many people who now ignored the custom of bride payment altogether, but that was not traditional, and he had just been described as being traditional.

“I wouldn’t rule that out,” said Isaiah. “There are many ways of doing it.”

Queenie-Queenie clapped her hands together. “That’s right, Daddy. There are many ways.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I should get the money quite soon,” he said. “There are part-time jobs I can do. Hector has offered me a part-time job, but I am not going to take that one.”

Charlie did not see Queenie-Queenie’s frantic signal. Isaiah did, though, and he turned sharply to Charlie. “My son, Hector?”