Tears Of The Giraffe (2 page)

Mma Ramotswe followed him down the corridor. The first door that they reached was half open, and she stopped at the doorway and peered in. The room, which had obviously once been a bedroom, had its floors covered with newspapers, laid out as if they were a carpet. In the middle of the floor sat an engine, its cylinders exposed, while around it on the floor there were littered the parts that had been taken from the engine.

“That is a very special engine,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, looking at her anxiously. “There is no other engine like it in Botswana. One day I shall finish fixing it.”

They moved on. The next room was a bathroom, which was clean enough, thought Mma Ramotswe, even if rather stark and neglected. On the edge of the bath, balanced on an old white face-cloth, was a large bar of carbolic soap. Apart from that, there was nothing.

“Carbolic soap is very healthy soap,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have always used it.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She favoured palm-oil soap, which was good for the complexion, but she understood that men liked something more bracing. It was a bleak bathroom, she thought, but at least it was clean.

Of the remaining rooms, only one was habitable, the dining room, which had a table in the middle and a solitary chair. Its floor, however, was dirty, with piles of dust under the furniture and in each corner. Whoever was meant to be cleaning this room had clearly not swept it for months. What did she do, this maid? Did she stand at the gate and talk to her friends, as they tended to do if not watched closely? It was clear to Mma Ramotswe that the maid was taking gross advantage of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and relying on his good nature to keep her job.

The other rooms, although they contained beds, were cluttered with boxes stuffed with spark plugs, windscreen-wiper blades, and other curious mechanical pieces. And as for the kitchen, this, although clean, was again virtually bare, containing only two pots, several white enamelled plates, and a small cutlery tray.

“This maid is meant to cook for me,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “She makes a meal each day, but it is always the same. All that I have to eat is maizemeal and stew. Sometimes she cooks me pumpkin, but not very often. And yet she always seems to need lots of money for kitchen supplies.”

“She is a very lazy woman,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She should be ashamed of herself. If all women in Botswana were like that, our men would have died out a long time ago.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. His maid had held him in thrall for years, and he had never had the courage to stand up to her. But now perhaps she had met her match in Mma Ramotswe, and she would soon be looking for somebody else to neglect.

“Where is this woman?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “I would like to talk to her.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. “She should be here soon,” he said. “She comes here every afternoon at about this time.”

THEY WERE sitting in the living room when the maid arrived, announcing her presence with the slamming of the kitchen door.

“That is her,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “She always slams doors. She has never closed a door quietly in all the years she has worked here. It’s always slam, slam.”

“Let’s go through and see her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m interested to meet this lady who has been looking after you so well.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni led the way into the kitchen. In front of the sink, where she was filling a kettle with water, stood a large woman in her mid-thirties. She was markedly taller than both Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe, and, although rather thinner than Mma Ramotswe, she looked considerably stronger, with bulging biceps and well-set legs. She was wearing a large, battered red hat on her head and a blue housecoat over her dress. Her shoes were made of a curious, shiny leather, rather like the patent leather used to make dancing pumps.

Mr J.LB. Matekoni cleared his throat, to reveal their presence, and the maid turned round slowly.

“I am busy …” she started to say, but stopped, seeing Mma Ramotswe.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni greeted her politely, in the traditional way. Then he introduced his guest. “This is Mma Ramotswe,” he said.

The maid looked at Mma Ramotswe and nodded curtly.

“I am glad that I have had the chance to meet you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have heard about you from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”

The maid glanced at her employer. “Oh, you have heard of me,” she said. “I am glad that he speaks of me. I would not like to think that nobody speaks of me.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is better to be spoken of than not to be spoken of. Except sometimes, that is.”

The maid frowned. The kettle was now full and she took it from under the tap.

“I am very busy,” she said dismissively. “There is much to do in this house.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There is certainly a great deal to do. A dirty house like this needs a lot of work doing in it.”

The large maid stiffened. “Why do you say this house is dirty?” she said. “Who are you to say that this house is dirty?”

“She …” began Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but he was silenced by a glare from the maid and he stopped.

“I say that because I have seen it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have seen all the dust in the dining room and all the rubbish in the garden. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni here is only a man. He cannot be expected to keep his own house clean.”

The maid’s eyes had opened wide and were staring at Mma Ramotswe with ill-disguised venom. Her nostrils were flared with anger, and her lips were pushed out in what seemed to be an aggressive pout.

“I have worked for this man for many years,” she hissed. “Every day I have worked, worked, worked. I have made him good food and polished the floor. I have looked after him very well.”

“I don’t think so, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe calmly. “If you have been feeding him so well, then why is he thin? A man who is well looked-after becomes fatter. They are just like cattle. That is well-known.”

The maid shifted her gaze from Mma Ramotswe to her employer. “Who is this woman?” she demanded. “Why is she coming into my kitchen and saying things like this? Please ask her to go back to the bar you found her in.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni swallowed hard. “I have asked her to marry me,” he blurted out. “She is going to be my wife.”

At this, the maid seemed to crumple. “Aiee!” she cried. “Aiee! You cannot marry her! She will kill you! That is the worst thing you can do.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni moved forward and placed a comforting hand on the maid’s shoulder.

“Do not worry, Florence,” he said. “She is a good woman, and I shall make sure that you will get another job. I have a cousin who has that hotel near the bus station. He needs maids and if I ask him to give you a job he will do so.”

This did not pacify the maid. “I do not want to work in a hotel, where everyone is treated like a slave,” she said. “I am not a do-this, do-that maid. I am a high-class maid, suitable for private houses. Oh! Oh! I am finished now. You are finished too if you marry this fat woman. She will break your bed. You will surely die very quickly. This is the end for you.”

Mr J.LB. Matekoni glanced at Mma Ramotswe, signalling that they should leave the kitchen. It would be better, he thought, if the maid could recover in private. He had not imagined that the news would be well received, but he had certainly not envisaged her uttering such embarrassing and disturbing prophecies. The sooner he spoke to the cousin and arranged the transfer to the other job, the better.

They went back to the sitting room, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Your maid is a difficult woman,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“She is not easy,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I think that we have no choice. She must go to that other job.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. He was right. The maid would have to go, but so would they. They could not live in this house, she thought, even if it had a bigger yard. They would have to put in a tenant and move to Zebra Drive. Her own maid was infinitely better and would look after both of them extremely well. In no time at all, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would begin to put on weight, and look more like the prosperous garage owner he was. She glanced about the room. Was there anything at all that they would need to move from this house to hers? The answer, she thought, was probably no. All that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni needed to bring was a suitcase containing his clothes and his bar of carbolic soap. That was all.

CHAPTER TWO

A CLIENT ARRIVES

I
T WOULD have to be handled tactfully. Mma Ramotswe knew that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be happy to live in Zebra Drive—she was sure of that—but men had their pride and she would have to be careful about how she conveyed the decision. She could hardly say: “Your house is a terrible mess; there are engines and car parts everywhere.” Nor could she say: “I would not like to live that close to an old graveyard.” Rather, she would approach it by saying: “It’s a wonderful house, with lots of room. I don’t mind old engines at all, but I am sure you will agree that Zebra Drive is very convenient for the centre of town.” That would be the way to do it.

She had already worked out how the arrival of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could be catered for in her house in Zebra Drive. Her house was not quite as large as his, but they would have more than enough room. There were three bedrooms. They would occupy the biggest of these, which was also the quietest, being at the back. She currently used the other two rooms for storage and for sewing, but she could clear out the storage room and put everything it contained in the garage. That would make a room for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s private use. Whether he wished to use it to store car parts or old engines would be up to him, but a very strong hint would be given that engines should stay outside.

The living room could probably stay more or less unchanged. Her own chairs were infinitely preferable to the furniture she had seen in his sitting room, although he may well wish to bring the velvet picture of the mountain and one or two of his ornaments. These would complement her own possessions, which included the photograph of her father, her daddy, as she called him, Obed Ramotswe, in his favourite shiny suit, the photograph before which she stopped so often and thought of his life and all that it meant to her. She was sure that he would have approved of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He had warned her against Note Mokoti, although he had not tried to stop the marriage, as some parents might have done. She had been aware of his feelings but had been too young, and too infatuated with the plausible trumpet player, to take account of what her father thought. And, when the marriage had ended so disastrously, he had not spoken of his presentiment that this was exactly what would happen, but had been concerned only about her safety and her happiness—which is how he had always been. She was lucky to have had such a father, she thought; today there were so many people without a father, people who were being brought up by their mothers or their grandmothers and who in many cases did not even know who their father was. They seemed happy enough, it seemed, but there must always be a great gap in their lives. Perhaps if you don’t know there’s a gap, you don’t worry about it. If you were a millipede, a
tshongololo,
crawling along the ground would you look at the birds and worry about not having wings? Probably not.

Mma Ramotswe was given to philosophical speculation, but only up to a point. Such questions were undoubtedly challenging, but they tended to lead to further questions which simply could not be answered. And at that point one ended up, as often as not, having to accept that things are as they are simply because that is the way they are. So everybody knew, for instance, that it was wrong for a man to be too close to a place where a woman is giving birth. That was something which was so obvious that it hardly needed to be stated. But then there were these remarkable ideas in other countries that suggested that men should actually attend the birth of their children. When Mma Ramotswe read about that in a magazine, her breath was taken away. But then she had asked herself why a father should not see his child being born, so that he could welcome it into the world and share the joy of the occasion, and she had found it difficult to find a reason. That is not to say it was not wrong—there was no question that it was profoundly wrong for a man to be there—but how could one justify the prohibition? Ultimately the answer must be that it was wrong because the old Botswana morality said that it was wrong, and the old Botswana morality, as everybody knew, was so plainly right. It just
felt
right.

Nowadays, of course, there were plenty of people who appeared to be turning away from that morality. She saw it in the behaviour of schoolchildren, who strutted about and pushed their way around with scant respect for older people. When she was at school, children respected adults and lowered their eyes when they spoke to them, but now children looked straight at you and answered back. She had recently told a young boy—barely thirteen, she thought—to pick up an empty can that he had tossed on the ground in the mall the other day. He had looked at her in amazement, and had then laughed and told her that she could pick it up if she liked as he had no intention of doing so. She had been so astonished by his cheek that she had been unable to think of a suitable riposte, and he had sauntered away, leaving her speechless. When she was young, a woman would have picked up a boy like that and spanked him on the spot. But today you couldn’t spank other people’s children in the street; if you tried to do so there would be an enormous fuss. She was a modern lady, of course, and did not approve of spanking, but sometimes one had to wonder. Would that boy have dropped the can in the first place if knew that somebody might spank him? Probably not.

THOUGHTS ABOUT marriage, and moving house, and spanking boys, were all very well but everyday life still required to be attended to, and for Mma Ramotswe, this meant that she had to open up the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency on Monday morning, as she did on every working morning, even if there was very little possibility of anybody coming in with an enquiry or telephoning. Mma Ramotswe felt that it was important to keep one’s word, and the sign outside the agency announced that the opening hours were from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, every day. In fact, no client had ever consulted her until well into the morning, and usually clients came in the late afternoon. Why this should be, she had no idea, although she sometimes reflected that it took people some time to build up the courage to cross her threshold and admit to whatever it was that was troubling them.

So Mma Ramotswe sat with her secretary, Mma Makutsi, and drank the large mug of bush tea which Mma Makutsi brewed for them both at the beginning of each day. She did not really need a secretary, but a business which wished to be taken seriously required somebody to answer the telephone or to take calls if she was out. Mma Makutsi was a highly skilled typist—she had scored 97 percent in her secretarial examinations—and was probably wasted on a small business such as this, but she was good company, and loyal, and, most important of all, had a gift for discretion.

“We must not talk about what we see in this business,” Mma Ramotswe had stressed when she engaged her, and Mma Makutsi had nodded solemnly. Mma Ramotswe did not expect her to understand confidentiality—people in Botswana liked to talk about what was happening—and she was surprised when she found out that Mma Makutsi understood very well what the obligation of confidentiality entailed. Indeed, Mma Ramotswe had discovered that her secretary even refused to tell people where she worked, referring only to an office “somewhere over near Kgale Hill.” This was somewhat unnecessary, but at least it was an indication that the clients’ confidences would be safe with her.

Early morning tea with Mma Makutsi was a comforting ritual, but it was also useful from the professional point of view. Mma Makutsi was extremely observant, and she also listened attentively for any little snippet of gossip that could be useful. It was from her, for instance, that Mma Ramotswe had heard that a medium-ranking official in the planning department was proposing to marry the sister of the woman who owned Ready Now Dry Cleaners. This information may have seemed mundane, but when Mma Ramotswe had been engaged by a supermarket owner to discover why he was being denied a licence to build a dry-cleaning agency next to his supermarket, it was useful to be able to point out that the person making the decision may have an interest in another, rival dry-cleaning establishment. That information alone stopped the nonsense; all that Mma Ramotswe had needed to do was to point out to the official that there were people in Gaborone who were saying—surely without any justification—that he might allow his business connections to influence his judgement. Of course, when somebody had mentioned this to her, she had disputed the rumour vehemently, and had argued that there could be no possible connection between his dry-cleaning associations and the difficulty which anybody else might be having over getting a licence to open up such a business. The very thought was outrageous, she had said.

On that Monday, Mma Makutsi had nothing of significance to report. She had enjoyed a quiet weekend with her sister, who was a nurse at the Princess Marina Hospital. They had bought some material and had started to make a dress for the sister’s daughter. On Sunday they had gone to church and a woman had fainted during one of the hymns. Her sister had helped to revive her and they had made her some tea in the hall at the side of the church. The woman was too fat, she said, and the heat had been too much for her, but she had recovered quickly and had drunk four cups of tea. She was a woman from the north, she said, and she had twelve children up in Francistown.

“That is too much,” said Mma Ramotswe. “In these modern days, it is not a good thing to have twelve children. The Government should tell people to stop after six. Six is enough, or maybe seven or eight if you can afford to feed that many.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. She had four brothers and two sisters and she thought that this had prevented her parents from paying adequate attention to the education of each of them.

“It was a miracle that I got 97 percent,” she said.

‘If there had only been three children, then you would have got over 100 percent,” observed Mma Ramotswe.

“Impossible,” said Mma Makutsi. “Nobody has ever got over 100 percent in the history of the Botswana Secretarial College. It’s just not possible.”

THEY WERE not busy that morning. Mma Makutsi cleaned her typewriter and polished her desk, while Mma Ramotswe read a magazine and wrote a letter to her cousin in Lobatse. The hours passed slowly, and by twelve o’clock Mma Ramotswe was prepared to shut the agency for lunch. But just as she was about to suggest that to Mma Makutsi, her secretary slammed a drawer shut, inserted a piece of paper into her typewriter and began to type energetically. This signalled the arrival of a client.

A large car, covered in the ubiquitous thin layer of dust that settled on everything in the dry season, had drawn up and a thin, white woman, wearing a khaki blouse and khaki trousers, had stepped out of the passenger seat. She glanced up briefly at the sign on the front of the building, took off her sunglasses, and knocked on the half-open door.

Mma Makutsi admitted her to the office, while Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair to welcome her.

“I’m sorry to come without an appointment,” said the woman. “I hoped that I might find you in.”

“You don’t need an appointment,” said Mma Ramotswe warmly, reaching out to shake her hand. “You are always welcome.”

The woman took her hand, correctly, Mma Ramotswe noticed, in the proper Botswana way, placing her left hand on her right forearm as a mark of respect. Most white people shook hands very rudely, snatching just one hand and leaving their other hand free to perform all sorts of mischief. This woman had at least learned something about how to behave.

She invited the caller to sit down in the chair which they kept for clients, while Mma Makutsi busied herself with the kettle.

“I’m Mrs Andrea Curtin,” said the visitor. “I heard from somebody in my embassy that you were a detective and you might be able to help me.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Embassy?”

“The American Embassy,” said Mrs Curtin. “I asked them to give me the name of a detective agency.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I am glad that they recommended me,” she said. “But what do you need?”

The woman had folded her hands on her lap and now she looked down at them. The skin of her hands was mottled, Mma Ramotswe noticed, in the way that white people’s hands were if they were exposed to too much sun. Perhaps she was an American who had lived for many years in Africa; there were many of these people. They grew to love Africa and they stayed, sometimes until they died. Mma Ramotswe could understand why they did this. She could not imagine why anybody would want to live anywhere else. How did people survive in cold, northern climates, with all that snow and rain and darkness?

“I could say that I am looking for somebody,” said Mrs Curtin, raising her eyes to meet Mma Ramotswe’s gaze. “But then that would suggest that there is somebody to look for. I don’t think that there is. So I suppose I should say that I’m trying to find out what happened to somebody, quite a long time ago. I don’t expect that that person is alive. In fact, I am certain that he is not. But I want to find out what happened.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Sometimes it is important to know,” she said. “And I am sorry, Mma, if you have lost somebody.”