The Good Husband of Zebra Drive (13 page)

Mma Makutsi agreed. “Yes,” she said. “They do. They are…” She was not sure how to continue. She had been about to pass a further comment on the Germans, but realised that she actually knew very little about them. The Chinese one saw a lot of, and they seemed quiet and industrious too, but one did not see many Germans. In fact, she had seen none.

Teenie turned and looked up at her. The expectant, plaintive look was there; as if there was something important that Mma Makutsi might say about the Germans and which she desperately wanted to hear.

“I would like to go to Germany,” said Mma Makutsi lamely.

“Yes,” said Teenie. “I would like to visit other countries. I would like to go to London some day. But I do not think I shall ever get out of Botswana. This business keeps me tied up. It is like a chain around my ankle sometimes. You cannot go anywhere if you have a chain around your ankle.”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi, raising her voice now to compete with the sound of the German printing machine.

Mma Makutsi gazed about her. If she needed to act the part of the interested client, then it was not a difficult role for her to fill; she was very interested. They were in a large, high-ceilinged space, windowless but with an open door at the back. The sun streamed through the back door, but the main lighting was provided by a bank of fluorescent tube lights hanging from the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood the German printing machine, while four or five other complicated-looking machines were arranged around the rest of the area. Mma Makutsi noticed an electric guillotine, with shavings of paper below, and large bottles of what must have been ink on high racked shelves. There were several large supply cupboards, walk-in affairs, and stacks of supplies on trolleys and tables. It was a good place for a thief, she thought; there were plenty of
things.

Next, she noticed the people. There were two young men standing at the side of the German printing machine: one engaged in some sort of adjusting task, the other watching a rapidly growing pile of printed brochures. At the far end of the room, two women were stacking piles of paper onto a trolley, while a third person, a man, was doing something to what looked like another, smaller printing machine. Just off the main space there were two blocked-off glass cubicles, small offices. One was empty, but lit; a man and a woman were in the other, the woman showing a piece of paper to the man. When Mma Makutsi looked in their direction, the woman nudged the man and pointed at her. The man looked across the room.

“You should introduce me to the staff,” said Mma Makutsi. “Why don't we start with those two?” She indicated the two young men attending to the large printing machine.

“They are very nice young men,” said Teenie. “They are my best people. They have a printer's eye, Mma. Do you know what a printer's eye is? It means that they can see how things are going to turn out even before the machine is turned on.”

Mma Makutsi thought of the two apprentices. If there was such a thing as a mechanic's eye, then she doubted whether the apprentices had it.

“Printers used to be able to read backwards,” said Teenie as they approached the machine and its two young attendants. “They could do that when type was set in metal. They put the letters in backwards.”

“Mirrors,” said Mma Makutsi. “They must have had mirrors in their heads.”

“No,” said Teenie. “They did not.”

As they approached the printing machine, the two young men stopped what they were doing. One flicked a switch and the machine ground to a halt. Without the noise it had been making the works now seemed unnaturally quiet, apart from the radio in the background somewhere which could still be heard churning out the insistent beat of a rock tune, the sort of music that Mma Ramotswe described as the sound of an angry stomach.

The young men were dressed in work overalls and one of them now took a cloth out of his pocket and wiped his hands on it. The other, who had a large mouth, which he kept open, reached a finger up to fiddle with his nose, but thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side.

“This lady is a client,” said Teenie. “She is very interested in printing. You could tell her about the new machine. She is called Mma Makutsi.”

Mma Makutsi smiled encouragingly at the young men. She tried to keep her eyes off the face of the young man with the gaping mouth, but found that she could not; such a deep space, like the mouth of a cave, allowing one to see straight into his head. It was fascinating, in a curious, uncomfortable way.

The printer who had wiped his hands on the cloth leaned forward to shake hands with Mma Makutsi. He spoke politely to her, and told her his name. While this was happening, Mma Makutsi felt the eyes of the other young man on her. She glanced at him, but saw only the open mouth. Absurdly, temptingly, she wanted to put something into it: pieces of paper, perhaps, small erasers, anything that would block it up; it was ridiculous.

Then the young man spoke. “You are that lady from the detective agency,” he said. “That place on the Tlokweng Road.” The sound of his voice may have come from his mouth, but to Mma Makutsi it seemed that it really came from somewhere below, down in his chest or stomach.

Mma Makutsi looked at Teenie, who turned to stare up at her in blank surprise. “I am that lady,” she stuttered. “Yes.”

There was silence. Mma Makutsi was momentarily at a loss as to what to say. She felt an intense irritation that this young man, with his disconcerting mouth, should expose her so quickly. But then she began to wonder how he knew. It was flattering to think that she was well known, a public figure almost, even if it meant that she would be unable to carry out enquiries quite as discreetly as she hoped; certainly this enquiry was ruined now, as everybody here would know within minutes who she was.

Her surprise turned to anger. “So I am that lady,” she snapped at the young man. “But that means nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I've never met a detective,” said the young man with the cloth. “Is it interesting work, Mma? Do you come to places like this to investigate…”

“Thefts,” supplied the mouth.

Teenie gave a start. She had been watching the young men as they talked; now she spun round and looked at Mma Makutsi. Again there was that pleading look, as if she wanted Mma Makutsi to say that it was not true, that she was not a detective, and that she had certainly not come here to look into thefts.

Mma Makutsi decided that the best tactic would be to pretend to be amused by the very suggestion. “We do not spend all our time investigating,” she said, smiling archly. “There are other things in our lives.”

The young man with the large mouth cocked his head sideways as she spoke, as if he was trying to look at Mma Makutsi from a different angle. She glanced at him and found herself looking past his teeth and lips, into the very cave, the labyrinth. There were people who found such caves irresistible, she knew, who loved exploring. She imagined tiny people, equipped with minuscule ropes and picks, climbing into that mouth, leaning into the hot gusts of wind that came up from the lungs somewhere down below.

Teenie took Mma Makutsi's arm and led her off towards the offices. “They are not involved in it,” she said. “They would never steal.”

Mma Makutsi was not so sure. “One can't be too sure about that,” she said. “Sometimes it is the most unlikely person who is to blame for something. We have had many cases where you would never have suspected the person who turns out to be guilty. Ministers of religion for example. Yes. Even them.”

“I cannot imagine a minister of religion doing anything bad,” said Teenie.

Mma Makutsi sighed. “Well, they do. There are some very wicked ministers of religion. They hardly ever get caught, of course, because nobody thinks of looking into their affairs. If I wanted to commit a crime and get away with it, you know what I would do? I would become a minister of religion first, and then I would commit the crime. I would know that I would get away with it, you see.”

“Or a detective,” said Teenie quietly.

“Or a…” Mma Makutsi had been about to agree with this, but was stopped by professional pride. “No,” she continued. “I don't think that it would be a good idea to become a detective if you were planning to commit a crime. The people you worked with would know, you see, Mma. They would just know.”

Teenie said nothing. They were now outside the office cubicle and Teenie was reaching for the handle of the door. The man and the woman inside were watching them.

“This is him,” whispered Teenie. “This one inside.”

Mma Makutsi looked in through the glass wall. Her eyes met the gaze of the man in the office. Of course, she thought. Now I see.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHARLIE PICKS UP A PASSENGER

T
HE TAXI LICENCE
for which Charlie had applied would be approved, he had been told, but the document itself, the important piece of paper, would not be ready for at least two weeks. For a young man of Charlie's age, and attitude, that was a long time—too long a time to wait for a mere bureaucratic formality. And so he had decided to start plying his trade rather than wait for the officials in the public transport department to get round to picking up their rubber stamps and validating his papers. Those idle civil servants! he thought. There are too many of them in this country. That is all that we make—civil servants. He smiled. He was a businessman now—he could think such thoughts.

The car which he had acquired from Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been cleaned and polished until it shone. Charlie lived as a lodger with a maternal uncle, who had a small two-room house at the side of a busy street off the Francistown Road. The now gleaming Mercedes-Benz looked out of place among the shabby cars that stood outside these modest houses and Charlie was worried that it would be stolen. On the first night that the car spent in its new quarters, Charlie had decided to tie a piece of string to the front grille of the vehicle and then feed the other end of the string through the window of the room in which he slept. That would then be tied to his big toe before he got into bed.

“You will certainly wake up if the car is stolen,” said his uncle, who had watched, bemused, as the string was unwound from its ball.

“That is why I am doing it, Uncle,” Charlie had replied. “If I wake up when the car is moved, I can get out of bed and deal with the thieves.”

The uncle had stared at his nephew. “There are two problems that I see,” he said. “Two. The first is this: What if the string does not break? This new string is very strong, you know. I think it could probably take the weight of a man. It could pull your toe out of the window, with you still attached.”

Charlie said nothing. He stared down at the ball of string. The label proclaimed:
Extra Strong.

“Then there is another problem,” said the uncle. “Even if the string woke you up and then broke before it pulled your toe off, what would happen then? How exactly are you going to deal with your car being driven away? Run after it?”

Charlie put the ball of string down on the table. “Maybe I will not do this,” he said.

“No,” said the uncle. “Maybe you shouldn't.”

The car was not stolen that night. When Charlie awoke the next morning, he immediately rose from his mattress on the floor and pulled aside the thin cotton curtain that covered his window. The car was still there, exactly where he had left it, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

That morning he had arranged for a sign-painter to stencil the name of his taxi firm on the driver's door. This took barely an hour to do, but consumed almost half of the final week's pay that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had given him. At least he would not have to pay for fuel just yet, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had given him a full tank of petrol as a parting gift. So now he was ready, apart from the licence.

Charlie stood outside the sign-painter's shop and admired the newly painted legend on the side of the car.

The sign-painter, a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, contemplated his handiwork. “Why are you calling it the No. 1 Ladies' Taxi Service?” he asked. “Are you getting a lady driver?”

Charlie explained the nature of the service to the painter, an explanation which was followed by a brief silence. Then the painter said, “There are some very good business ideas, Rra. In my job, I see many businesses starting. But I hardly ever see one which is as good an idea as this.”

“Do you mean that?” asked Charlie.

“Of course. This is going to be a big success, I can tell you, Rra. A big success. You are going to be very rich. Next month, maybe the month after that, you will be starting to get rich. You'll see. You come back and tell me if I'm wrong.”

Charlie drove away with the sign-painter's prediction ringing in his ears. Of course the thought of being rich appealed to him; apart from that brief spell when he had been taken up by that wealthy, married, and older woman, he had known only poverty so far, had owned only a single pair of shoes, had made do with turned collars on his shirts. If he had the money, he could dress in a way which he knew would attract the girls; not that he had ever had any difficulty in doing that, but in a way which would attract a fancier sort of girl. That was what interested him.

He had intended to drive straight home in order to conserve fuel, but then, as he rounded a corner, a woman stepped out from a driveway and waved him down. For a moment he was puzzled, and then he remembered.
I am a taxi driver! I get waved down.

He drew in at the side of the road, coming to rest immediately abreast of the woman. She stepped smartly to the back door and climbed in. He watched her in his rear-view mirror; a well-off woman, he thought; well-dressed, carrying a small leather briefcase.

“Where to?” he asked. He had not rehearsed the phrase, but it sounded right.

She told him that she wanted to go to the bank at the top of the Mall. “I have an appointment,” she said. “I am a bit late for it. I hope that you can get me there quickly.”

He shifted the car into gear and drove off. “I will do my best, Mma.”

In the mirror he saw the woman in the back relax. “A friend was coming to collect me,” she said, looking out of the window as she spoke. “She has obviously forgotten. It was a good thing you came along.”

“Yes, Mma. We are here to help.”

The woman seemed impressed with this. “Some of you taxi people are really rude,” she said. “You are not like that. That is a good thing.”

Charlie looked in the mirror again, his eyes meeting his passenger's gaze. She was a good-looking woman, he thought; a bit too old for him, but one never knew. That last time, when he had been involved with that older woman, he had enjoyed a marvellous time, until her husband…Well, one could never tell how these things would work out. He glanced into the mirror once more. She was wearing a necklace with green stones and a pair of large dangling ear-rings. Charlie liked ear-rings like that. They were a sign that a woman liked a good time, he always thought. Perhaps he might ask this woman at the end of the journey whether he could come back and pick her up after her appointment. And she would say to him that this would be a very good idea because, as it happened, she had nothing to do and perhaps they could go out to a bar somewhere and have a beer because it was getting hot again, did he not think, and it would be a good thing to say goodbye to these winter nights when one really needed somebody nice and warm in one's bed to keep the chill away…

He did not see the traffic lights, which were red, against him; nor the truck that was approaching and that had no time to apply its brakes. Charlie, gazing in his rear-view mirror, saw nothing that lay ahead; not the frantic movements of the truck driver as he realised that impact was inevitable; not the crumpling of metal as the front of the car folded in; not the shattering of the windscreen as it fragmented into little pieces, like diamonds or droplets of water in the sun. But he heard the screaming of the woman in the seat behind him and a slow ticking sound from the engine of his car; he heard the slamming of the door of the truck as the driver, shaking, let himself out of his relatively unharmed cabin. He heard the protests of metal as his own door was prised open.

Another motorist had stopped and had put his arm around Charlie's passenger. She was standing beside the car, weeping with shock. There was no blood.

“Everybody is all right,” said the other motorist. “I saw it happen. I saw it.”

“I was coming that way,” stuttered the truck driver. “The light was green.”

“Yes,” said the motorist. “I saw that. The light was green.”

They looked at Charlie. “Are you all right, Rra? You are not injured?”

Charlie could not speak. He shook his head. He had escaped injury, thanks to the solidity of German engineering.

“God must be watching,” said a passer-by, who had seen all three step unharmed from the wreckage. “But look at that car! I'm sorry, Rra. Your poor car.”

Charlie had now sat down on the side of the road. He too was shaking. He was staring at his shoes; now he looked up and saw the ruins of his Mercedes-Benz, with its crumpled front, stained green by spurting coolant; at the metal rubbed bare where the truck had ground across it; at the buckled door with its newly painted sign. The ruptured metal had shortened the sign.
The No. 1 Ladies' Tax
it now read; a curious legend which caused the policeman who shortly afterwards arrived at the scene to scratch his head. Tax?

Charlie reached home four hours later. His aunt was there, and she could tell immediately that there was something wrong.

“I have had an accident,” he said.

The aunt let out a wail. “Your beautiful new car?”

“It is finished, Aunty. That car is finished now.”

The aunt looked fixedly at the ground; she had known, of course, that this, or something like this, would happen. Charlie, silent now that he had pronounced the requiem on his car, sat down. I am twenty, he thought. Twenty, and it is all finished for me.