The Kalahari Typing School for Men

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Please, Mma,” he had pleaded. “I cannot wait. After all this time, I must know soon. Please do not make me wait. I shall be sitting here thinking, thinking, all the time.”

  There were other things that Mma Ramotswe had to do, but these were not urgent and she understood his anxiety. So she agreed to see him at her office the next day when, she said, she would be able to give him the information he wanted. This required arrangements to be made, of course, and there was the older apprentice to dispatch on an errand. But that could be done.

  Mr. Molefelo was punctual, waiting outside in his car until exactly eleven o’clock, the time at which Mma Ramotswe had agreed to see him. Mma Makutsi showed him into the office and then returned to her desk. Mr. Molefelo greeted Mma Ramotswe and then looked at Mma Makutsi.

  “I wonder, Mma …” he began.

  Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye, and that was enough. They both understood that there were things that could be said to one but not to two. And there were other reasons.

  “I have to go to the post, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Should I go now?”

  “A very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi left the office, throwing an injured look in Mr. Molefelo’s direction, but he did not notice. As soon as she had left, Mr. Molefelo spoke.

  “I must know, Mma,” he said, wringing his hands as he spoke. “I must know. Are they late? Are they late?”

  “No, they are not late, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mr. Tsolamosese has died, but his widow is still alive. You came to me in time.”

  Mr. Molefelo’s relief was palpable. “In that case, I can do what I need to do.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can do what needs to be done.” She paused. “I shall tell you first about Tebogo. I found her, you know.”

  Mr. Molefelo nodded eagerly. “Good. And … and what had happened to her? Was she well?”

  “She was fine,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I found her in Molepolole, very easily. I drank tea with her and we talked. She told me about her life.”

  “I am …” Mr. Molefelo tried to speak but found that he had nothing to say.

  “She said that she did not train as a nurse after all. She was very upset when you made her deal with the baby in that way. She said that she cried and cried, and for many months she had bad dreams about what she had done.”

  “That was my fault,” said Mr. Molefelo. “My fault.”

  “Yes it was,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you were a young man then, weren’t you? Young men do these things. It is only later that they regret them.”

  “It was wrong of me to say that she should end that baby. I know that.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at him. “It is not that simple, Rra. There are times when you cannot expect a woman to have a baby. It is not always right. Many women would tell you that.”

  “I am not questioning that,” said Mr. Molefelo meekly. “I am just telling you what I feel.”

  “She was upset about you, too, you know,” went on Mma Ramotswe. “She said that she loved you and that you had told her that, too. Then you changed your mind, and she was very upset. She said that you had a hard heart.”

  Mr. Molefelo looked down at the floor. “It is true. I had a hard heart.…”

  “But then she said that she met another boy and he asked her to marry him. He joined the police, and then later on he found a job as a bus driver. They live out at Molepolole, and they have been happy. They have five children. I met the oldest girl.”

  Mr. Molefelo listened attentively. “Is that all?” he said. “Is that all that happened? Did you tell her how sorry I was?”

  “I did,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said that you must not worry. She said that her life had turned out very well and she bore you no ill will. She said that she hoped that you had been happy, too.” She paused. “I think that you wanted to help her in some way, didn’t you, Rra?”

  Mr. Molefelo was smiling. “I said that, Mma, and I meant it. I want to give her some money.”

  “That might not be the best way to do it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think the husband of this woman would think if she received money from an old boyfriend? He might not like it at all.”

  “Then what can I do?”

  “I met her daughter,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I told you that. She is a clever girl. She is the one who would like to be a nurse now. She is very keen. I spoke to her about it. But there are not many places for nurse training, and it is the girls who get the best results who will get the places.”

  “Is she clever?” asked Mr. Molefelo. “Her mother was clever.”

  “She is clever enough, I think,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But she would stand an even better chance if she went for a year or two to one of those schools where they charge high fees. They teach the children very carefully there. It would be a very good chance for her.”

  Mr. Molefelo was silent. “The fees are high,” he said. “That costs a lot of money.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at him, meeting his gaze. “I do not think that you can make up for things cheaply, Rra. Do you?”

  Mr. Molefelo looked at her, hesitated, and then he smiled. “You are a very astute lady, Mma, and I think you are right. I will pay for that girl to go to one of those schools here in Gaborone. I will pay that.”

  Half the medicine, thought Mma Ramotswe. Now for the other half. She looked out of the window. The apprentice had left shortly before nine o’clock, and allowing for delays at the roundabouts and for one or two wrong turnings, he should be back very soon. She could start, though, by telling him of how she had found Mma Tsolamosese.

  “The father died,” she said. “He retired from prison service and then he died. But Mma Tsolamosese herself is well, and she is living on her widow’s pension from the department. I think that she has enough. Her house seemed comfortable, and she is with her people. I think she is happy.”

  “That is very good,” said Mr. Molefelo. “But was she also cross with me when you told her what had happened?”

  “She was very surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “At first she did not believe that you could have done it. I had to persuade her that it was true. Then she said that she thought that you were very brave to confess what had happened. That’s what she said.”

  Mr. Molefelo, who had looked cheerful before, now looked miserable again. “She must think I am very bad. She must think that I abused her hospitality. That is a very bad thing to do.”

  “She understands,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She is a woman who has lived quite a long time. She understands that young men can behave like that. Do not think that she is filled with anger, or anything like that.”

  “She is not?”

  “No. And she is also happy that you should apologise in person. She is prepared for that.”

  “Then I must go out there,” said Mr. Molefelo.

  Mma Ramotswe glanced out of her window. The tiny white van was being driven up to the back of the garage.

  “No need to go out there, Rra,” she said. “Mma Tsolamosese has just arrived. She will be here in a moment.” She paused. “Are you all right, Rra?”

  Mr. Molefelo gulped. “I am very embarrassed, Mma. I feel very bad. But I think I am ready.”

  ———

  MMA TSOLAMOSESE looked at the man standing before her.

  “You are looking very well,” she said. “You were thinner in those days. You were a boy.”

  “You were my mother, Mma. You looked after me well.”

  She smiled at him. “I was your mother in Gaborone. You were my son while you were here. Now I am proud of you. Mma Ramotswe has told me how well you have done.”

  “But I did a very bad thing to you,” said Mr. Molefelo. “Your radio—”

  Mma Tsolamosese interrupted him. “A radio is a small thing. A man is a big thing.”

  “I am sorry, Mma,” said Mr. Molefelo. “I am sorry for what I did. I have never stole
n anything else. That was the only time.”

  “Do not worry, Rra,” she said. “I have told you already. A radio is a small thing.”

  They sat down together while Mma Ramotswe prepared the tea. Then, over the strong, sweet liquid, they talked about what had happened in their lives. At the end of the conversation, Mma Ramotswe drew Mr. Molefelo to one side and spoke to him quietly.

  “There is something you can do for this woman,” she said. “It will not cost you too much money, but it is something that you can do.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Mma Tsolamosese. “She is such a kind woman,” he whispered. “She was like that then, and she still is. I will do whatever I can.”

  “There is a grandchild,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “There is a little girl. She may not live very long because of this cruel illness. But in the meantime, you could make a difference to that life. You could give Mma Tsolamosese money to use for that child. The right food. Meat. Pretty clothes. Even if the life of that child is short, it would be made a happy one, and if you did that, Rra, then you would have more than made up for what you did all those years ago.”

  Mr. Molefelo looked at her. “You are right, Mma. I can do that. It is not a big thing to do.”

  “Then you tell Mma Tsolamosese,” said Mma Ramotswe, gesturing towards the older woman. “You go ahead and tell her.”

  Mma Tsolamosese listened quietly as Mr. Molefelo spoke. Then, her head bowed, she spoke.

  “I always thought that you were a good person, Rra,” she said. “All those years ago, I thought that. Nothing that I have heard, nothing, has made me change my mind about you.”

  She looked up and reached for his hand, while Mma Ramotswe turned away. Mr. Molefelo had earned this moment for himself, she thought, and there should be no spectator.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NO. 42 LIMPOPO COURT

  M R. MOLEFELO had written two cheques that day: one to Mma Ramotswe, for her professional services (three thousand pula, a steep fee, but one which he was well able to afford), and another for two thousand pula, to be deposited in a post office savings account in the name of Mma Tsolamosese, for the benefit of her grandchild. More cheques would need to be made out for school fees, but again, Mr. Molefelo had made a considerable amount of money, and these sums would not be noticed. In return, after all, as Mma Ramotswe was at pains to explain to him, he had corrected the moral balance of his past and earned the right to an easy conscience.

  But Mma Ramotswe’s sense of achievement was marred by the question brought to her attention by Mma Selelipeng, the physiotherapist from Mochudi. Mma Ramotswe would dearly have loved this issue to have gone away, but it remained stubbornly present and would have to be dealt with. At least she had now decided what to do; she had Mr. Bernard Selelipeng’s address right there in her hand, and she would go and see him early that evening, shortly after he arrived home from work.

  She knew Limpopo Court, a newish block of flats near Tlokweng Road. She had been in one of the flats there before, visiting a distant cousin, and its shape and its stuffiness had discouraged her. Mma Ramotswe liked the old round shapes of traditional architecture; hard edges and sharp roofs struck her as being unfriendly and uncomfortable. And a traditional house smelled better, because there was no concrete, which has such a bad odour, dank and acrid. A traditional house smelled of wood smoke, the earth, and of thatch; all good smells, the smell of life itself.

  No. 42 was on the first floor, reached by an ugly concrete walkway that ran the length of the building. She glanced at the door, with its shiny blue paint, and at the name, Selelipeng, which had been stencilled on it in pride of ownership. She felt unhappy and concerned, even anxious; what she had to do was not easy, but she could see no way out of it. She had agreed to act on behalf of Mma Selelipeng, and she could not go back on her word. At the same time, she was aware of the fact that she was interfering in Mma Makutsi’s affairs in a way to which her employee might object. Would she, were she in the shoes of Mma Makutsi, want her employer meddling in a romance which clearly meant so much to her? She thought not. But then were she in Mma Makutsi’s position, she would not have to worry about the obligation she owed to Mma Selelipeng. So it was not as simple as Mma Makutsi might imagine.

  Unaware of the moral quandary which he had created for Mma Ramotswe, Mr. Bernard Selelipeng, his tie loosened after a demanding day in the diamond office, opened the door to Mma Ramotswe’s knock. He saw before him a large, well-built lady, vaguely familiar to him in some context. Who was she? A relative? Cousins of cousins were always appearing on his doorstep wanting something. At least this woman did not look hungry.

  “Mr. Selelipeng?”

  “My name is on the door, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. She saw the centre parting and the expensive blue shirt. She noticed the shoes, which were shinier than the shoes that most men wore.

  “I have to speak to you, Rra, about an important matter. Please, will you invite me in?”

  Mr. Selelipeng drew back from the door, gesturing for Mma Ramotswe to enter. Pointing to a chair, he invited her to sit down.

  “I am not sure who you are, Mma,” he began. “I think I have met you, but I am sorry, I am not sure.”

  “I am Precious Ramotswe,” she said. “I am the owner of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. You may have heard of us.”

  Mr. Selelipeng looked surprised. “I have heard of your agency,” he said. “There was an interview in the newspaper the other day.”

  Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “That was not us, Rra. That was another business. Nothing to do with us.” She made an effort to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she was afraid that it showed, as Mr. Selelipeng seemed to become tense as she spoke.

  “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” went on Mma Ramotswe, “is run by two women. There is me—I am the manager—and there is a lady who works for me as assistant detective. She is a person who came from the Botswana Secretarial College and is now working for me. I think you know her.”

  Mr. Selelipeng said nothing.

  “She is called Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is the name of this lady.”

  Mr. Selelipeng did not lower his eyes, but Mma Ramotswe noticed that he was no longer smiling. She noticed how he was drumming the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair. His other hand lay on his lap but was slightly clenched, she saw.

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. “I know that you are seeing this lady, Rra. She has spoken of you.”

  Still Mr. Selelipeng said nothing.

  “She was very happy when you invited her out,” she continued. “I could tell from the way that she was behaving that something good was happening in her life. And then she mentioned your name. She said—”

  Suddenly Mr. Selelipeng interrupted. “So,” he said, his voice raised. “So what has this got to do with you, Mma? I don’t like to be rude, but is this any of your business? You are her boss, but you do not own her life, do you?”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I can understand how you feel, Rra. I can imagine that you think I am a busybody woman who is trying to put her nose into matters that do not concern her.”

  “Well?” said Mr. Selelipeng. “There, you have said it yourself. You yourself have said that it is only a busybody who talks about these things, like some old woman in a village, watching, watching.”

  “I am only doing what I have to do, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe defensively.

  “Hah! Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to come and talk to me about this private matter? You tell me that.”

  “Because your wife asked me to,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “That is why.”

  Her words had the effect that she had thought they would. Mr. Selelipeng opened his mouth, and then he closed it. He swallowed. Then he opened his mouth again, and Mma Ramotswe saw that he had a gold cap on a tooth slightly to the right side. His mouth closed.

  “You are worried, Rra? Did you not tell Mma Makutsi that yo
u were a married man?”

  Mr. Selelipeng now seemed crumpled. He had moved back slightly in his chair, and his shoulders had slumped.

  “I was going to tell her,” he said lamely. “I was going to tell her, but I had not got round to it yet. I am very sorry.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked into his eyes and saw the lie. This did not surprise her; indeed, Mr. Selelipeng had behaved true to form and had not caused her to rethink her strategy in any way. It would have been different, of course, if he had laughed when she mentioned his wife, but he had not done that. This was not a man who was going to leave his wife; that was very apparent.

  She now had the advantage. “So, Mr. Selelipeng, what do you think we should do about this? Your wife has instructed me to report on your activities. I have a professional duty to her. I also have to think about the interests of my employee, Mma Makutsi. I do not want her to be hurt … by a man who has no intention of staying with her.”

  At this, Mr. Selelipeng made an attempt to glower at her, but she met his gaze and held it, and he wilted.

  “Please do not tell my wife about this, Mma,” he said, his voice thin and pleading. “I am sorry that I have inconvenienced Mma Makutsi. I do not want to hurt her.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought about that earlier, Rra. Perhaps you should have …” She stopped herself. She was a kind woman, and the sight of this man, so wretched and fearful, made it difficult for her to say anything to exacerbate his discomfort. I could never be a judge, she thought; I could not sit there and punish people after they have begun to feel sorry for what they have done.

  “We could try to sort this out,” she said. “We could try to make sure that Mma Makutsi is not too badly upset. In particular, Rra, I do not want her to think that she has been thrown over … thrown over by somebody who no longer loves her. And I do not want her to find out that she has been seeing a married man. That would make her feel bad about herself, which is what I definitely do not want to happen. Do you understand me?”