Morality for Beautiful Girls tn1lda-3

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Makutsi wished that she had thought to buy him a doughnut, but often he had no appetite and it would have been wasted. His mouth was painful, he said, and the cough made it difficult for him to eat very much. So often he would take only a few spoonfuls of the soup which she prepared on her small paraffin stove, and even then he would sometimes have difficulty in keeping these down.

  Somebody else was in the room when she got home. She heard a strange voice and for a moment she feared that something terrible had happened in her absence, but when she entered the room she saw that the curtain had been drawn back and that there was a woman sitting on a small folding stool beside his mat. When she heard the door open, the woman stood up and turned to face her.

  “I am the nurse from the Anglican hospice,” she said. “I have come to see our brother. My name is Sister Baleje.”

  The nurse had a pleasant smile, and Mma Makutsi took to her immediately.

  “You are kind to come and see him,” Mma Makutsi said. “I wrote that letter to you just to let you know that he was not well.”

  The nurse nodded. “That was the right thing to do. We can call in to see him from time to time. We can bring food if you need it. We can do something to help, even if it’s not a great deal. We have some drugs we can give him. They are not very strong, but they can help a bit.”

  Mma Makutsi thanked her, and looked down at her brother.

  “It is the coughing that troubles him,” she said. “That is the worst thing, I think.”

  “It is not easy,” said the nurse.

  The nurse sat down on her stool again and took the brother’s hand.

  “You must drink more water, Richard,” she said. “You must not let yourself get too thirsty.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her, but said nothing. He was not sure why she was here, but thought that she was a friend of his sister, perhaps, or a neighbour.

  The nurse looked at Mma Makutsi and gestured for her to sit on the floor beside them. Then, still holding his hand, she reached forward and gently touched his cheek.

  “Lord Jesus,” she said, “who helps us in our suffering. Look down on this poor man and have mercy on him. Make his days joyful. Make him happy for his good sister here, who looks after him in his illness. And bring him peace in his heart.”

  Mma Makutsi closed her eyes, and put her hand on the shoulder of the nurse, where it rested, as they sat in silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A VISIT TO DR MOFFAT

  AS MMA Makutsi sat at her brother’s side, Mma Ramotswe was driving her tiny white van up to the gate of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house near the old Botswana Defence Force Club. She could see that he was in; the green truck which he inevitably drove—in spite of his having a rather better vehicle which he left parked at the garage—stood outside his front door, which he had left half open for the heat. She left the van outside, to save herself from getting in and out to open and shut the gate, and walked up to the house past the few scruffy plants which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni called his garden.

  “Ko! Ko!” she called at the door. “Are you there, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?”

  A voice came from the living room. “I am here. I am in, Mma Ramotswe.”

  Mma Ramotswe walked in, noticing immediately how dusty and unpolished was the floor of the hall. Ever since Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s sullen and unpleasant maid, Florence, had been sent to prison for harbouring an unlicensed gun, the house had been allowed to get into an unkempt state. She had reminded Mr J.L.B. Matekoni on several occasions to engage a replacement maid, at least until they got married, and he had promised to do so. But he had never acted, and Mma Ramotswe had decided that she would simply have to bring her maid in one day and attempt a spring clean of the whole place.

  “Men will live in a very untidy way, if you let them,” she had remarked to a friend. “They cannot keep a house or a yard. They don’t know how to do it.”

  She made her way through the hall and into the living room. As she entered, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had been lying full length on his uncomfortable sofa, rose to his feet and tried to make himself look less dishevelled.

  “It is good to see you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “I have not seen you for several days.”

  “That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps that is because you have been so busy.”

  “Yes,” he said, sitting down again, “I have been very busy. There is so much work to be done.”

  She said nothing, but watched him as he spoke. There was something wrong; she had been right.

  “Are things busy at the garage?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Things are always busy at the garage. All the time. People keep bringing their cars in and saying Do this, do that. They think I have ten pairs of hands. That’s what they think.”

  “But do you not expect people to bring their cars to the garage?” she asked gently. “Is that not what a garage is for?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her briefly and then shrugged. “Maybe. But there is still too much work.”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced about the room, noticing the pile of newspapers on the floor and the small stack of what looked like unopened letters on the table.

  “I went to the garage,” she said. “I expected to see you there, but they said that you had left early. They said you often left early these days.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her, and then transferred his gaze to the floor. “I find it hard to stay there all day, with all that work,” he said. “It will get done sooner or later. There are those two boys. They can do it.”

  Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Those two boys? Those apprentices of yours? But they are the very ones you always said could do nothing. How can you say now that they will do everything that needs to be done? How can you say that?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni did not reply.

  “Well, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?” pressed Mma Ramotswe. “What’s your answer to that?”

  “They’ll be all right,” he said, in a curious, flat voice. “Let them get on with it.”

  Mma Ramotswe stood up. There was no point talking to him when he was in this sort of mood—and it certainly was a mood that he seemed to be in. Perhaps he was ill. She had heard that a bout of flu could leave one feeling lethargic for a week or two; perhaps that was the simple explanation of this out-of-character behaviour. In which case, she would just have to wait until he came out of it.

  “I’ve spoken to Mma Makutsi,” she said as she prepared to leave. “I think that she can start at the garage sometime in the next few days. I have given her the title of Assistant Manager. I hope that you don’t mind.”

  His reply astonished her.

  “Assistant Manager, Manager, Managing Director, Minister of Garages,” he said. “Whatever you like. It makes no difference, does it?”

  Mma Ramotswe could not think of a suitable reply, so she said goodbye and started to walk out of the door.

  “Oh, by the way,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni as she started to leave the house, “I thought that I might go out to the lands for a little while. I want to see how the planting is going. I might stay out there for a while.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at him. “And in the meantime, what happens to the garage?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “You run it. You and that secretary of yours, the Assistant Manager. Let her do it. It’ll be all right.”

  Mma Ramotswe pursed her lips. “All right,” she said. “We’ll look after it, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, until you start to feel better.”

  “I’m fine,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  SHE DID not drive home to Zebra Drive, although she knew that the two foster children would be waiting there for her. Motholeli, the girl, would have prepared their evening meal by now, and she needed little supervision or help, in spite of her wheelchair. And the boy, Puso, who was inclined to be rather boisterous, would perhaps have expended most of his energy and would be ready for his bath and his bed, both of which Motholeli
could prepare for him.

  Instead of going home, she turned left at Kudu Road and made her way down past the flats to the house in Odi Way where her friend Dr Moffat lived. Dr Moffat, who used to run the hospital out at Mochudi, had looked after her father and had always been prepared to listen to her when she was in difficulties. She had spoken to him about Note before she had confided in anybody else, and he had told her, as gently as he could, that in his experience such men never changed.

  “You must not expect him to become a different man,” he had said. “People like that rarely change.”

  He was a busy man, of course, and she did not wish to intrude on his time, but she decided that she would see if he was in and whether he could throw any light on the way in which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was behaving. Was there some strange infection doing the rounds which made people all tired and listless? If this were the case, then how long might one expect it to last?

  Dr Moffat had just returned home. He welcomed Mma Ramotswe at the door and led her into his study.

  “I am worried about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she explained. “Let me tell you about him.”

  He listened for a few minutes and then stopped her.

  “I think I know what the trouble might be,” he said. “There’s a condition called depression. It is an illness like any other illness, and quite common too. It sounds to me as if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could be depressed.”

  “And could you treat that?”

  “Usually quite easily,” said Dr Moffat. “That is, provided that he has depression. If he has, then we have very good antidepressants these days. If all went well, which it probably would, we could have him starting to feel quite a bit better in three weeks or so, maybe even a little bit earlier. These pills take some time to act.”

  “I will tell him to come and see you straightaway,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Dr Moffat looked doubtful. “Sometimes they don’t think there’s anything wrong with them,” he said. “He might not come. It’s all very well my telling you what the trouble probably is; he’s the one who has to seek treatment.”

  “Oh, I’ll get him to you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can count on that. I’ll make sure that he seeks treatment.”

  The doctor smiled. “Be careful, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “These things can be difficult.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE GOVERNMENT MAN

  THE FOLLOWING morning Mma Ramotswe was at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency before Mma Makutsi arrived. This was unusual, as Mma Makutsi was normally first to arrive and already would have opened the mail and brewed the tea by the time that Mma Ramotswe drove up in her tiny white van. However, this was going to be a difficult day, and she wanted to make a list of the things that she had to do.

  “You are very early, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Is there anything wrong?”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. In a sense there was a great deal wrong, but she did not want to dishearten Mma Makutsi, and so she put a brave face on it.

  “Not really,” she said. “But we must start preparing for the move. And also, it will be necessary for you to go and get the garage sorted out. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is feeling a bit unwell and might be going away for a while. This means that you will not only be Assistant Manager, but Acting Manager. In fact, that is your new title, as from this morning.”

  Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. “I shall do my best as Acting Manager,” she said. “I promise that you will not be disappointed.”

  “Of course I won’t be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that you are very good at your job.”

  For the next hour they worked in companionable silence. Mma Ramotswe drafted her list of things to do, then scratched some items out and added others. The early morning was the best time to do anything, particularly in the hot season. In the hot months, before the rains arrived, the temperature soared as the day wore on until the very sky seemed white. In the cool of the morning, when the sun barely warmed the skin and the air was still crisp, any task seemed possible; later, in the full heat of day, both body and mind were sluggish. It was easy to think in the morning—to make lists of things to do—in the afternoon all that one could think about was the end of the day and the prospect of relief from the heat. It was Botswana’s one drawback, thought Mma Ramotswe. She knew that it was the perfect country—all Batswana knew that—but it would be even more perfect if the three hottest months could be cooled down.

  At nine o’clock Mma Makutsi made a cup of bush tea for Mma Ramotswe and a cup of ordinary tea for herself. Mma Makutsi had tried to accustom herself to bush tea, loyally drinking it for the first few months of her employment, but had eventually confessed that she did not like the taste. From that time on there were two teapots, one for her and one for Mma Ramotswe.

  “It’s too strong,” she said. “And I think it smells of rats.”

  “It does not,” protested Mma Ramotswe. “This tea is for people who really appreciate tea. Ordinary tea is for anyone.”

  Work stopped while tea was served. This tea break was traditionally a time for catching up on small items of gossip rather than for the broaching of any large subjects. Mma Makutsi enquired after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and received a brief report of Mma Ramotswe’s unsatisfactory meeting with him.

  “He seemed to have no interest in anything,” she said. “I could have told him that his house was on fire and he probably wouldn’t have bothered very much. It was very strange.”

  “I have seen people like that before,” said Mma Makutsi. “I had a cousin who was sent off to that hospital in Lobatse. I visited her there. There were plenty of people just sitting and staring up at the sky. And there were also people shouting out at the visitors, shouting strange things, all about nothing.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “That hospital is for mad people,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is not going mad.”

  “Of course not,” said Mma Makutsi hurriedly. “He would never go mad. Of course not.”

  Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. “But I still have to get him to a doctor,” she said. “I was told that they can treat this sort of behaviour. It is called depression. There are pills which you can take.”

  “That is good,” said Mma Makutsi. “He will get better. I am sure of it.”

  Mma Ramotswe handed over her mug for refilling. “And what about your family up in Bobonong?” she asked. “Are they well?”

  Mma Makutsi poured the rich red tea into the mug. “They are very well, thank you, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I think that it is easier to live in Bobonong than here in Gaborone. Here we have all these troubles to think about, but in Bobonong there is nothing. Just a whole lot of rocks.” She stopped herself. “Of course, it’s a very good place, Bobonong. A very nice place.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed. “You do not have to be polite about Bobonong,” she said. “I can laugh about it. It is not a good place for everybody. I would not like to go back, now that I have seen what it is like to live in Gaborone.”

  “You would be wasted up there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What’s the use of a diploma from the Botswana Secretarial College in a place like Bobonong? The ants would eat it.”

  Mma Makutsi cast an eye up to the wall where her diploma from the Botswana Secretarial College was framed. “We must remember to take that to the new office when we move,” she said. “I would not like to leave it behind.”

  “Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe, who had no diplomas. “That diploma is important for the clients. It gives them confidence.”

  “Thank you,” said Mma Makutsi.

  The tea break over, Mma Makutsi went to wash the cups under the standpipe at the back of the building, and it was just as she returned that the client arrived. It was the first client for over a week, and neither of them was prepared for the tall, well-built man who knocked at the door, in the proper Botswana manner, and politely awaited his invitation to enter. Nor were they prepared for the fact that the car which brought him there, complete with smartly at
tired Government driver, was an official Mercedes-Benz.

  YOU KNOW who I am, Mma?” he said, as he took up the invitation to seat himself in the chair before Mma Ramotswe’s desk.

  “Of course, I do, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe courteously. “You are something to do with the Government. You are a Government Man. I have seen you in the newspapers many times.”

  The Government Man made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Yes, there’s that, of course. But you know who I am when I am not being a Government Man?”

  Mma Makutsi coughed politely, and the Government Man half-turned to face her.

  “This is my assistant,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “She knows many things.”

  “You are also the relative of a chief,” said Mma Makutsi. “Your father is a cousin of that family. I know that, as I come from that part too.”

  The Government Man smiled. “That is true.”

  “And your wife,” went on Mma Ramotswe, “she is some relative of the King of Lesotho, is she not? I have seen a photograph of her, too.”

  The Government Man whistled. “My! My! I can see that I have come to the right place. You people seem to know everything.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded to Mma Makutsi and smiled. “It is our business to know things,” she said. “A private detective who knows nothing would be no use to anybody. Information is what we deal in. That is our job. Just as your job is giving orders to civil servants.”

  “I don’t just give orders,” the Government Man said peevishly. “I have to make policy. I have to make decisions.”

  “Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It must be a very big job being a Government Man.”

  The Government Man nodded. “It is not easy,” he said. “And it is not made any easier if one is worried about something. Every night I wake up at two, three and these worries make me sit up in my bed. And then I don’t sleep, and when it comes to making decisions in the morning my head is all fuzzy and I cannot think. That is what happens when you are worried.”