The Colors of All the Cattle

by Alexander McCall Smith

  DINNER WITH QUEENIE-QUEENIE

  THAT EVENING Charlie took Queenie-Queenie to the cinema at the shopping complex on the Lobatse Road. He met her outside, having gone home early to prepare himself for the date. He had been paid that morning—it was the end of the month—and Mma Ramotswe had increased his salary by eight hundred pula, an appreciable increase. His performance, she said, had been more than satisfactory, and she knew how much he struggled for rent and other living expenses. The extra money was in his pocket, right now, ready to cover what he knew would be an expensive evening. Fanwell’s disclosure that Queenie-Queenie came from a well-off family had been a cause of concern for Charlie: How could he possibly keep up with somebody whose father had a fleet of trucks? So far, their dates had involved little more than meeting for coffee and, occasionally, for a drink in one of the cheaper bars. But that would hardly be enough to keep a girl like that happy, he thought. Sooner or later the subject of dinner would arise, and that would be the crunch point. Dinner was ridiculously expensive, even at a modest restaurant, and it would be impossible for Charlie to manage more than one dinner date a month—at the most. Even then, it would have to be no more than two courses, with a shared beer, perhaps.

  The thought depressed him. And it became worse when he contemplated what would happen if Queenie-Queenie were ever to ask to see his room. It would be impossible for him to take her back to his shared room in that small house in Old Naledi, with its leaky roof, its privy shared with three other families, and its lean-to kitchen. He had not seen her house, but it was, she had told him, not far from Maru-a-Pula School, which meant that it was a comfortable place with a driveway and a garage—at the least—or even one of those substantial properties with a wrought-iron gate and a lawn with built-in sprinklers. How could he possibly ever aspire to court a girl from that sort of background? What if he asked her to marry him and he had to go to her father’s people and start negotiating the dowry? How many head of cattle would they expect him to come up with for a girl of that standing? Fifty? Charlie had no cattle—not a single one, and he did not have the funds to buy so much as the smallest heifer.

  No, it was impossible. Queenie-Queenie was out of his league, and he would have to acknowledge what should have been obvious from the very outset. And, as he thought about it, it became increasingly clear to him: he would have to bring all this to an end sooner rather than later. If he did nothing about it, it would ultimately become more humiliating; Charlie might be impetuous, he might be headstrong, but he was also sensitive to insult, and he could not bear being laughed at. And people would laugh at him, he thought, if they saw him pursuing the unattainable. That thought, and the sure and certain prospect of rejection, made the decision for him. He would take her to the cinema and then to a meal afterwards. And he would bring everything to an end over the meal. He would tell her the truth—that he could not afford to go out with somebody like her, and that he was sorry if he had misled her. He would leave with his dignity intact.

  He arrived in good time and bought himself a cold drink and a packet of peanuts while he was waiting. There were other young men in the same position as he was—waiting for the arrival of a girl; in some cases, any girl—and Charlie glanced furtively at them. They were, without exception, more smartly dressed than he was. They had more money, he thought; of course they did. He thought he was well off with an extra eight hundred pula a month: that was small change to some of these people, with their generous monthly salaries from big firms, perhaps even from some of the diamond firms that had opened up on the airport road. Sorters there were well paid, he had read, and they were training cutters and polishers. It was highly skilled work and it was rewarded accordingly. What girl would decline to go out with a young man in the diamond business? And here was he, Charlie, with his trousers that were beginning to fray at the ends of the legs, with the suede shoes of which he had been so proud showing their bald patches, with his shirt that had the small iron burn at the back—invisible at a distance, he hoped, but quite obvious if you were close up. And you wanted to be close up with a girlfriend, and she would see and say, But, Charlie, what have you done to this old shirt? Old shirt; she would say old shirt.

  It was all very well being a trainee detective, but was it worth it if you had to scrape a living, supplementing it with what you could earn from your greasy hours at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, where all the interesting work went to Fanwell now that he was qualified, and you only got the mundane oil changes and such things? That might be bearable for a time as long as there was the prospect of something better at the end of it, but it would be hard to put up with if the future seemed to be composed of nothing but more of the same. Charlie had spent a long time as an apprentice mechanic, and now it seemed that he was destined to spend an equally long period as a trainee detective. Would he ever be a fully fledged anything? Not in Mma Makutsi’s eyes, he suspected; she was always referring to him as a junior trainee detective or even, on one occasion, as a sub-assistant. That had been hard to bear. How would she feel if he were to refer to her result at the Botswana Secretarial College as being sub–one hundred per cent? That would teach her.

  He smiled at the thought, and was smiling when Queenie-Queenie came up behind him and put her hands over his eyes.

  “Guess who, Charlie!”

  He allowed her to blindfold him for a few seconds more. Then the old gallantry, tried and tested on heaven knew how many girls, came to the fore. “I think it must be the most beautiful girl in Botswana,” he said. “Either that, or her sister, the second most beautiful girl in the country.”

  It was, of course, the right thing to say, perfectly judged, and produced a squeal of delight from Queenie-Queenie as she lowered her hands. Then she said, “Oh, Charlie, somebody’s burned your shirt at the back. Did you know that? It must be the woman who does your ironing.”

  Charlie frowned. There was no woman to do anything for him, but presumably Queenie-Queenie, who lived at home, had several women doing her washing and ironing, and everything else, he imagined.

  “You must get a new one,” Queenie-Queenie said.

  “Woman, or shirt?” asked Charlie.

  It was a well-calculated diversion. “Naughty,” scolded Queenie-Queenie. “Shirt, of course. Maybe I could help you choose. There are some new shirts in stock at Woolworth’s. Very smart. A bit expensive, I think, but fashion, you know…fashion’s never cheap.”

  It would be easy, thought Charlie, to say it now. This was a natural point for him to reply, Well, it’s not for me, in that case. Very little money, you see. But he did not. People were drifting into the cinema as the film was due to start in a few minutes’ time. And Queenie-Queenie had taken his arm—this beautiful, desirable young woman had taken his arm—the arm of a junior trainee detective, a sub-assistant, a changer of oil in old cars, a man who shared a room with two young cousins now, one of whom, barely ten, still wet the bed. That was the reality of the situation. What possible course of action could he possibly choose but to bring this unsustainable relationship to an end?

  They watched the film. A few minutes in, Queenie-Queenie took his hand and clasped it tightly. She turned to him in the darkness and smiled at him. He glanced at her, and then looked away. She stroked his hand and inclined her head so that it was resting on his shoulder. He felt his heart beating. On the screen an expensive car chased another expensive car down a road, somewhere far away, in a world that was so distant from this one. He tasted the salt from the peanuts on his lips—they had been a small treat, which perhaps was the most he could expect from life: small treats, like this, sitting with this girl in a cinema, removed for a short while from the reality of the burned shirt, the shared room, the need to get through life with at least a few shreds of dignity.

  He whispered to Queenie-Queenie, “Afterwards, I thought we could have a meal. Would you like that?”

  She nodded. “There’s a new place. It says it�
�s Italian.”

  He said nothing.

  “Italian,” Queenie-Queenie repeated.

  “Spaghetti,” said Charlie.

  “And other things too. They don’t just eat spaghetti.”

  “I know that,” he said. “Maybe.” It would have to be somewhere else. He had walked past that Italian place and it would be far too expensive for him; he could tell that without even having to go inside. So he now said, “I don’t like spaghetti very much.”

  “There’s a Chinese place, then.”

  He knew that place too. It looked expensive too.

  “How about African?” he said.

  She laughed. “Fat cakes?”

  He saw nothing wrong with fat cakes, but that, he thought, must be a very unsophisticated thing to think. “Only joking,” he said.

  At the end of the film they went outside into the night. People were getting into cars. Some of the young men had motorbikes and their girlfriends were climbing on the back, hugging their boyfriends round the waist as the motorcycles shot off. Charlie imagined what it would be like to be hugged round the waist by Queenie-Queenie while he guided the machine through the darkness. Bliss; it would be bliss.

  It was a short walk to the café he had chosen for their dinner. It was a small place—no more than ten tables—and there were few people in it when they arrived. “People say the chef here is one of the best in Gaborone,” he said as they entered.

  Queenie-Queenie looked around doubtfully. “I’ve never heard them say that,” she said.

  “It’s the best-kept secret in town,” Charlie insisted. “You’ll see.”

  They sat at a table where a guttering candle, spent by the night, had left a congealed pool of wax on the tablecloth.

  “I love candles,” said Queenie-Queenie. “I like their light.”

  “I prefer electricity,” said Charlie. His shared room had a candle, and no power, which had been cut off two weeks earlier. Charlie thought his uncle was stealing the electricity anyway, as he had seen a furtive-looking wire snaking out of the back of the house towards a nearby power line.

  They ordered, with Charlie carefully calculating how far his money would extend. It would be just enough, but would not allow for a tip. And there was a possibility that he would have to walk home rather than treat himself to a minibus.

  He looked at Queenie-Queenie across the table. She smiled back at him. I have to do it, he told himself.

  “I’m sorry, Queenie,” he said. “I really like you, but…”

  Her mouth opened slightly. She looked away.

  “But I haven’t got any money, you see. I can’t give you the things you expect.”

  She turned her head. “What do I expect? How do you know what I expect?”

  “Things,” he said. “Your parents…Your father can give you things.”

  “That’s nothing,” she said.

  “It isn’t. How can I…? How can I…?” He could not express himself. Now that he had plucked up the courage to bring up the subject, he could not find the words.

  Queenie-Queenie suddenly rose to her feet. “Well, thank you,” she spluttered. “Well, thank you, Mr. Big Detective.”

  He reached out to her over the table, but she drew back from his touch. “Don’t bother to follow me,” she said. “Good night, Charlie.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME that night, there was a light on in the front room of the small house in Old Naledi. Power had been restored—unofficially: his uncle had connected the system to a different mains source. The uncle was standing outside, smoking a cigarette in the darkness. He peered at Charlie as he approached. “Is that you, Charlie?” he asked as the young man emerged from the shadows.

  “Only me, Uncle,” Charlie called out.

  The uncle stepped forward to meet him. “I was worried,” he said. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  Charlie laughed. “I’ve just been to the cinema,” he said, “that’s all.”

  The uncle’s tone was grave. “Somebody came round here,” he said, reaching out to take hold of Charlie’s arm. “Come and see.”

  He led his nephew round the side of the house, extracting a flashlight from his pocket. This he switched on, directing the beam up towards the high window of Charlie’s room. Charlie could see at once that the glass had been smashed; a jagged edge, where the glass still clung to the frame, revealed where a rock, or some other missile, had penetrated.

  “Somebody threw a brick,” the uncle said, his voice dropping to not much more than a whisper. “Just twenty minutes ago. It just missed your little cousin’s head. Neither of the boys was hurt, though; just glass everywhere. Glass. Small pieces, big pieces; glass.”

  Charlie drew in his breath sharply. “A brick?”

  “Yes,” said the uncle. “It could have killed somebody inside—if it hadn’t missed. That somebody…” He paused, and scrutinised Charlie’s expression under the beam of the flashlight. “That somebody must have wanted to hurt the person inside the room.”

  Charlie was incredulous. “Me?”

  “Yes,” said the uncle. “He wouldn’t have wanted to hurt the children. So it must be you, Charlie.”

  Charlie accompanied his uncle into the house. The shards of glass had been cleared off the bed, but the brick was still on the floor. His two young cousins watched him intently as he picked it up and stared at it. It was a builder’s brick, with nothing to distinguish it from a million other bricks. Aware of the eyes of the two boys on him, he said, “An accident. Some careless person…”

  His uncle opened his mouth to protest, but Charlie glanced at him quickly and then at the frightened children, and he understood.

  “People shouldn’t throw bricks away like that,” said the uncle with brisk jollity. “It is a very careless thing to do.”

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “It is very thoughtless. There are far too many people littering these days.”

  The children seemed to relax, and the uncle, with a final glance at Charlie, left the room. Charlie lay down on his bed. The air in the room was foetid; the room was too small for three, even if two of its occupants were small. He wanted a wider life, he wanted it so desperately; a life in which there would be room, and fresh air, and a relief from the humiliations of penury. He reached for the candle and snuffed its flame between his fingers. So might hope be extinguished, so quickly and so easily, just like that.

  * * *

  —

  THEY HAD PLANNED a meeting of the committee for the first thing the next morning. The election was only a few days away now, and they had to move quickly on the posters. Pictures of Violet Sephotho had already appeared around the shops at the Riverview Mall. These were arresting—even Mma Makutsi had to concede that—with a flattering colour photograph that vividly displayed the bright red lipstick she was wearing. “You’d think this was all about a beauty contest,” said Mma Makutsi, her lip curling in disdain. “Miss Fifty-Two-Per-Cent herself.” Underneath the photograph was the campaign promise: If you want things changed, then change to Violet!

  Mr. Polopetsi, who had a chemist’s predilection for accuracy and precision, was particularly scathing about that slogan. “It’s meaningless,” he fulminated. “Of course people want change, but change in itself is neither here nor there. People don’t think about that, do they? They don’t ask themselves what change will lead to. You may change things and then discover you don’t like the result. What then?”

  “The change you’ll get from Violet Sephotho will be change for the worse,” observed Mma Makutsi. “And who in their right mind would want that?”

  Mr. Polopetsi shook his head sadly. “People are easily taken in by meaningless slogans,” he said. “That’s why they elect the wrong people. It happens time after time.”

  The appearance of Violet’s posters adde
d an urgency to the finalisation of Mma Ramotswe’s own publicity, and this was the main business of that morning’s meeting. Mma Potokwane, detained on Orphan Farm business, was unable to be there; in her absence, Mma Makutsi took the chair and announced that the posters would have to be printed that day if they were to have any effect. “I don’t think we have time to print a photograph,” she said. “Everybody knows what Mma Ramotswe looks like anyway. People have seen her.”

  “That is very true,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “And Mma Ramotswe would never be able to look as glamorous as that Sephotho woman…” His voice trailed off; Mma Makutsi was glaring at him. “I mean as flashy as her,” he added lamely.

  “I do not want my photograph all over the place,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I don’t think how people look should have any effect on an election.”

  Charlie had been unusually silent. Now he spoke. “It shouldn’t,” he said. “But it does.”

  Mma Ramotswe continued. “It’s words that count. They are the important things—words. And deeds, of course.”

  Mr. Polopetsi had an idea. “How about Deeds Not Words: Vote Mma Ramotswe for Good Deeds?”

  Mma Makutsi mulled over this. “I like the sound of that. I think it’s sincere.”

  Mr. Polopetsi refined his suggestion. “Then how about Deeds Not Words—Yours Sincerely, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Ramotswe had an objection to this. “No,” she said. “You should never claim that you’re sincere—that’s for other people to do. It’s like giving yourself a medal. You should not do it, Rra.”

  “If I were a general,” said Charlie, “I’d give myself lots of medals. Big ones.”

  “Ha!” Fanwell interjected. “The Botswana Defence Force would have to be really desperate to make you a general, Charlie. Generals have to know what they’re doing—like Ian Khama. He did. You’ll never be like Ian Khama, Charlie—not in a hundred years.” Ian Khama was the son of Seretse Khama, the founder of Botswana. He had been a general before he had been called to the presidency.