Mma Ramotswe realised that the conversation was getting nowhere, and so she changed her tack.
"And speaking of your garage," she said. "You were not there yesterday, or the day before. Mma Makutsi is running it for you. But that cannot go on forever."
"I am pleased that she is running it," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni flatly. "I am not feeling very strong at the moment. I think that I should stay here in my house. She will look after everything. Please thank her for me."
Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. "You are not well, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. I think that I can arrange for you to see a doctor. I have spoken to Dr Moffat. He says that he will see you. He thinks it is a good idea."
"I am not broken," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "I do not need to see Dr Moffat. What can he do for me? Nothing."
IT HAD not been a reassuring call, and Mma Ramotswe spent an anxious few minutes pacing about her kitchen after she had rung off. It was clear to her that Dr Moffat had been right;
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that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was suffering from an illness-- depression, he had called it--but now she was more worried about the terrible thing that he said he had done. There was no less likely murderer than Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but what if it transpired that this was what he was? Would it change her feelings for him if she discovered that he had killed somebody, or would she tell herself that it was not really his fault, that he was defending himself when he hit his victim over the head with a spanner? This is what the wives and girlfriends of murderers inevitably did. They never accepted that their man could be capable of being a murderer. Mothers were like that, too. The mothers of murderers always insisted that their sons were not as bad as people said. Of course, for a mother, the man remained a small boy, no matter how old he became, and small boys can never be guilty of murder.
Of course, Note Mokoti could have been a murderer. He was quite capable of killing a man in cold blood, because he had no feelings. It was easy to imagine Note stabbing somebody and walking away as casually as if he had done no more than shake his victim's hand. When he had beaten her, as he had on so many occasions before he left, he had shown no emotion. Once, when he had split the skin above her eyebrow with a particularly savage blow, he had stopped to examine his handiwork as if he were a doctor examining a wound.
"You will need to take that to the hospital," he had said, his voice quite even. "That is a bad cut. You must be more careful."
The one thing that she was grateful for in the whole Note episode was that her Daddy was still alive when she left him. At least he had the pleasure of knowing that his daughter was no longer with that man, even if he had had almost two years of suffering while she was with him. When she had gone to
him and told him that Note had left, he had said nothing about her foolishness in marrying him, even if he might have thought about it. He simply said that she must come back to his house, that he would always look after her, and that he hoped that her life would be better now. He had shown such dignity, as he always did. And she had wept, and gone to him and he had told her that she was safe with him and that she need not fear that man again.
But Note Mokoti and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were totally different men. Note was the one who had committed the crimes, not Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. And yet, why did he insist that he had done something terrible if he had not? Mma Ramotswe found this puzzling, and, as ever when puzzled, she decided to turn to that first line of information and consolation on all matters of doubt or dispute: the Botswana Book Centre.
She breakfasted quickly, leaving the children to be cared for by Rose. She would have liked to give them some attention, but her life now seemed unduly complicated. Dealing with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had moved to the top of her list of tasks, followed by the garage, the investigation into the Government Man's brother's difficulties, and the move to the new office. It was a difficult list: every task on it had an element of urgency and yet there was a limited number of hours in her day.
She drove the short distance into town and found a good parking place for the tiny white van behind the Standard Bank. Then, greeting one or two known faces in the square, she made her way to the doors of the Botswana Book Centre. It was her favourite shop in town, and she usually allowed herself a good hour for the simplest purchase, which gave plenty of time for browsing the shelves; but this morning, with such a clear and worrying mission on her mind, she set her face firmly
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against the temptations of the magazine shelves with their pic.? tures of improved houses and glamorous dresses.
"I would like to speak to the Manager," she said to one of th staff.
"You can speak to me," a young assistant said.
Mma Ramotswe was adamant. The assistant was polite, but! very young and it would be better to speak to a man who knew] a lot about books. "No," said Mma Ramotswe. "I wish to speak j to the manager, Mma. This is an important matter."
The Manager was summoned, and greeted Mma Ramotswe politely. I
"It is good to see you," he said. "Are you here as a detective, Mma?"
Mma Ramotswe laughed. "No, Rra. But I would like to find a book which will help me deal with a very delicate matter. May I speak to you in confidence?"
"Of course you may, Mma," he said. "You will never find a bookseller talking about the books that his customers are reading if they wish to keep it private. We are very careful."
"Good," said Mma Ramotswe. "I am looking for a book about an illness called depression. Have you heard of such a book?"
The Manager nodded. "Do not worry, Mma. I have not only heard of such a book, but I have one in the shop. I can sell that to you." He paused. "I am sorry about this, Mma. Depression is not a happy illness."
Mma Ramotswe looked over her shoulder. "It is not me," she said. "It is Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. I think that he is depressed."
The Manager's expression conveyed his sympathy as he led her to a shelf in the corner and extracted a thin red-covered ; book.
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"This is a very good book on that illness," he said, handing her the book. "If you read what is written on the back cover, you will see that many people have said that this book has helped them greatly in dealing with this illness. I am very sorry about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, by the way. I hope that this book makes him feel better."
"You are a very helpful man, Rra," she said. "Thank you. We are very lucky to have your good book shop in this country. Thank you."
She paid for the book and walked back to the tiny white van, leafing through the pages as she did so. One sentence in particular caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks to read it.
A characteristic feature of acute depressive illness is the feeling that one has done some terrible thing, perhaps incurred a debt one cannot honour or committed a crime. This is usually accompanied by-a feeling of lack of worth. Needless to say, the imagined wrong was normally never committed, but no amount of reasoning will persuade the sufferer that this is so.
Mma Ramotswe reread the passage, her spirits rising gloriously as she did so. A book on depression might not normally be expected to have that effect on the reader, but it did now. Of course Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had done nothing terrible; he was, as she had known him to be, a man of unbesmirched honour. Now all that she had to do was to get him to see a doctor and be treated. She closed the book and glanced at the synopsis on the back cover. This very treatable disease... it said. This cheered her even further. She knew what she had to do, and her list, even if it had appeared that morning to be a long and complicated one, was now less mountainous, less daunting.
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took out their nest and threw it away. Then she bound the wires with some tape that we gave her and now the car is fixed. It has
a mouse problem no longer, all because this woman is such a good detective."
"She is a mechanic detective," said the other apprentice. "She would make a man very happy, but very tired, I think. Ow!"
"Quiet," said Mma Makutsi, playfully. "You boys must get back to work. I am the Acting Manager here. I am not one of the girls you pick up in bars. Get back to your work." :
Mma Ramotswe laughed. "You obviously have a talent for finding things out, Mma. Perhaps being a detective and being a mechanic are not so different after all."
They went into the office. Mma Ramotswe immediately noticed that Mma Makutsi had made a great impression on the chaos. Although Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's desk was still covered with papers, these appeared to have been sorted into piles. Bills to be sent out had been placed in one pile, while bills to be paid had been put in another. Catalogues from suppliers had been stacked on top of a filing cabinet, and car manuals had been replaced on the shelf above his desk. And at one end of the room, leaning against the wall, was a shiny white board on which Mma Makutsi had drawn two columns headed cars in and cars out.
"They taught us at the Botswana Secretarial College," said Mma Makutsi, "that it is very important to have a system. If you have a system which tells you where you are, then you will never be lost."
"That is true," agreed Mma Ramotswe. "They obviously knew how to run a business there."
Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. "And there is another
thing," she said. "I think that it would be helpful if I made you a list."
"A list?"
"Yes," said Mma Makutsi, handing her a large red file. "I have put your list in there. Each day I shall bring this list up to date. You will see that there are three columns. urgent, not
URGENT, and FUTURE SOMETIME."
Mma Ramotswe sighed. She did not want another list, but equally she did not want to discourage Mma Makutsi, who certainly knew how to run a garage.
"Thank you, Mma," she said, opening the file. "I see that you have already started my list."
"Yes," said Mma Makutsi. "Mma Potokwane telephoned from the orphan farm. She wanted to speak to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but I told her that he was not here. So she said that she was going to get in touch with you anyway and could you telephone her. You'll see that I have put it in the not urgent column."
"I shall phone her," said Mma Ramotswe. "It must be something to do with the children. I had better phone her straightaway."
Mma Makutsi went back to the workshop, where Mma Ramotswe heard her calling out some instructions to the apprentices. She picked up the telephone--covered, she noticed, with greasy fingerprints, and dialled the number which Mma Makutsi had written on her list. While the telephone rang, she placed a large red tick opposite the solitary item on the list.
Mma Potokwane answered.
Very kind of you to telephone, Mma Ramotswe. I hope that the children are well?"
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"They are very settled," said Mma Ramotswe.
"Good. Now, Mma, could I ask you a favour?" .,
Mma Ramotswe knew that this is how the orphan farm ; operated. It needed help, and of course everybody was pre-; pared to help. Nobody could refuse Mma Silvia Potokwane.
"I will help you, Mma. Just tell me what it is."
"I would like you to come and drink tea with me," said Mma Potokwane. "This afternoon, if possible. There is something you should see."
"Can you not tell me what it is?"
"No, Mma," said Mma Potokwane. "It is difficult to describe ; over the telephone. It would be better to see for yourself."
NINE
CHAPTER
AT THE ORPHAN FARM
HE ORPHAN farm was some twenty minutes' drive out of town. Mma Ramotswe had been there on several occasions, although not as frequently as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who paid regular visits to deal with bits and pieces of machinery that seemed always to be going wrong. There was a borehole pump in particular that required his regular attention, and then there was their minibus, the brakes of which constantly needed attention. He never begrudged them his time, and they thought highly of him, as everybody did.
Mma Ramotswe liked Mma Potokwane, to whom she was very distantly connected through her mother's side of the family It was not uncommon to be connected to somebody in Botswana, a lesson which foreigners were quick to learn when they realised that if they made a critical remark of somebody they were inevitably speaking to that person's distant cousin.
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Mma Potokwane was standing outside the office, talking to one of the staff, when Mma Ramotswe arrived. She directed the tiny white van to a visitors' parking place under a shady syringa tree, and then invited her guest inside.
"It is so hot these days, Mma Ramotswe," she said. "But I have a very powerful fan in my office. If I turn it on to its highest setting, it can blow people out of the room. It is a very useful weapon."
"I hope that you will not do that to me," said Mma Ramotswe. For a moment she had a vision of herself being blown out of Mma Potokwane's office, her skirts all about her, up into the sky where she could look down on the trees and the paths and the cattle staring up at her in astonishment.
"Of course not, said Mma Potokwane. "You're the sort of visitor I like to receive. The sort I don't like are interfering people. People who try to tell me how to be the matron of an orphan farm. Sometimes we get these people. People who stick their noses in. They think they know about orphans, but they don't. The people who know the most about orphans are those ladies out there." She pointed out of her window, to where two of the housemothers, stout women in blue housecoats, were taking two toddlers for a walk along a path, the tiny hands firmly grasped, the hesitant, wobbly steps gently encouraged.
"Yes," went on Mma Potokwane. "Those ladies know. They can deal with any sort of child. A very sad child, who cries for its late mother all the time. A very wicked child, who has been taught to steal. A very cheeky child who has not learned to respect its elders and who uses bad words. Those ladies can deal with all those children."
"They are very good women," said Mma Ramotswe. "The
two orphans whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and I took say that they were very happy here. Only yesterday, Motholeli read me a story which she had written at school. The story of her life. She referred to you, Mma."
"I am glad that she was happy here," said Mma Potokwane. "She is a very brave girl, that one." She paused. "But I did not ask you out here to talk about those children, Mma. I wanted to tell you about a very strange thing that has happened here. It is so strange that even the housemothers cannot deal with it. That is why I thought that I would ask you. I was phoning Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to get your number."
She reached across her desk and poured Mma Ramotswe a cup of tea. Then she cut into a large fruitcake which was on a plate to the side of the tea tray. "This cake is made by our senior girls," she said. "We train them to cook."
Mma Ramotswe accepted her large slice of cake and looked at the rich fruit within it. There were at least seven hundred calories in that, she thought, but it did not matter; she was a traditionally built lady and she did not have to worry about such things.
"You know that we take all sorts of children," continued Mma Potokwane. "Usually they are brought to us when the mother dies and nobody knows who the father is. Often the grandmother cannot cope, because she is too ill or too poor, and then the children have nobody. We get them from the social work people or from the police sometimes. Sometimes they might just be left somewhere and a member of the public gets in touch with us."
"They are lucky to get here," said Mma Ramotswe.
"Yes. And usually, whatever has happened to them in the past, we have seen something like it before. Nothing shocks
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bsp; us. But every now and then a very unusual case comes in and we don't know what to do."
"And there is such a child now?"
"Yes," said Mma Potokwane. "After you have finished eating that big piece of cake I will take you and show you a boy who arrived with no name. If they have no name, we always give them one. We find a good Botswana name and they get that. But that is usually only with babies. Older children normally tell us their names. This boy didn't. In fact, he doesn't seem to have learned how to speak at all. So we decided to call him Mataila."
Mma Ramotswe finished her cake and drained the dregs of her tea. Then, together with Mma Potokwane, she walked over to one of the houses at the very edge of the circle of buildings in which the orphans lived. There were beans growing there, and the small yard in front of the door was neatly swept. This was a housemother who knew how to keep a house, thought Mma Ramotswe. And if that was the case, then how could she be defeated by a mere boy?
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