“You can bring him to see me, Rra?” she asked.
Mr. Disang nodded. “There will be no problem with that. Today, tomorrow—whenever you want to see him, I will bring him for an interview. You will be very pleased with him.”
“What is his name, Rra?”
She noticed that Mr. Disang looked away.
“Well, Rra: What is he called?”
Mr. Disang cleared his throat. “He is called Thomas.”
“Thomas what, Rra?”
This was greeted by a long silence. Then Mma Makutsi said, “Thomas what, Rra? People are not just called Thomas—unless they are in the Bible.”
Mr. Disang laughed nervously. “Oh, that is very funny, Mma. People in the Bible have only one name—that is quite true. They are not called Makutsi or Ramotswe …”
“Or Disang,” supplied Mma Makutsi.
“No,” said Mr. Disang. “There are no Disangs in the Bible.”
“Well?” asked Mma Makutsi. “What is his family name, Rra? Thomas what?”
Mr. Disang fingered his tie. “I am not quite sure, Mma. I don’t think he uses one.” He suddenly brightened, as if an idea had occurred to him. “No, that’s right. He’s one of these people who don’t really use a family name any more. I believe they feel that it’s old-fashioned.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. “Old-fashioned? What’s old-fashioned about having a family name? Maybe they think it’s old-fashioned to have family at all—these people who have no family name. They’re everywhere, it seems. Pah!”
Mr. Disang had not expected quite so spirited a response. “Don’t blame me, Mma. I always use my family name, as you know, but these chefs are very … very creative people. They have creative views.”
Mma Makutsi was not convinced. “I think he may be one of these people with an embarrassing name. You come across them, you know. I came across somebody the other day whose first name was Voetsek. Can you imagine being called that?” Voetsek was the word widely used in southern Africa to tell people to go away. It was a very abrupt, dismissive word.
Mr. Disang said he thought that was cruel. “What are parents thinking of when they call a child something like that?”
Mma Makutsi took the view that they were not thinking at all. “Many people do not think,” she observed. “They get up in the morning and there is nothing in their heads—nothing. It is a big problem.”
“But we must soldier on,” said Mr. Disang. “Those of us who are always thinking must bear the burden for them.” He sighed. “Sometimes it is very hard, Mma—very hard.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Mma Makutsi. “Can you ask this Thomas Nobody to come and see me tomorrow?”
Mr. Disang beamed with pleasure. “I can do that, Mma. And he will cook something for you so that you can see how good he is.”
The offer reassured her. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, she thought. And then she tried to remember where she had come across that saying before; was it something that Clovis Andersen had said in The Principles of Private Detection? It certainly had the Andersen ring to it. All cats are grey in the dark, he had written in one chapter. So remember that how much you can see of a situation depends on how much light you can shine upon it. Well, that was clearly true, just as she felt that the proof of the pudding was in the eating, especially when it came to the appointment of a chef. She smiled at the thought. She might ask this Thomas Whoever to make her a pudding at his interview and then she could test it right there and then and say, The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Of course, the chef might not see the humour, but then Mma Makutsi felt that men often failed to grasp these finer points until they were explained to them. That was not to think less of men, of course—it was simply the way things were.
CHAPTER SIX
I AM NOT RUDE ANY MORE
MMA RAMOTSWE had been aware of the fact that something was preying on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s mind. It was not that anything out of the ordinary had been said: their conversation recently had been much as it usually was—mostly concerned with day-to-day things: the doings of the two foster children, the prospects for the beans in his special vegetable patch, the need to get a decorator to brighten up the paintwork on the verandah, as it was six years since it had last been painted. This was the stuff of ordinary existence; small matters, yes, but the ones that all married couples talked about, and that provided, at least for most people, a sufficient list of conversational topics.
She understood, of course, that spouses could not share absolutely everything. Just as she needed to have time to herself to think about womanly things, so too did Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni need to be able to ponder the things that men ponder. She knew that there were women who did not like the idea of their husbands thinking about things without their permission, but she was definitely not such a person. She had known somebody like that—a woman who lived in Mochudi who was married to a rather harassed-looking man. Mma Ramotswe had learned from a mutual friend that this woman made a point of knowing exactly where her husband was at any time, whom he was talking to, and everything that he said and was said to him. She insisted on collecting the mail from their post-box so that she could open any letters addressed to him—and reply on his behalf if needs be. Eventually it had all been too much for him and he had simply run away, not with any real idea as to where he was heading, but running as fast as his oppressed legs would carry him on the road into Gaborone. His wife had pursued him in her car and had eventually brought him down in what appeared to be a very competent rugby tackle, right in front of an astonished group of schoolchildren who were travelling into Gaborone on a school outing.
She had told this story to Mma Makutsi, who had shaken her head and announced that in her view that was no way to run a marriage.
“It is quite understandable for a woman to keep an eye on her husband,” said Mma Makutsi, “but she should not make him feel that he is a prisoner. Men need to be given air. They need to feel that they are free …”
“Exactly,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“… even if they are not really free,” continued Mma Makutsi. “It is called the illusion of freedom.”
Mma Ramotswe was impressed with the term, but thought that she would express it somewhat differently. “Or kindness to men,” she ventured. “It is kindness to men not to sit on them too much.”
“That is true,” said Mma Makutsi, suppressing a smile at the thought of Mma Ramotswe sitting on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He would find it difficult to breathe, she felt, and the consequences could be serious. It was indeed true that men needed air.
In spite of this recognition of the masculine need for space, Mma Ramotswe felt that in the case of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni it was necessary to be watchful for any signs of moodiness or preoccupation on his part. Some years earlier, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had suffered a bout of depression. He had fully recovered, but she had been warned by Dr. Moffat to keep an eye out for recurring symptoms. “If he becomes withdrawn or indecisive,” the doctor had said, “this could be a warning that the depression is coming back. Be aware.”
So far there had been no such signs, and she had assumed that the pills he had been prescribed had not only dealt with that bout of the illness but also warded off any recurrence. However, as she noticed him sitting in his chair with a fixed, rather worried expression on his face, she wondered whether it was time to make an enquiry. She had waited for her opportunity, which now presented itself, a couple of days after Mma Makutsi had assumed occupation of her restaurant premises.
They had finished their dinner, and Mma Ramotswe had settled the children in their rooms for the night. Motholeli was now being given more homework, and was busying herself with that at the new desk they had recently installed in her bedroom. Puso, who had tired himself out in a game of football, had fallen asleep even before Mma Ramotswe had turned out his light. She had tucked him in, smoothed the sheets about him, and then stood for a moment gazing fondly at the young boy’s head upon the pillow. She imagined th
e world of dreams through which he now tumbled—a world of strange and heroic games of football, of bicycles and model cars, of boyish schemes and pranks. She smiled at the thought. We are all sent the dreams we yearn for, she thought; no matter how unhappy or fraught our waking world may be, we are sent dreams in which we can do the things the heart really wants us to do.
Returning to the living room, she found Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sitting with his head in his hands. This was her chance: if one sat with one’s head in one’s hands, it was tantamount to a declaration that something was wrong.
“Are you worried about something?” she asked. As she spoke, she moved to the side of his chair and laid a hand gently upon his shoulder.
He looked up. For a few moments he said nothing, but then he began to speak. “I am feeling very sad, Precious. Very sad.”
She caught her breath. He addressed her as Precious only at times of great moment.
“Oh, Rra, that is very bad. We can telephone Dr. Moffat …”
“No. No. It is not that sort of sadness.”
She waited for him to continue.
“It is because of something that I have to do.”
She frowned. It was a worrying thing to hear. Was he proposing to … She hardly dared think it. Did he have some dreadful confession to make? Was he going to tell her that he was having an affair? It was the worst thing that any husband had to do—to tell his wife that he had found somebody else. But Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would never do anything like that; he would never go off with another woman, because he was … because he was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—that’s why. It was inconceivable.
“What is this thing, Rra?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.
But he heard. “It’s Charlie.”
She felt a flood of relief. Charlie, the apprentice who had consistently failed his examinations, was always getting into trouble of one sort or another.
She sighed. “What has Charlie done now? More girl trouble?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “I wish it was, Mma. No, it’s more serious than that.”
In Mma Ramotswe’s mind that could mean only one thing. “Police trouble?” she asked.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I’m going to have to lay him off. I’m going to have to fire him.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed again. She was aware that Charlie’s work was often unsatisfactory; that he was rough and impatient with engines and that he sometimes broke parts by forcing them. If Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had simply run out of patience with the young mechanic, then she would not be unduly surprised. “What has he done now?”
“He has done nothing,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I cannot keep him on. There is less work than there used to be, and I have to make a choice. Fanwell has got his qualification now and he is a far better worker than Charlie. One of them has to go, and it must be Charlie.” He shook his head sadly. “It has to be.”
She felt an immediate rush of sympathy for her husband. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was a soft-hearted man, and she knew how painful it was for him to have to get rid of the young man whom he had trained and nurtured. Charlie was not easy—everybody knew that—but he was essentially a good young man. His obsession with girls and fashionable clothes was no worse in him, she thought, than in so many other young men, and he would surely grow out of it in the fullness of time. She had read somewhere that some young men did not really mature until they were in their late twenties; she had been surprised by this, but she had decided that it was probably true. She could think of several young men who had been her contemporaries who had not settled down until then, or even later in some cases. Charlie was probably one of those, and would become a respectable, settled citizen in due course, escorting his children to school and doing the sort of round-the-house tasks that husbands were now expected to do.
She squeezed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Rra? Are you sure there’s no alternative?”
“I have been thinking and thinking,” he said. “But I cannot come up with any alternative. I have had a letter from the bank manager. He said that I have exceeded my overdraft limit again this month and he will freeze my account if I do it one more time.” He paused, and looked up at her. She could see his anguish. “How am I going to pay anybody if the account is frozen? I won’t be able to pay Fanwell. I won’t be able to pay the petrol people for the petrol and oil. I won’t be able to pay the insurance premium, and that means that if Fanwell’s hurt in an accident at work, we could be sued and they could take the house. I cannot risk that, Mma; I just can’t.”
She knew he was right: there was no alternative. “When are you going to do it?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I shall tell him tomorrow morning. I will give him one week’s wages, which is all I can afford. He’s entitled to more, but I’ll ask him to give me time to pay those. He will get half at the end of this month and the other half next month.”
She said nothing because she felt that there was nothing she could say. Charlie, for all his faults, had been part of their life for many years. He would never get another job as a mechanic because he did not have the formal piece of paper he needed. This meant he would have to do something quite different, but in a world in which jobs were few and far between for young men without any qualifications, it was difficult to see what he could do.
“He’ll have difficulty finding something else,” she said. “It would have been different if he had finished his apprenticeship.”
“I know,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But what else can I do?”
“You can do nothing else, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “This is one of those cases where being a boss is not easy.”
“It is never easy,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “People don’t realise it, but it is never easy being a boss, no matter how well things are going.”
AND SO IT PROVED. The following morning, Mma Ramotswe decided not to close the door between the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and the workshop of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. This was unusual, as the door was normally kept firmly closed to keep out mechanical noises emanating from the garage.
“I shall close the door, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, glancing up from the statement of expenses she was preparing. “We do not want all that banging and clattering to distract us.”
Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “No, Mma. Please don’t.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. “But the noise, Mma Ramotswe. Bang, bang, clatter, clatter, and so on. How can anybody work with that going on? And if somebody telephones us, what will they think? They’ll hear all that going on and they’ll wonder what sort of office we have. It could be bad for business.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I want to hear what happens out there,” she said. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni may have a crisis on his hands and we may need to help.”
Mma Makutsi was intrigued. “There’s something going on?”
Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair and crossed the room to stand beside her colleague. She bent down and whispered into Mma Makutsi’s ear. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni has to fire Charlie this morning. He cannot keep him. He cannot pay him.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mma Makutsi. She and Charlie had had a tempestuous relationship over the years, but she would never have wished this on the young man. She thought that he was silly, but then most young men were silly to a greater or lesser extent, and Charlie would grow up—eventually. She started to say something to Mma Ramotswe, but at that moment they were aware that there was silence next door; the banging and the clattering had suddenly stopped.
“I think he may be talking to him now,” whispered Mma Ramotswe.
The silence was broken by the sound of voices, low at first, but gradually rising. And then, quite suddenly, there was a shout—a wail, rather. Mma Makutsi gasped. She had heard a wail like that before, when she had been obliged to break some bad news to a cousin—news of the loss of the cousin’s father in a road accident up near Francistow
n. There had been that same heartfelt scream; that raw cry of pain which cut and cut, and could not be assuaged by the balm of human comfort.
“It’s done,” muttered Mma Ramotswe.
And then the door was flung wider and Charlie came into the room, an adjustable spanner in his hand. He stood there for a moment before dropping the spanner on the floor. It hit the concrete with a sharp, clanging sound.
“You cannot let this happen, Mma Ramotswe!” Charlie shouted. “Please, Mma. Please don’t let him fire me.”
Charlie looked imploringly first at Mma Ramotswe, and then at Mma Makutsi.
“Mma Makutsi,” he began, the words pouring out in an anguished torrent, “I’m sorry. I promise you, Mma, I promise. I will do my best now. That’s all over, all that nonsense. Over. I am not rude any more—that was another person speaking, not me, Mma—not me. I will try to take the exams again. Please tell the boss I’ve changed, he will have no trouble now. No trouble. I’ll work all the time. Six o’clock in the morning, first thing, I’ll be here and then …” He faltered. He was choking on his words, and now they were replaced by sobs.
Mma Makutsi looked across the room at Mma Ramotswe. “Mma …,” she began.
“No,” sobbed Charlie. “It is true. I am different now. There’s a new Charlie, and he’s begging you to speak to the boss. Tell him I’m different now. He’ll believe you. If you say it, then he’ll believe it.”
Mma Ramotswe could not sit still. Everything within her went out to Charlie; she could not sit and watch a grown man cry as he now was crying; no woman could. But as she stood up and tried to put an arm around the distraught young man, he evaded her embrace and fell to the floor. For a few moments he was motionless, and Mma Ramotswe feared that he might have hit his head on the concrete and knocked himself out; but then he writhed, and began to scrape at the floor with his fingernails as if to dig himself in.
“Don’t do that, Charlie,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “You’ll break your nails.”
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