Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 (7 page)

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wriggled his way out from under the car
and stood up, dusting his trousers as he did so. As he had thought, it was the
butcher himself, a corpulent man with a thick neck, like the neck of a bull. It
was obvious to anyone, from the very first glance, that this was a wealthy man,
even if they did not know about the butchery and the plastering business, nor
indeed about this wonderful car with its silver badge.

“I was
looking at your car, Rra,” he said. “I was underneath
it.”

“So I see,” said the butcher. “I saw your
legs sticking out. When I saw that, I knew that there was somebody under my
car.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “You must be wondering
what I was doing, Rra.”

The butcher nodded. “You are right.
That is what I was wondering.”

“You see, I am a
mechanic,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have always thought very
highly of this car. It is a very good car.”

The butcher seemed to
relax. “Oh, I see, Rra. You are one who understands old cars like this. I
am happy for you to go back under and look.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
acknowledged the generosity of the offer. He would go back under the car, but
it would be more than out of mere curiosity. If he went back, it would be on a
mission of repair. He would have to tell the butcher of what he had seen.

“There is oil, Rra,” he began. “Your car is leaking
oil.”

The butcher lifted up a hand in a gesture of tiredness.
There was always oil. It was a risk with old cars. Oil; the smell of burning
rubber; mysterious rattles: old cars were like the bush at night—there
were always strange sounds and smells. He kept taking the car back to the
garage and getting them to fix this problem and that problem, and yet these
problems always recurred. And now here was another mechanic—one he did
not even know—who was talking about oil leaks.

“I have had
trouble with oil,” he said. “There are always oil leaks and I
always have to put more oil in the front. Every time I make the journey up from
Lobatse, I have to put in more oil.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grimaced.
“That is bad, Rra. But you should not have to do it. If the person who
serviced this car made sure that the rubber seal on the rod that holds the oil
cylinder was in its proper place, then this sort of thing would not
happen.” He paused. “I could fix this for you. I could do it in ten
minutes.”

The butcher looked at him. “I cannot bring the
car in to your garage now,” he said. “I have to talk to my brother
about our sister’s boy. He is a difficult boy, that one, and we have to
work something out. And anyway, I cannot be paying all sorts of mechanics to
look at this car. I have already paid a lot of money to the garage.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes. “I would not have
charged you, Rra. That is not why I offered.”

For a few moments
there was silence. The butcher looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and knew,
immediately, what sort of man he was dealing with. And he knew, too, that his
assumption that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would want payment was a gross misreading of
the situation; for there were people in Botswana who still believed in the old
Botswana ways and who were prepared to do things for others just to help them
and not in prospect of some reward. This man, whom he had found lying
underneath his car, was such a man. And yet he had paid such a great deal of
money to those mechanics and they had assured him that all was in order. And
the car, after all, worked reasonably well, even if there was a small problem
with oil.

The butcher frowned, slipping a hand inside his collar and
tugging at it, as if to loosen the material. “I do not think there can be
anything wrong with my car,” he said. “I think that you must be
wrong, Rra.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. Without saying
anything, he pointed to the edge of the dark oil stain, just discernible
beneath the body of the car. The butcher’s gaze followed his hand, and he
shook his head vigorously. “It is impossible,” he said. “I
take this car to a good garage. I pay a great deal of money to have it looked
after. They are always tinkering with the engine.”

Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Always tinkering? Who are these
people?” he asked.

The butcher gave the name of the garage, and
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew immediately. He had spent years trying to improve the
image of the motor trade, but whatever he, and others like him, did they would
always be thwarted by the activities of people like the butcher’s
mechanics; if indeed they were mechanics at all—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had
strong doubts about the qualifications of some of them.

Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.

‘If you would let me look at the engine, Rra,” he said.
“I could very quickly check your oil level. Then we would know whether it
was safe for you to drive off to have more oil put in.”

The
butcher hesitated for a moment. There was something humiliating about being
called to account in this way, and yet it would be churlish to reject an offer
of help. This man was obviously sincere, and seemed to know what he was talking
about; so he reached into his pocket for the car keys, opened the
driver’s door, and set about pulling the silver-topped lever that would
release the catch on the engine cover.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back
respectfully. The revealing of an engine of this nature—an engine which
was older than the Republic of Botswana itself—was a special moment, and
he did not want to show unseemly curiosity as the beautiful piece of
engineering was exposed to view. So he stood where he was and only leaned
forward slightly once he could see the engine; and quickly drew in his breath,
and was silent—not in admiration, as he had expected, but in shock. For
this was not the engine of a 1955 Rover 90, lovingly preserved; he saw,
instead, an engine which had been cobbled together with all manner of parts. A
flimsy carburettor, of recent vintage and crude construction; a modern oil
filter, adapted and tacked onto the only original part that he could make
out—the great, solid engine block that had been put into the car at its
birth all those years ago. That at least was intact, but what mechanical
company it had been obliged to keep!

The butcher looked at him
expectantly. “Well, Rra?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni found it hard
to reply. There were times when, as a mechanic, one had to give bad news. It
was never easy, and one often wished that there were some way round the brute
truth. But there were occasions when just nothing could be done, and he feared
that this was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rra,” he began.
“This is very sad. A terrible thing has been done to this car. The engine
parts …” He could not go on. What had been done was an act of such
mechanical vandalism that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could not find the words to
express the feelings within him. So he turned away and shook his head, as might
one who had seen some great work of art destroyed before his eyes, cast low by
the basest Philistines.

CHAPTER SIX

MR MOPEDI BOBOLOGO

M
MA HOLONGA
sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. From the other side of the desk, Mma
Ramotswe watched her client. She had observed that some people found it easier
to tell a story if they shut their eyes, or if they looked down, or focused on
something in the distance—something that was there but not there. It did
not matter to her; the important thing was that clients should feel comfortable
and that they should be able to talk without embarrassment. It might not be
easy for Mma Holonga to talk about this, as these were intimate matters of the
heart, and if closing her eyes would help, then Mma Ramotswe thought that a
good idea. One of her clients, ashamed of what he had to say, had talked from
behind cupped hands; that had been difficult, as what he had said had been far
from clear. At least Mma Holonga, addressing her from her private darkness,
could be understood perfectly well.

“I’ll start with the
man I like best,” she said. “Or at least I think he is the one I
like the best.”

Then why not marry him? thought Mma Ramotswe. If
you liked a man, then surely you could trust your judgment? But no, there were
men who were likeable—charming in fact—but who were dangerous to
women: Note Makoti, thought Mma Ramotswe. Her own first husband, Note Makoti,
was immensely attractive to women, and only later would they discover what sort
of man he really was. So Mma Holonga was right: the man you liked might not be
the right man.

“Tell me about this man,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“What does he do?”

Mma Holonga smiled. “He is a
teacher.”

Mma Ramotswe noted this information on a piece of
paper.
First man,
she wrote.
Teacher.
It was important
information, because everybody in Botswana had their place, and one simple word
could describe a world. Teachers were respected in Botswana, even if so many
attitudes were changing. In the past, of course, it had been an even more
important thing to be a schoolteacher, and the moral authority of the teacher
was recognised by all. Today, more people had studied for diplomas and
certificates and these people considered themselves to be every bit as good as
teachers. But often they were not, because teachers had wisdom, while many of
these people with paper qualifications had not. The wisest man Mma Ramotswe had
ever known—her own father, Obed Ramotswe, had no Cambridge Certificate,
not even his Standard Six, but that had made no difference. He had wisdom, and
that counted for very much more.

She looked out of the window while Mma
Holonga began to explain who the teacher was. She tried to concentrate, but the
thought of her father had taken her back to Mochudi, and to the memories that
the village had for her; of afternoons in the hot season when nothing happened
but the heat and when it seemed that nothing could ever have happened; when
there was time to sit in front of one’s house in the evening and watch
the birds flying back to the trees and the sky to the West fill with swathes of
red as the sun went down over the Kalahari; when it seemed that you would be
fifteen years old for ever and would always be here in Mochudi. And you were
not to know then what the world would bring; that the life you imagined for
yourself elsewhere might not be as good as the life you already had. Not that
this was the case with Mma Ramotswe’s life, which had on the whole been a
happy one; but for many it was true—those quiet days in their village
would prove to be the best time for them.

Mma Ramotswe’s thoughts
were interrupted by Mma Holonga. “A teacher, Mma,” the other woman
said. “I said that he was a teacher.”

“I’m
sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I was dreaming there for a moment. A
teacher. Yes, Mma, that is a good job to have, in spite of the cheekiness of
young people these days. It is still a good thing to be a teacher.”

Mma Holonga nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. “His
name is Bobologo,” she went on. “Mopedi Bobologo. He is a teacher
at the school over there near the University gate. You know that
one.”

“I have driven past it many times,” said Mma
Ramotswe. “And Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who is the man who runs this garage
behind us; he has a house nearby and he says that he can hear the children
singing sometimes if the wind is coming from that school.”

Mma
Holonga listened to this, but was not interested. She did not know Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni, and could not picture him, as Mma Ramotswe now did, standing on his
verandah, listening to the singing of the children.

“This man is
called Mr Mopedi Bobologo, although he is not like the famous Bobologo. This
one is tall and thin, because he comes from the North, and they are often tall
up there. Like the trees. They are just like the trees up in the North.

“He is a very clever man, this Bobologo. He knows everything about
everything. He has read many books, and can tell you what is in all of them.
This books says that. This book says this. He knows the contents of many
books.”

“Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are
many, many books. And all the time, more books are coming. It is difficult to
read them all.”

“It is impossible to read them all,”
said Mma Holonga. “Even those very clever people at the University of
Botswana—people like Professor Tlou—they have not read
everything.”

“It must be sad for them,” observed Mma
Ramotswe reflectively. “If it is your job to read books and you can never
get to the end of them. You think that you have read all the books and suddenly
you see that there are some new ones that have arrived. Then what do you do?
You have to start over again.”

Mma Holonga shrugged. “I
don’t know what you do. It is the same with every job, I suppose. Look at
hairdressing. You braid one head of hair and then another head of unbraided
hair comes along. And so it goes on. You cannot finish your work.” She
paused. “Even you, Mma. Look at you. You deal with one case and then
somebody knocks at the door and there is another case. Your work is never
finished.”