Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 (20 page)

Mma
Makutsi, of course, had another language tucked away in her background. Her
mother had been a speaker of Ikalanga, because she had come from Marapong,
where they spoke a dialect of Ikalanga called Lilima. That made life very
complicated, thought Mma Ramotswe, because that meant that she spoke a minor
version of a minor language. Mma Makutsi had been brought up speaking both
Setswana, her father’s language, and this strange version of Ikalanga,
and then had learned English at school, because that was how one got on in
life. You could never even get to the Botswana Secretarial College if you spoke
no English, and you would certainly never get anywhere near ninety-seven per
cent unless your English was almost faultless, like the English that
schoolteachers
used
to speak.

Mma Ramotswe had more or less
forgotten that Mma Makutsi spoke Ikalanga until one day she had used an
Ikalanga word in the middle of a sentence, and it had stuck out.

“I have hurt my gumbo,” Mma Makutsi had said.

Mma
Ramotswe had looked at her in surprise. “Your gumbo?”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “When I was walking to work
today, I stepped into a pothole and hurt my gumbo.” She paused, noticing
the look of puzzlement on Mma Ramotswe’s face. Then she realised.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “
Gumbo
is foot in
Ikalanga. If you speak Ikalanga, your foot is your gumbo.”

“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a very strange word.
Gumbo.”

“It is not strange,” said Mma Makutsi,
slightly defensively. “There are many different words for foot. It is
foot
in English. In Setswana it is
lonao,
and in Ikalanga it
is
gumbo,
which is what it really is.”

Mma Ramotswe
laughed. “There is no
real
word for foot. You cannot say it is
really gumbo, because that is true only for Ikalanga-speaking feet. Each foot
has its own name, depending on the language which the foot’s mother
spoke. That is the way it works, Mma Makutsi.”

That had ended the
conversation, and no more was said of gumbos.

These, and other,
thoughts went through Mma Ramotswe’s head as she stood outside the office
that morning, stretching, and allowing her mind to wander this way and that.
After a few minutes, though, she decided that it was time to get back into the
office. Mma Makutsi would have finished addressing the letters by now, and she
wanted to tell her about yesterday’s visit to the House of Hope. There
was a lot to be said about that, and she thought it would be useful to discuss
it with her assistant. Mma Makutsi often came up with very shrewd observations,
although in the case of Mr Bobologo no particular shrewdness was required to
work out what his motives were. And yet, and yet … One could not say
that he was an insincere man. He was patently sincere when it came to bar
girls, but marriage, perhaps, was another matter. Mma Makutsi might have
valuable insights into this, and this would help clarify the situation in Mma
Ramotswe’s mind.

Mma Ramotswe opened her eyes and started to make
her way back into the office. She was intercepted in the doorway, though, by
Mma Makutsi, who looked anxious.

“There is something
wrong,” Mma Makutsi whispered to her. “There is something wrong
with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Back there.” She gestured towards the garage.
“There is something wrong with him.”

“Has he hurt
himself?” Mma Ramotswe always dreaded the possibility of an accident,
particularly with those careless apprentices being allowed to raise cars on
ramps and do other dangerous things. Mechanics hurt themselves, it was
well-known, just as butchers often had parts of fingers missing, a sight which
always made Mma Ramotswe’s blood run cold, although the enthusiasm of the
butchers for their great chopping knives—the guilty blades, no
doubt—seemed undiminished.

Mma Makutsi set her mind at rest.
“No, there has not been an accident. But I saw him sitting in the garage
with his head in his hands. He looked very miserable, and he hardly greeted me
when I walked past him. I think something has happened.”

This was
not good news. Even if there had been no accident, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s
recovery from his depressive illness was recent enough to make any apparent
drop in mood a cause for concern. Dr Moffat, who had treated Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
during his illness—with the assistance of Mma Potokwane, it must be
recalled, who had taken Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in hand and made him take his
pills—had warned that these illnesses could recur. Mma Ramotswe
remembered his very words: “You must be watchful, Mma Ramotswe,”
the doctor had said, in that kind voice he used when he spoke to everybody,
even to his rather ill-tempered brown spaniel. “You must be watchful
because this illness is like a dark cloud in the sky. It is often there, just
over the horizon, but it can blow up very quickly. Watch, and tell me if
anything happens.”

So far, the recovery had seemed complete, and
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been as equable and as constant as he always had been.
There had been no sign of the lassitude that had come with the illness; no sign
of the dark, introspective brooding which had so reduced him. But perhaps this
was it coming back. Perhaps the cloud had blown over and had covered his
sky.

Mma Ramotswe thanked Mma Makutsi and made her way into the garage.
The two apprentices were bent over the engine of a car, spanners in hand, and
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was sitting on his old canvas chair near the compressor, his
head sunk in his hands, just as Mma Makutsi had seen him.

“Now
then, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily. “You seem to
be thinking very hard about something. Can I make you a cup of tea to help you
think?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up, and as he did so Mma
Ramotswe realised, with relief, that the illness had not returned. He looked
worried, certainly, but it was a very different look from the haunted look he
had developed during the illness. This was a real worry, she thought; not a
worry about shadows and imaginary wrongs and dying; all those things which had
so tormented him when he was ill.

“Yes, I am thinking,” he
said. “I am thinking that I have dug myself into a mess. I am like a
potato in …” He stopped, unable to complete the metaphor.

“Like a potato?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Like a
potato in a …” He stopped again. “I don’t know. But I
have done a very foolish thing in involving myself in this
business.”

Mma Ramotswe was perplexed, and asked him what
business he meant.

“This whole business with that butcher’s
car,” he said. “I went round to First Class Motors yesterday
afternoon.”

“Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe, and thought:
this is my fault. I urged him to go and now this has happened. So, rather than
say Ah! again, she said, “Oh!”

“Yes,” went on
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni miserably. “I went up there yesterday afternoon. The
man who runs the place was at a funeral in Molepolole, and so I spoke to one of
his assistants. And this man said that he had seen the butcher’s car
round at my garage and he had mentioned it to his boss, who was very cross. He
said that I was taking his clients, and that he was going to come round and see
me about it this morning, when he arrived back from Molepolole. He said that
his boss was going to ‘sort me out.’ That’s what he said, Mma
Ramotswe. Those were his words. I didn’t even have the chance to
complain, as I had intended to. I didn’t even have the
chance.”

Mma Ramotswe folded her arms. “Who is this
man?” she snapped angrily. “What is his name, and who does he think
he is? Where is he from?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He is
called Molefi. He is a horrible man from Tlokweng. People are scared of him. He
gives mechanics a bad name.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a
moment. She felt sorry for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was a very peaceful man and
who did not like conflict. He was not one to start an argument, and yet she
rather wished that he would stand up to this Molefi man a bit more. Such people
were bullies and the only thing to do was to stand up to them. If only Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni were a bit braver … Did she really want him to fight,
though? It was quite out of character, and that was just as well. She could not
abide men who threw their weight around, and that was one of the reasons why
she so admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Although he was physically strong from all
that lifting of engines, he was gentle. And she loved him for that, as did so
many others.

She unfolded her arms and walked over to stand beside Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni. “When is this man coming?” she asked.

“Any time now. They said this morning. That is all they
said.”

“I see.” She turned away, intending to go over
to the apprentices and have a word with them. They would have to rally round to
deal with this Molefi person. They were young men … She stopped.
Tlokweng. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said that Molefi was from Tlokweng, and
Tlokweng was where the orphan farm was, and the orphan farm made her think of
Mma Potokwane.

She turned back again, ignoring the apprentices, and
walked briskly back into her office. Mma Makutsi looked up at her expectantly
as she came in.

“Is he all right? I was worried.”

“He is fine,” she said. “He is worried about something.
That man at First Class Motors has been threatening him. That’s
what’s going on.”

Mma Makutsi whistled softly, as she
sometimes did in moments of crisis. “That is very bad, Mma. That is very
bad.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi,” she said.
“I am going out to Tlokweng right now. This very minute. Please telephone
Mma Potokwane and tell her that I am coming to fetch her in my van and that we
need her help. Please do that right now. I am going.”

WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE arrived at the orphan farm, Mma
Potokwane was not in her office. The door was open, but the large, rather
shabby chair in which Mma Potokwane was often to be found—when she was
not bustling round the kitchens or the houses—was empty. Mma Ramotswe
rushed outside again and looked about anxiously. It had not occurred to her
that Mma Potokwane might not be found; she was always on duty, it seemed. And
yet she could be in town, doing some shopping, or she could even be far away,
down in Lobatse, perhaps, picking up some new orphan.

“Mma
Ramotswe?”

She gave a start, looking about her. It was Mma
Potokwane’s voice, but where was she?

“Here!” came
the voice. “Under this tree! Here I am, Mma Ramotswe.”

The
matron of the orphan farm was in the shade of a large mango tree, merging with
the shadows. Mma Ramotswe had looked right past her, but now Mma Potokwane
stepped out from under the drooping branches of the tree.

“I have
been watching a special mango,” she said. “It is almost ready and I
have told the children that they are not to pick it. I am keeping it for my
husband, who likes to eat a good mango.” She dusted her hands on her
skirts as she walked towards Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to see this
mango, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked. “It is very fine. Very yellow
now.”

“You are very kind, Mma,” called out Mma
Ramotswe. “I will come and see it some other time, I think. Right now
there is something urgent to talk to you about. Something very
urgent.”

Mma Potokwane joined her friend outside the office, and
Mma Ramotswe quickly explained that she needed her to come to the garage,
“to help with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” Mma Potokwane listened gravely
and nodded her agreement. They could go straight away, she said. No, she would
not need to fetch anything from her office. “All I need is my
voice,” she said, pointing to her chest. “And it is all there.
Ready to be used.”

They travelled back to the garage in the tiny
white van, now heavily laden and riding low on its shock absorbers. Mma
Ramotswe drove more quickly than she normally did, sounding the horn
impatiently at indolent donkeys and children on wobbling cycles. There was only
one hold-up—a small herd of rickety cattle, badly looked after by all
appearances, which blocked the road until Mma Potokwane opened her window and
shouted at them in a stentorian voice. The cattle looked surprised, and
indignant, but they moved, and the tiny white van continued its journey.

They drew up at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors a few minutes after the arrival
of Molefi. A large red truck was parked outside the garage, blocking the
entrance, and on this was written FIRST CLASS MOTORS in ostentatious lettering.
Mma Potokwane, to whom the situation had been explained by Mma Ramotswe on the
way back, saw this and snorted.

“Big letters,” she
murmured. “Big nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. She was sure
that the summoning of Mma Potokwane was the right thing to do and this remark
made her even more certain. Now, as they negotiated their way round the
aggressively parked truck and she saw Molefi standing in front of Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni, who was looking down at the ground as his visitor remonstrated with
him, she realised that they had not arrived a minute too early.

Mma
Potokwane bustled forward. “So,” she said. “Who do we find
here in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s garage? Molefi? It’s you, isn’t
it? You’ve come to discuss some difficult mechanical problem with Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni, have you? Come for his advice?”

Molefi looked
round and glowered. “I am here on business, Mma. It’s business
between me and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.” His tone was rude and he compounded
the offence by turning his back on Mma Potokwane and facing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
again. Mma Potokwane glanced at Mma Ramotswe, who shook her head in disapproval
of Molefi’s rudeness.

“Excuse me, Rra,” said Mma
Potokwane, stepping forward. “I think that perhaps you might have
forgotten who I am, but I certainly know exactly who you are.”

Molefi turned around in irritation. “Listen, Mma …”