He led her through an entrance hall, a long room with a shiny black and white marble floor. There was a lot of brass in this room—expensive, polished brass—and the overall effect was one of glitter.
“We shall go through to my study,” he said. “That is my private room in which none of the family are ever allowed. They know not to disturb me there, even if the house is burning down.”
The study was another large room, dominated by a large desk on which there were three telephones and an elaborate pen and ink stand. Mma Ramotswe looked at the stand, which consisted of several glass shelves for the pens, the shelves being supported by miniature elephant tusks, carved in ivory.
“Sit down, please,” said Mr Patel, pointing to a white leather armchair. “It takes me a little time to sit because I am missing one leg. There, you see. I am always on the lookout for a better leg. This one is Italian and cost me a lot of money, but I think there are better legs to be had. Maybe in America.”
Mma Ramotswe sank into the chair and looked at her host.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” said Mr Patel. “There’s no point in beating about the bush and chasing all sorts of rabbits, is there? No, there isn’t.”
He paused, waiting for Mma Ramotswe’s confirmation. She nodded her head slightly.
“I am a family man, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “I have a happy family who all live in this house, except for my son, who is a gentleman dentist in Durban. You may have heard of him. People call him Pate these days.”
“I know of him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “People speak highly of him, even here.”
Mr Patel beamed. “Well, my goodness, that’s a very pleasing thing to be told. But my other children are also very important to me. I make no distinction between my children. They are all the same. Equal-equal.”
“That’s the best way to do it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If you favour one, then that leads to a great deal of bitterness.”
“You can say that again, oh yes,” said Mr Patel. “Children notice when their parents give two sweets to one and one to another. They can count same as us.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded again, wondering where the conversation was leading.
“Now,” said Mr Patel. “My big girls, the twins, are well married to good boys and are living here under this roof. That is all very excellent. And that leaves just one child, my little Nandira. She is sixteen and she is at Maru-a-Pula. She is doing well at school, but …”
He paused, looking at Mma Ramotswe through narrowed eyes. “You know about teenagers, don’t you? You know how things are with teenagers in these modern days?”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “They are often bad trouble for their parents. I have seen parents crying their eyes out over their teenagers.”
Mr Patel suddenly lifted his walking stick and hit his artificial leg for emphasis. The sound was surprisingly hollow and tinny.
“That’s what is worrying me,” he said vehemently. “That’s what is happening. And I will not have that. Not in my family.”
“What?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Teenagers?”
“Boys,” said Mr Patel bitterly. “My Nandira is seeing some boy in secret. She denies it, but I know that there is a boy. And this cannot be allowed, whatever these modern people are saying about the town. It cannot be allowed in this family—in this house.”
AS MR Patel spoke, the door to his study, which had been closed behind them when they had entered, opened and a woman came into the room. She was a local woman and she greeted Mma Ramotswe politely in Setswana before offering her a tray on which various glasses of fruit juice were set. Mma Ramotswe chose a glass of guava juice and thanked the servant. Mr Patel helped himself to orange juice and then impatiently waved the servant out of the room with his stick, waiting until she had gone before he continued to speak.
“I have spoken to her about this,” he said. “I have made it very clear to her. I told her that I don’t care what other children are doing—that is their parents’ business, not mine. But I have made it very clear that she is not to go about the town with boys or see boys after school. That is final.”
He tapped his artificial leg lightly with his walking stick and then looked at Mma Ramotswe expectantly.
Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “You want me to do something about this?” she said quietly. “Is this why you have asked me here this evening?”
Mr Patel nodded. “That is precisely why. I want you to find out who this boy is, and then I will speak to him.”
Mma Ramotswe stared at Mr Patel. Had he the remotest idea, she wondered, how young people behaved these days, especially at a school like Maru-a-Pula, where there were all those foreign children, even children from the American Embassy and such places? She had heard about Indian fathers trying to arrange marriages, but she had never actually encountered such behaviour. And here was Mr Patel assuming that she would agree with him; that she would take exactly the same view.
“Wouldn’t it be better to speak to her?” she asked gently. “If you asked her who the young man was, then she might tell you.”
Mr Patel reached for his stick and tapped his tin leg.
“Not at all,” he said sharply, his voice becoming shrill. “Not at all. I have already been asking her for three weeks, maybe four weeks. And she gives no answer. She is dumb insolent.”
Mma Ramotswe sat and looked down at her feet, aware of Mr Patel’s expectant gaze upon her. She had decided to make it a principle of her professional life never to turn anybody away, unless they asked her to do something criminal. This rule appeared to be working; she had already found that her ideas about a request for help, about its moral rights and wrongs, had changed when she had become more aware of all the factors involved. It might be the same with Mr Patel; but even if it were not, were there good enough reasons for turning him down? Who was she to condemn an anxious Indian father when she really knew very little about how these people ran their lives? She felt a natural sympathy for the girl, of course; what a terrible fate to have a father like this one, intent on keeping one in some sort of gilded cage. Her own Daddy had never stood in her way over anything; he had trusted her and she, in turn, had never kept anything from him—apart from the truth about Note perhaps.
She looked up. Mr Patel was watching her with his dark eyes, the tip of his walking stick tapping almost imperceptibly on the floor.
“I’ll find out for you,” she said. “Although I must say I don’t really like doing this. I don’t like the idea of watching a child.”
“But children must be watched!” expostulated Mr Patel. “If parents don’t watch their children, then what happens? You answer that!”
“There comes a time when they must have their own lives,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have to let go.”
“Nonsense!” shouted Mr Patel. “Modern nonsense. My father beat me when I was twenty-two! Yes, he beat me for making a mistake in the shop. And I deserved it. None of this modern nonsense.”
Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet.
“I am a modern lady,” she said. “So perhaps we have different ideas. But that has nothing to do with it. I have agreed to do as you have asked me. Now all that you need to do is to let me see a photograph of this girl, so that I can know who it is I am going to be watching.”
Mr Patel struggled to his feet, straightening the tin leg with his hands as he did so.
“No need for a photograph,” he said. “I can produce the girl herself. You can look at her.”
