Behind the verandah was the living room, the largest room in the house, with its big window that gave out onto what had once been a lawn. There was a fireplace here, too large for the room, but a matter of pride for Mma Ramotswe. On the mantelpiece she had placed her special china, her Queen Elizabeth II teacup and her commemoration plate with the picture of Sir Seretse Khama, President, Kgosi of the Bangwato people, Statesman. He smiled at her from the plate, and it was as if he gave a blessing, as if he knew. As did the Queen, for she loved Botswana too, and understood.
But in pride of place was the photograph of her Daddy, taken just before his sixtieth birthday. He was wearing the suit which he had bought in Bulawayo on his visit to his cousin there, and he was smiling, although she knew that by then he was in pain. Mma Ramotswe was a realist, who inhabited the present, but one nostalgic thought she allowed herself, one indulgence, was to imagine her Daddy walking through the door and greeting her again, and smiling at her, and saying: “My Precious! You have done well! I am proud of you!” And she imagined driving him round Gaborone in her tiny white van and showing him the progress that had been made, and she smiled at the pride he would have felt. But she could not allow herself to think like this too often, for it ended in tears, for all that was passed, and for all the love that she had within her.
The kitchen was cheerful. The cement floor, sealed and polished with red
floor paint, was kept shining by Mma Ramotswe’s maid, Rose, who had been
with her for five years. Rose had four children, by different fathers, who
lived with her mother at Tlokweng. She worked for Mma Ramotswe, and did
knitting for a knitting cooperative, and brought her children up with the
little money that there was. The oldest boy was a carpenter now, and was giving
his mother money, which helped, but the little ones were always needing shoes
and new trousers, and one of them could not breathe well and needed an inhaler.
But Rose still sang, and this was how Mma Ramotswe knew she had arrived in the
morning, as the snatches of song came drifting in from the kitchen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHY DON’T YOU MARRY ME?
HAPPINESS? MMA Ramotswe was happy enough. With her detective agency and her house in Zebra Drive, she had more than most, and was aware of it. She was also aware of how things had changed. When she had been married to Note Mokoti she had been conscious of a deep, overwhelming unhappiness that followed her around like a black dog. That had gone now.
If she had listened to her father, if she had listened to the cousin’s husband, she would never have married Note and the years of unhappiness would never have occurred. But they did, because she was headstrong, as everybody is at the age of twenty, and when we simply cannot see, however much we may think we can. The world is full of twenty-year-olds, she thought, all of them blind.
Obed Ramotswe had never taken to Note, and had told her that, directly. But she had responded by crying and by saying that he was the only man she would ever find and that he would make her happy.
“He will not,” said Obed. “That man will hit you. He will use you in all sorts of ways. He thinks only of himself and what he wants. I can tell, because I have been in the mines and you see all sorts of men there. I have seen men like that before.”
She had shaken her head and rushed out of the room, and he had called out after her, a thin, pained, cry. She could hear it now, and it cut and cut at her. She had hurt the man who loved her more than any other, a good, trusting man who only wanted to protect her. If only one could undo the past; if one could go back and avoid the mistakes, make different choices …
“If we could go back,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, pouring tea into Mma Ramotswe’s mug. “I have often thought that. If we could go back and know then what we know now …” He shook his head in wonderment. “My goodness! I would live my life differently!”
Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. She was sitting in the office of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, underneath Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s spares suppliers’ calendar, passing the time of day with her friend, as she sometimes did when her own office was quiet. This was inevitable; sometimes people simply did not want to find things out. Nobody was missing, nobody was cheating on their wives, nobody was embezzling. At such times, a private detective may as well hang a closed sign on the office door and go off to plant melons. Not that she intended to plant melons; a quiet cup of tea followed by a shopping trip to the African Mall was as good a way of spending the afternoon as any. Then she might go to the Book Centre and see if any interesting magazines had arrived. She loved magazines. She loved their smell and their bright pictures. She loved interior design magazines which showed how people lived in faraway countries. They had so much in their houses, and such beautiful things too. Paintings, rich curtains, piles of velvet cushions which would have been wonderful for a fat person to sit upon, strange lights at odd angles …
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni warmed to his theme.
“I have made hundreds of mistakes in my lifetime,” he said, frowning at the recollection. “Hundreds and hundreds.”
She looked at him. She had thought that everything had gone rather well in his life. He had served his apprenticeship as a mechanic, saved up his money, and then bought his own garage. He had built a house, married a wife (who had unfortunately died), and become the local chairman of the Botswana Democratic Party. He knew several ministers (very slightly) and was invited to one of the annual garden parties at State House. Everything seemed rosy.
“I can’t see what mistakes you’ve made,” she said. “Unlike me.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked surprised.
“I can’t imagine you making any mistakes,” she said. “You’re too clever for that. You would look at all the possibilities and then choose the right one. Every time.”
Mma Ramotswe snorted.
“I married Note,” she said simply.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked thoughtful.
“Yes,” he said. “That was a bad mistake.”
They were silent for a moment. Then he rose to his feet. He was a tall man, and he had to be careful not to bump his head when he stood erect. Now, with the calendar behind him and the fly paper dangling down from the ceiling above, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“I would like you to marry me,” he said. “That would not be a mistake.”
Mma Ramotswe hid her surprise. She did not give a start, nor drop her mug of tea, nor open her mouth and make no sound. She smiled instead, and stared at her friend.
“You are a good kind man,” she said. “You are like my Daddy … a bit. But I cannot get married again. Ever. I am happy as I am. I have got the agency, and the house. My life is full.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat down. He looked crestfallen, and Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch him. He moved it away instinctively, as a burned man will move away from fire.
“I am very sorry,” she said. “I should like you to know that if I were ever to marry anybody, which I shall not do, I would choose a man like you. I would even choose you. I am sure of this.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni
took her mug and poured her more tea. He was silent now—not out of anger,
or resentment—but because it had cost him all his energy to make his
declaration of love and he had no more words for the time being.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HANDSOME MAN
ALICE BUSANG was nervous about consulting Mma Ramotswe, but was soon put at ease by the comfortable, overweight figure sitting behind the desk. It was rather like speaking to a doctor or a priest, she thought; in such consultations nothing that one could possibly say would shock.
“I am suspicious of my husband,” she said. “I think that he is carrying on with ladies.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. All men carried on with ladies, in her experience. The only men who did not were ministers of religion and headmasters.
“Have you seen him doing this?” she asked.
Alice Busang shook her head. “I keep watching out but I never see him with other women. I think he is too cunning.”
Mma Ramotswe wrote this down on a piece of paper.
“He goes to bars, does he?”
