She made it sound so simple that he found himself convinced that it would work. That was the wonderful thing about confidence—it was infectious.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s appetite returned. He finished the stew, had a second helping, and then drank a large cup of tea before Mma Ramotswe walked with him to his car and said good-night.
She stood in the drive and watched the lights
of his car disappear. Through the darkness, she could see the lights of Dr
Gulubane’s house. The curtains of his living room were open, and the
doctor was standing at the open window, looking out into the night. He could
not see her, as she was in darkness and he was in the light, but it was almost
as if he was watching her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A LOT OF LIES
ONE OF the young mechanics tapped him on the shoulder, leaving a greasy fingerprint. He was always doing this, that young man, and it annoyed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni intensely.
“If you want to attract my attention,” he had said on more than one occasion, “you can always speak to me. I have a name. I am Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and I answer to that. You don’t have to come and put your dirty fingers on me.”
The young man had apologised, but had tapped him on the shoulder the next day, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had realised that he was fighting a losing battle.
“There’s a man to see you, Rra,” said the mechanic. “He’s waiting in the office.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni put down his spanner and wiped his hands on a cloth. He had been involved in a particularly delicate operation—fine-tuning the engine of Mrs Grace Mapondwe, who was well-known for her sporty style of driving. It was a matter of pride to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that people knew that Mrs Mapondwe’s roaring engine note could be put down to his efforts; it was a free advertisement in a way. Unfortunately, she had ruined her car and it was becoming more and more difficult for him to coax life out of the increasingly sluggish engine.
The visitor was sitting in the office, in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s chair. He had picked up a tyre brochure and was flipping through it when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni entered the room. Now he tossed it down casually and stood up.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni rapidly took in the other man’s appearance. He was dressed in khaki, as a soldier might be, and he had an expensive, snakeskin belt. There was also a fancy watch, with multiple dials and a prominent second hand. It was the sort of watch worn by those who feel that seconds are important, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Mr Gotso sent me,” he said. “You telephoned him this morning.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. It had been easy to break the windscreen and scatter the fragments of glass about the car. It had been easy to telephone Mr Gotso’s house and report that the car had been broken into; but this part was more difficult—this was lying to somebody’s face. It’s Mma Ramotswe’s fault, he thought. I am a simple mechanic. I didn’t ask to get involved in these ridiculous detective games. I am just too weak.
And he was—when it came to Mma Ramotswe. She could ask anything of him, and he would comply. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni even had a fantasy, unconfessed, guiltily enjoyed in which he helped Mma Ramotswe. They were in the Kalahari together and Mma Ramotswe was threatened by a lion. He called out, drawing the lion’s attention to him, and the animal turned and snarled. This gave her the chance to escape, while he dispatched the lion with a hunting knife; an innocent enough fantasy, one might have thought, except for one thing: Mma Ramotswe was wearing no clothes.
He would have loved to save her, naked or otherwise, from a lion, but this was different. He had even had to make a false report to the police, which had really frightened him, even if they had not even bothered to come round to investigate. He was a criminal now, he supposed, and it was all because he was weak. He should have said no. He should have told Mma Ramotswe that it was not her job to be a crusader.
“Mr Gotso is very angry,” said the visitor. “You have had that car for ten days. Now you telephone us and tell us that it is broken into. Where’s your security? That’s what Mr Gotso says: where’s your security?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. This was terrible.
“I’m very sorry, Rra. The panel-beaters took a long time. Then I had to get a new part. These expensive cars, you can’t put anything in them …”
Mr Gotso’s man looked at his watch.
“All right, all right. I know how slow these people are. Just show me the car.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni led the way out of the office. The man seemed less threatening now; was it really that easy to turn away wrath?
They stood before the car. He had already replaced the windscreen, but had propped what remained of the shattered one against a nearby wall. He had also taken the precaution of leaving a few pieces of broken glass on the driver’s seat.
The visitor opened the front door and peered inside.
“I have replaced the windscreen free of charge,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I will also make a big reduction in the bill.”
The other man said nothing. He was leaning across now and had opened the glove compartment. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni watched quietly.
The man got out of the car and brushed his hand against his trousers; he had cut himself on one of the small pieces of glass.
“There is something missing from the glove compartment. Do you know anything about that?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head—three times.
The man put his hand to his mouth and sucked at the cut.
“Mr Gotso forgot that he had something there. He only remembered when you told him about the car being broken into. He is not going to be pleased to hear that this item has gone.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni passed the man a piece of rag.
“I’m sorry you’ve cut yourself. Glass gets everywhere when a windscreen goes. Everywhere.”
The man snorted. “It doesn’t matter about me. What matters is that somebody has stolen something belonging to Mr Gotso.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni scratched his head.
“The police are useless. They didn’t even come. But I know somebody who can look into this.”
“Oh yes? Who can do that?”
“There’s a lady detective these days. She has an office over that way, near Kgale Hill. Have you seen it?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
