“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “They probably think: This is just another woman talking to me. And now your poor Phuti has had this terrible injury. I am so sorry, Mma.”
“Thank you, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane sat down. “He is a lucky man to have you, Mma. When he comes out of hospital you can nurse him back to health. He will soon be up and about.”
Mma Ramotswe now got up from her desk to pour tea for their visitor. “Actually, he is already out, Mma. He has made very good progress.”
Mma Potokwane clapped her hands together. “That is very good news! So you are already looking after him. Give him plenty of meat, Mma. Breakfast, lunch, supper—good Botswana beef. That will make him strong. And vegetables. Also at breakfast, lunch and supper. Vegetables. Vitamin C.” She paused. “You’ve got somebody at your house to help you?”
It was Mma Ramotswe who answered. She looked round and saw Mma Makutsi staring down at her hands, clasped together on the desk. “Well, Mma, it is rather difficult. You see, Mma Makutsi would like to look after Phuti, but he has an aunt, and this aunt has somehow managed to—”
Mma Potokwane stopped her. “Oh, I have met that woman. I cannot remember her name, but she has a …”
“Big head,” Mma Makutsi supplied. “A big head, a bit like a melon.” She sketched the dimensions of the head with her hands.
“Yes, that is her,” said Mma Potokwane. “She is a very difficult woman. She was very rude to one of the house mothers once, at church, I think. She said that she was not putting enough money in the collection basket. I heard about that. The house mother had been crying. She said, Some woman with a very big head made me very embarrassed. I remember it.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled, picturing the scene. The people who volunteered to take the collection at church were often of a rather stern type, she thought. “That is the woman who is now looking after Phuti,” she said. “And she is trying to stop Mma Makutsi from seeing him.”
Mma Potokwane put down her teacup with a clatter. “What? What is this?”
“She turns me away when I go to the house,” explained Mma Makutsi. “She won’t let me see Phuti, my own fiancé.”
Mma Potokwane made a strange sound—a sort of eruption that came from deep within her, a small sound, perhaps, at its origin somewhere within her chest, but magnified tenfold as it came up through her matronly air passages, to emerge from her lips as an unmistakably disapproving snort. It was very like the sound, thought Mma Ramotswe, not without admiration, that a she-elephant makes when warning an intruder off her young.
“That is a piece of nonsense,” said Mma Potokwane. “The place for a man who is recovering from an injury is with the lady who is almost married to him. That has always been so, and the world has not changed so much that it is any different now.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, as one matron to another. “Do you not agree with me, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head to signify that she did not dissent. She agreed with Mma Potokwane on many things, but not all. Yet this was one area in which the agreement was perfect. Of course, this redoubtable woman, this defender of the interests of orphans—and fiancées—was right.
Mma Potokwane now looked out of the window, momentarily lost in thought. After a while she turned round and addressed Mma Makutsi. “Of course, it might be difficult for you to look after him all the time. You have your job, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi sighed. “It would be hard, Mma, but I would like to try.”
“You live by yourself, don’t you, Mma?” Mma Potokwane asked.
“Yes, I do. But I always get back by five-thirty. So he would only be by himself from …”
“From seven in the morning until five-thirty in the evening,” said Mma Potokwane briskly. “That would not be very good for him, Mma. No, we must think of something else, and I believe that I have a solution.”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.
“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have been thinking. There is a room behind my office at the orphan farm. It is a very comfortable room that we sometimes use when we have visitors. Mr. Radiphuti could stay there, and that means there would be many people to look after him during the day. We have a nurse, as you know, and there is a house mother nearby who is a very good cook. Then you could come every evening, Mma Makutsi, and you could stay in my place. We have two extra bedrooms in our house. So you could see him in the evenings and all weekends. He would be very well looked after, I think.”
For a moment or two Mma Makutsi did not move, but sat quite still, quite upright, as if transfixed. Then she removed her large glasses and polished them on the sleeve of her blouse. She put the glasses back on. “Oh, Mma …,” she began. She faltered. She had not received many kindnesses in her life, apart from those that she had had from Mma Ramotswe, and from Phuti, of course, and she was clearly finding it difficult to express what she felt. Mma Ramotswe could tell that, and she answered on her assistant’s behalf. “That would be wonderful, Mma,” she said. “I’m sure that Mma Makutsi would love that.”
There was a vigorous nodding from Mma Makutsi.
“But then,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “how do we get Phuti to hear about this? That aunt of his has cut off all communication. She is like a dog at the door.”
Mma Potokwane let out another snort. “I will go and see him,” she said. “Mma Makutsi will come with me, and we will have a word with Mr. Radiphuti. We will ask him whether he would like to accept my invitation, and if he says yes—and I’m sure he will—then we shall bring him straight back. That aunt of his is no problem, Mma. She is no problem at all.” She paused. “And you come too, Mma Ramotswe. We shall all go.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and knew that she had to go. And she wanted to, anyway, as she could hardly miss the spectacle of Mma Potokwane, one of the most formidable women in Botswana, coming face-to-face with one of the country’s nastiest senior aunts. It would be an encounter to remember, and talk about, for a long time. And she was sure who would win.
“You are very kind,” she said to Mma Potokwane. “This will make Mma Makutsi happy, and it will be best for Phuti. It is a very good idea, Mma, and we are all grateful to you.”
“I am not being kind,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am just helping my friends who have helped me. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni has done so much for us—he has fixed so many things over the years—that I am very happy to be able to repay the … the assistant to his wife.”
That was only partly true, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was probably the case that Mma Potokwane wanted to repay favours, but it was not true that she was not kind. Of course Mma Potokwane was kind—one only had to look at her life to see that. And what was also true, Mma Ramotswe thought, was this: Some kind people may not look kind. They may look severe, or strict, or even bossy, as Mma Potokwane sometimes did. But inside them there was a big dam of kindness, as there is inside so many people, like the great dam to the south of Gaborone, ready to release its healing waters.
MMA POTOKWANE drove them to the aunt’s house, parking directly outside her gate. The unpleasant brown car, with its small, mean-spirited windows, was there in the short driveway, and the aunt’s front door was slightly open. A man with a rake was standing in the yard, battered old hat perched on his head; a jobbing gardener, thought Mma Ramotswe. The man waved, and she returned his wave as they approached the house.
“She is not a nice woman,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “I am worried.”
“Nonsense!” said Mma Potokwane, not bothering to lower her voice. “She is a melon. That is all.”
They reached the front door and Mma Potokwane shouted out, “Ko! Ko!” When there was no reply, she shouted the greeting out again, and this time edged the front door a bit further open. This brought a reaction from within—the aunt suddenly appeared. She was wearing a pink housecoat and had a cloth, a doek, wound round the top of her head. She eyed her visitors suspiciously, an expression of outrage spreading slowly across her face.
/>
“Yes?” she said. “What is this?”
“I am Mma Potokwane,” came the announcement. “You know these ladies. We are here to see Mr. Radiphuti.”
“Impossible,” said the aunt. “He is sleeping. You must go away. All of you.”
Mma Potokwane seemed to inflate before their eyes. “I am not asking you, Mma,” she said to the aunt. “I am telling you. Mma Makutsi is here to see her husband.”
The aunt glared at Mma Makutsi. “She is not his wife. He is not her husband. She is … she is nothing, Mma. So you must all go now. You. The nothing. This other woman. All go.”
Mma Potokwane moved forward slowly. It was not really like a person moving, thought Mma Ramotswe; it was more a geological movement, the movement of boulders falling slowly down a slope—unstoppable, remorseless, obeying only the rules of gravity and no other. In the face of this, the aunt could do nothing; there was no physical contact, and Mma Potokwane moved past her into the house unimpeded. Unerringly, as if on entirely familiar territory, she made her way into a corridor, followed by Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe. The first door she pushed open led into a pantry, the second into a bedroom. And there, sitting in a wheelchair by the end of the bed, was Phuti Radiphuti.
He looked up. For a few seconds his expression was one of puzzlement, but this was quickly replaced by something that Mma Ramotswe recognised as unambiguous joy. He held out a hand to Mma Makutsi, who took it and then leaned forward to embrace him.
“You have come to see me,” he said. “This is very good.”
“I tried to come before,” she said.
“But your aunt would not allow it,” said Mma Potokwane. “And so we have come to ask you whether you would like to be looked after by me and Mma Makutsi, out at my place.”
At first, Phuti seemed confused, and transferred his gaze from Mma Makutsi to Mma Ramotswe and then back again. But then he looked directly at Mma Potokwane and said, “I should like that very much, Mma. It is a very good idea.” He hesitated, and then added, “When? Tomorrow?”
Mma Potokwane looked around the room in a businesslike manner. “Today,” she said. “You do not seem to have many things here, Rra. But I see you have a bag, and we can put your clothes in that. And those medicines on the table—we must not forget those.”
“My aunt …,” Phuti began.
Mma Ramotswe could see doubt creeping up on him, and she decided to speak quickly. “Mma Potokwane will talk to her again,” she said. “You do not need to worry about your aunt.”
The packing was completed within a few minutes. Then, with Mma Potokwane in the lead and Phuti’s wheelchair being pushed by Mma Makutsi, they filed out of the room and began to make their way out of the house. They encountered the aunt near the front door, but she shrank back at the sight of Mma Potokwane, who halted for a moment and stared at her, as an elephant will face an adversary, sniffing at the wind. Indeed, Mma Ramotswe thought that she saw Mma Potokwane’s ears flapping out, as an elephant’s will as it prepares to charge, or feints, but she knew at once that this must be a trick of the eye, a conceit of the imagination.
The aunt said nothing, but as she went past her on the way through the door, when Mma Potokwane, Mma Makutsi, and Phuti were already outside, Mma Ramotswe stopped and spoke to her. “Listen to me, Mma,” she said. “Your nephew still loves you. If you do not wish to lose him forever, then you must listen to what I say and you must remember it. Love without freedom is like a fire without air. A fire without air goes out. Do you understand me, Mma?”
She was not sure if the aunt did understand. The other woman looked up, but then looked away again. She understood, perhaps, but did not understand. There were many people like that. They understood but did not understand, all at the same time. It was a big problem.
MMA MAKUTSI helped Phuti Radiphuti settle into the room behind Mma Potokwane’s office. Alone at last, he held her hand and they sat together, at first saying nothing, and then, in a rush, saying everything.
“I have cried so much,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have thought of you all the time, Phuti, all the time.”
He squeezed her hand. “I thought I was going to die. And when I was lying there, thinking this is the end for Radiphuti, I was only sad for you, Grace, not for me. I did not care about dying, but I did care about leaving you.”
She tried to reply to this, but she could not. She found herself weeping. She took off her glasses and polished them, which is what she did at moments of emotion. Phuti took them from her, gently, and rubbed them against the sleeve of his shirt before handing them back to her.
“Mma Radiphuti,” he said. “That is what you will be, very soon now.”
“Very soon,” she echoed. “That will be very good.”
WHILE MMA MAKUTSI and Phuti Radiphuti were talking together at last, Mma Ramotswe and the matron sat together in the office itself, a freshly poured cup of tea to hand. Each also had a slice of Mma Potokwane’s fruit cake on a plate beside them. There was more cake in a tin on the table, ready to be consumed if the need arose, and it surely would.
“Mr. Radiphuti seems very content,” said Mma Potokwane. “Poor man.”
Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “Yes. And he told me in the car that he will shortly be able to walk on a new leg they are making for him. Or part of a leg, I should say. He only needs something the length of this pencil. They did not take much off.”
“We had a child with something like that,” said Mma Potokwane. “He learned to walk very quickly, and ended up playing football. He had the right approach to life, that boy.”
Mma Ramotswe thought about this. Having the right approach to life was a great gift in this life. Her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had always had the right approach to life—she was sure of that. And for a moment, as she sat there with her friend, with the late-afternoon sun slanting in through the window, she thought about how she owed her father so much. He had taught her almost everything she knew about how to lead a good life, and the lessons she had learned from him were as fresh today as they ever had been. Do not complain about your life. Do not blame others for things that you have brought upon yourself. Be content with who you are and where you are, and do whatever you can do to bring to others such contentment, and joy, and understanding that you have managed to find yourself.
She closed her eyes. You can do that in the company of an old friend—you can close your eyes and think of the land that gave you life and breath, and of all the reasons why you are glad that you are there, with the people you know, with the people you love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is also the author of the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh and has served on many national and international bodies concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Alexander McCall Smith
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Little, Brown, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, London.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCall Smith, Alexander, [date]
The Double Comfort Safari Club / Alexander McCall Smith.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37900-9
1. No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (Imaginary organization)—Fiction.
2. Ramotswe, Precious (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
3. Women private investigators—Fiction. 4.
Okavango River Delta
Region (Botswana)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.c326d68 2010 823′.914 dc22 2009049060
www.pantheonbooks.com
v3.0
Alexander McCall Smith, The Double Comfort Safari Club
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