Tears of the Giraffe

  She signed the report and put it on Mma Ramotswe’s desk. Then she stood up and looked out of the window, over the acacia trees and up into the broad, heat-drained sky. It was all very well being a product of the Botswana Secretarial College, and it was all very well having graduated with 97 percent. But they did not teach moral philosophy there, and she had no idea how to resolve the dilemma with which her successful investigation had presented her. She would leave that to Mma Ramotswe. She was a wise woman, with far more experience of life than herself, and she would know what to do.

  Mma Makutsi made herself a cup of bush tea and stretched out in her chair. She looked at her shoes, with their three twinkling buttons. Did they know the answer? Perhaps they did.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A TRIP INTO TOWN

  ON THE morning of Mma Makutsi’s remarkably successful, but nonetheless puzzling investigation into the affairs of Mr Letsenyane Badule, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and undoubtedly one of the finest mechanics in Botswana, decided to take his newly acquired foster children into town on a shopping expedition. Their arrival in his house had confused his ill-tempered maid, Mma Florence Peko, and had plunged him into a state of doubt and alarm that at times bordered on panic. It was not every day that one went to fix a diesel pump and came back with two children, one of them in a wheelchair, saddled with an implied moral obligation to look after the children for the rest of their childhood, and, indeed, in the case of the wheelchair-bound girl, for the rest of her life. How Mma Silvia Potokwane, the ebullient matron of the orphan farm, had managed to persuade him to take the children was beyond him. There had been some sort of conversation about it, he knew, and he had said that he would do it, but how had he been pushed into committing himself there and then? Mma Potokwane was like a clever lawyer engaged in the examination of a witness: agreement would be obtained to some innocuous statement and then, before the witness knew it, he would have agreed to a quite different proposal.

  But the children had arrived, and it was now too late to do anything about it. As he sat in the office of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and contemplated a mound of paperwork, he made two decisions. One was to employ a secretary—a decision which he knew, even as he took it, that he would never get round to implementing—and the second was to stop worrying about how the children had arrived and to concentrate on doing the right thing by them. After all, if one contemplated the situation in a calm and detached state of mind, it had many redeeming features. The children were fine children—you only had to hear the story of the girl’s courage to realise that—and their life had taken a sudden and dramatic turn for the better. Yesterday they had been just two of one hundred and fifty children at the orphan farm. Today they were placed in their own house, with their own rooms, and with a father—yes, he was a father now!—who owned his own garage. There was no shortage of money; although not a conspicuously wealthy man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was perfectly comfortable. Not a single thebe was owed on the garage; the house was subject to no bond; and the three accounts in Barclays Bank of Botswana were replete with pula. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could look any member of the Gaborone Chamber of Commerce in the eye and say: “I have never owed you a penny. Not one.” How many businessmen could do that these days? Most of them existed on credit, kowtowing to that smug Mr Timon Mothokoli, who controlled business credit at the bank. He had heard that Mr Mothokoli could drive to work from his house on Kaunda Way and would be guaranteed to drive past the doors of at least five men who would quake at his passing. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could, if he wished, ignore Mr Mothokoli if he met him in the Mall, not that he would ever do that, of course.

  So if there is all this liquidity, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, then why not spend some of it on the children? He would arrange for them to go to school, of course, and there was no reason why they should not go to a private school, too. They would get good teachers there; teachers who knew all about Shakespeare and geometry. They would learn everything that they needed to get good jobs. Perhaps the boy … No, it was almost too much to hope for, but it was such a delicious thought. Perhaps the boy would demonstrate an aptitude for mechanical matters and could take over the running of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. For a few moments, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni indulged himself in the thought: his son, his son, standing in front of the garage, wiping his hands on a piece of oily rag, after having done a good job on a complicated gearbox. And, in the background, sitting in the office, himself and Mma Ramotswe, much older now, grey-haired, drinking bush tea.

  That would be far in the future, and there was much to be done before that happy outcome could be achieved. First of all, he would take them into town and buy them new clothes. The orphan farm, as usual, had been generous in giving them going-away clothes that were nearly new, but it was not the same as having one’s own clothes, bought from a shop. He imagined that these children had never had that luxury. They would never have unwrapped clothes from their factory packaging and put them on, with that special, quite unreproducible smell of new fabric rich in the nostrils. He would drive them in immediately, that very morning, and buy them all the clothes they needed. Then he would take them to the chemist shop and the girl could buy herself some creams and shampoo, and other things that girls might like for themselves. There was only carbolic soap at home, and she deserved better than that.

  MR J.L.B. Matekoni fetched the old green truck from the garage, which had plenty of room in the back for the wheelchair. The children were sitting on the verandah when he arrived home; the boy had found a stick which he was tying up in string for some reason, and the girl was crocheting a cover for a milk jug. They taught them crochet at the orphan farm, and some of them had won prizes for their designs. She is a talented girl, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; this girl will be able to do anything, once she is given the chance.

  They greeted him politely, and nodded when he asked whether the maid had given them their breakfast. He had asked her to come in early so as to be able to attend to the children while he went off to the garage, and he was slightly surprised that she had complied. But there were sounds from the kitchen—the bangings and scrapings that she seemed to make whenever she was in a bad mood—and these confirmed her presence.

  Watched by the maid, who sourly followed their progress until they were out of sight near the old Botswana Defence Force Club, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the two children bumped their way into town in the old truck. The springs were gone, and could only be replaced with difficulty, as the manufacturers had passed into mechanical history, but the engine still worked and the bumpy ride was a thrill for the girl and boy. Rather to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s surprise, the girl showed an interest in its history, asking him how old it was and whether it used a lot of oil.

  “I have heard that old engines need more oil,” she said. “Is this true, Rra?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni explained about worn engine parts and their heavy demands, and she listened attentively. The boy, by contrast, did not appear to be interested. Still, there was time. He would take him to the garage and get the apprentices to show him how to take off wheel nuts. That was a task that a boy could perform, even when he was as young as this one. It was best to start early as a mechanic. It was an art which, ideally, one should learn at one’s father’s side. Did not the Lord himself learn to be a carpenter in his father’s workshop? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. If the Lord came back today, he would probably be a mechanic, he reflected. That would be a great honour for mechanics everywhere. And there is no doubt but that he would choose Africa: Israel was far too dangerous these days. In fact, the more one thought about it, the more likely it was that he would choose Botswana, and Gaborone in particular. Now that would be a wonderful honour for the people of Botswana; but it would not happen, and there was no point in thinking about it any further. The Lord was not going to come back; we had had our chance and we had not made very much of it, unfortunately.

  He parked the car beside the British High Commission, noting that His Excelle
ncy’s white Range Rover was in front of the door. Most of the diplomatic cars went to the big garages, with their advanced diagnostic equipment and their exotic bills, but His Excellency insisted on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “You see that car over there?” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to the boy. “That is a very important vehicle. I know that car very well.”

  The boy looked down at the ground and said nothing.

  “It is a beautiful white car,” said the girl, from behind him. “It is like a cloud with wheels.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned round and looked at her.

  “That is a very good way of talking about that car,” he said. “I shall remember that.”

  “How many cylinders does a car like that have?” the girl went on. “Is it six?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled, and turned back to the boy. “Well,” he said. “How many cylinders do you think that car has in its engine?”

  “One?” said the boy quietly, still looking firmly at the ground.

  “One!” mocked his sister. “It is not a two-stroke!”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s eyes opened wide. “A two-stroke? Where did you hear about two-strokes?”

  The girl shrugged. “I have always known about two-strokes,” she said. “They make a loud noise and you mix the oil in with the petrol. They are mostly on small motorbikes. Nobody likes a two-stroke engine.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “No, a two-stroke engine is often very troublesome.” He paused. “But we must not stand here and talk about engines. We must go to the shops and buy you clothes and other things that you need.”

  THE SHOP assistants were sympathetic to the girl, and went with her into the changing room to help her try the dresses which she had selected from the rack. She had modest tastes, and consistently chose the cheapest available, but these, she said, were the ones she wanted. The boy appeared more interested; he chose the brightest shirts he could find and set his heart on a pair of white shoes which his sister vetoed on the grounds of impracticality.

  “We cannot let him have those, Rra,” she said to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They would get very dirty in no time and then he will just throw them to one side. This is a very vain boy.”

  “I see,” mused Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thoughtfully. The boy was respectful, and presentable, but that earlier delightful image he had entertained of his son standing outside Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors seemed to have faded. Another image had appeared, of the boy in a smart white shirt and a suit … But that could not be right.

  They finished their shopping and were making their way back across the broad public square outside the post office when the photographer summoned them.

  “I can do a photograph for you,” he said. “Right here. You stand under this tree and I can take your photograph. Instant. Just like that. A handsome family group.”

  “Would you like that?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “A photograph to remind us of our shopping trip.”

  The children beamed up at him.

  “Yes, please,” said the girl, adding, “I have never had a photograph.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood quite still. This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: “That is me.” And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.

  He caught his breath, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of pity for these two children; and pity mixed with love. He would give them these things. He would make it up to them. They would have everything that other children had been given, which other children took for granted; all that love, each year of lost love, would be replaced, bit by bit, until the scales were righted.

  He wheeled the wheelchair into position in front of the tree where the photographer had established his outdoor studio. Then, his rickety tripod perched in the dust, the photographer crouched behind his camera and waved a hand to attract his subject’s attention. There was a clicking sound, followed by a whirring, and with the air of a magician completing a trick, the photographer peeled off the protective paper and blew across the photograph to dry it.

  The girl took it, and smiled. Then the photographer positioned the boy, who stood, hands clasped behind him, mouth wide open in a smile; again the theatrical performance with the print and the pleasure on the child’s face.

  “There,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Now you can put those in your rooms. And one day we will have more photographs.”

  He turned round and prepared to take control of the wheelchair, but he stopped, and his arms fell to his sides, useless, paralysed.

  There was Mma Ramotswe, standing before him, a basket laden with letters in her right hand. She had been making her way to the post office when she saw him and she had stopped. What was going on? What was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doing, and who were these children?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SULLEN, BAD MAID ACTS

  FLORENCE PEKO, the sour and complaining maid of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, had suffered from headaches ever since Mma Ramotswe had first been announced as her employer’s future wife. She was prone to stress headaches, and anything untoward could bring them on. Her brother’s trial, for instance, had been a season of headaches, and every month, when she went to visit him in the prison near the Indian supermarket she would feel a headache even before she took her place in the shuffling queue of relatives waiting to visit. Her brother had been involved in stolen cars, and although she had given evidence on his behalf, testifying to having witnessed a meeting at which he had agreed to look after a car for a friend—a skein of fabrication—she knew that he was every bit as guilty as the prosecution had made him out to be. Indeed, the crimes for which he received his five-year prison sentence were probably only a fraction of those he had committed. But that was not the point: she had been outraged at his conviction, and her outrage had taken the form of a prolonged shouting and gesturing at the police officers in the court. The magistrate, who was on the point of leaving, had resumed her seat and ordered Florence to appear before her.

  “This is a court of law,” she had said. “You must understand that you cannot shout at police officers, or anybody else in it. And moreover, you are lucky that the prosecutor has not charged you with perjury for all the lies you told here today.”

  Florence had been silenced, and had been allowed free. Yet this only increased her sense of injustice. The Republic of Botswana had made a great mistake in sending her brother to jail. There were far worse people than he, and why were they left untouched? Where was the justice of it if people like … The list was a long one, and, by curious coincidence, three of the men on it were known by her, two of them intimately.

  And it was to one of these, Mr Philemon Leannye, that she now proposed to turn. He owed her a favour. She had once told the police that he was with her, when he was not, and this was after she had received her judicial warning for perjury and was wary of the authorities. She had met Philemon Leannye at a take-out stall in the African Mall. He was tired of bar girls, he had said, and he wanted to get to know some honest girls who would not take his money from him and make him buy drinks for them.

  “Somebody like you,” he had said, charmingly.

  She had been flattered, and their acquaintance had blossomed. Months might go by when she would not see him, but he would appear from time to time and bring her presents—a silver clock once, a bag (with the purse still in it), a bottle of Cape Brandy. He lived over at Old Naledi, with a woman by whom he had had three children.

  “She is always shouting at me, that woman,” he complained. “I can’t do anything right as far as she is concerned. I give her money every month but she always says that the children are hungry and how is she to buy the food? She is never satisfied.”

  Florence was sympathetic.

  “You should leave her and marry me,” she said. “I am not one to shout at a man. I wou
ld make a good wife for a man like you.”

  Her suggestion had been serious, but he had treated it as a joke, and had cuffed her playfully.

  “You would be just as bad,” he said. “Once women are married to men, they start to complain. It is a well-known fact. Ask any married man.”

  So their relationship remained casual, but, after her risky and rather frightening interview with the police—an interview in which his alibi was probed for over three hours—she felt that there was an obligation which one day could be called in.

  “Philemon,” she said to him, lying beside him on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s bed one hot afternoon. “I want you to get me a gun.”

  He laughed, but became serious when he turned over and saw her expression.

  “What are you planning to do? Shoot Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Next time he comes into the kitchen and complains about the food, you shoot him? Hah!”

  “No. I am not planning to shoot anybody. I want the gun to put in somebody’s house. Then I will tell the police that there is a gun there and they will come and find it.”

  “And so I don’t get my gun back?”

  “No. The police will take it. But they will also take the person whose house it was in. What happens if you are found with an illegal gun?”

  Philemon lit a cigarette and puffed the air straight up towards Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s ceiling.

  “They don’t like illegal weapons here. You get caught with an illegal gun and you go to prison. That’s it. No hanging about. They don’t want this place to become like Johannesburg.”

  Florence smiled. “I am glad that they are so strict about guns. That is what I want.”

  Philemon extracted a fragment of tobacco from the space between his two front teeth. “So,” he said. “How do I pay for this gun? Five hundred pula. Minimum. Somebody has to bring it over from Johannesburg. You can’t pick them up here so easily.”