That evening, Mma Ramotswe and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni sat out on their veranda later than usual. It was a Friday evening, and Motholeli and Puso were both away on sleepovers with friends. As a result, the house was quieter than usual, prompting Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to turn on a radio, which Mma Ramotswe immediately switched off. ‘If you don’t mind, Rra,’ she said, ‘it will be more peaceful without music.’ He did not mind; Mma Ramotswe was right – they did not need any distraction: there was so much to talk about.
‘So,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, ‘you went out to Mma Potokwani’s place?’
‘We did,’ said Mma Ramotswe, sipping from the glass of guava juice she had poured. ‘She was on her usual good form.’
‘That woman,’ he mused. ‘She’s like a…’ He searched his mind for a way of describing their formidable friend. A railway engine? A bolt of lightning? A determined cow? No, that was uncomplimentary, and he did not mean to be disrespectful. A stately hippopotamus, then? No, that was worse.
‘She is like a matron,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Of course. Yes.’ That was it. She was like a matron and she was a matron. And we needed matrons, he thought – we needed them. He had read that hospitals were getting rid of matrons and appointing all sorts of people who were not matrons to run them – people who did not wear matrons’ blue and white uniforms and did not have watches pinned onto their fronts. How would such people know how to run a hospital – or a children’s home, for that matter? Who were these people to imagine that they could do the things that matrons had always done? No wonder hospitals were full of infections and people lying in unmade beds; matrons would never have tolerated that – not for one moment.
‘So what did matron say?’ he asked.
They both smiled at the question. Mma Ramotswe took another sip of guava juice and told him about her renaming – and effective takeover – of Mma Makutsi’s café. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Mma Makutsi was rather pleased. I think she had realised that running a restaurant or a café may sound exciting but is really extremely hard work; I would never try to run one, Rra – never. She seemed pleased to be handing over the responsibility to Mma Potokwani.’ She paused. ‘And the terms were good, too – from my point of view.’
He did not see what she had to do with it, and so she explained. She had previously told him about her financial arrangement with Mma Potokwani – he had been tight-lipped about it, but pleased that something had been done for Charlie – and she had also told Mma Makutsi, who had disapproved of it strongly. ‘Well, it was Mma Makutsi who came up with a plan. She said that the profits from the café, if there were any, would be shared by the two of them, but she – Mma Makutsi, that is – would use her share to pay off the loan that I took from Mma Potokwani.’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni gave a whistle of surprise. ‘Her own share? Mma Makutsi’s own share? That’s very generous of her, Mma.’
‘It is,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘She told me that she feels that Charlie’s pay should come from her, since he is helping her with the secretarial side of things.’
‘I suppose I can see that,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘But still…’
‘Yes. But then Mma Makutsi does have a softer side, you know. She’s really quite fond of Charlie – underneath it all.’
‘So everybody’s happy?’
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. ‘I think so.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
She picked up her glass. ‘It gets better.’
‘What?’
She let her gaze rest on her garden. The evening sun, weak now in its final moments, had crowned the large acacia tree in the front garden with its golden, buttery light. Individual branches of the acacia were outlined against the sky. It was a thorn tree and only moderately hospitable to birds, but a Cape dove had settled on it and was looking anxiously about, surveying the world that birds see – the world of leaves and twigs and air. I hope you find your wife, she inwardly wished the bird. I hope you find her.
She turned to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘I decided on a way of sorting out the Sengupta affair,’ she said. ‘You remember Billy Pilane?’
He did. He had liked Billy Pilane and had often thought that it would be good to see him again.
‘I was going to see if I could persuade Billy to get that woman off their list.’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s expression clouded over. ‘You don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing. You don’t want to go about asking people in the police for favours.’
‘Even if there has been an injustice?’
He shook his head. ‘Where would it end?’
‘I don’t have to do it anyway,’ she announced. ‘It’s done.’
He sounded displeased. ‘You got in touch with him?’
‘No,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Mma Potokwani got in touch with his wife – of her own accord. They talked and now, well, Lakshmi is no longer on that list. She shouldn’t have been on it in the first place, of course, but now she’s off it.’
‘Mma Potokwani did all that?’ He thought it quite possible; nobody argued with Mma Potokwani, and that included senior police officers, and their wives.
‘She’s a matron,’ said Mma Ramotswe. It was sufficient explanation, she felt.
‘And so?’
‘Well, since she’s not wanted by the police, she can make a regular application to be allowed to stay in Botswana. They can tell the truth and explain to the authorities that she has been abused by that man back there. It will be a strong case and if Mr Sengupta sponsors her, they’re likely to give her a residence permit.’ She paused, and thought: there are so many people who would love to be able to live in peace, but there are so many others who do not want to let them.
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni stood up. ‘Let’s go for a walk in the garden,’ he said. ‘While there’s still light.’
They left the veranda. The light was fading quickly now, but there was enough to see the things they wanted to see – the progress of the next crop of beans, the state of the Namaqualand daisies that Mma Ramotswe had recently planted along the side of the house, the new shrubs put in by the mopipi tree.
There was also enough light, Mma Ramotswe reflected, to see that the world was not always a place of pain and loss, but a place where our simple human affairs – those matters that for all their pettiness still sometimes confounded us – were not insoluble, were not without the possibility of resolution.
She held her husband’s hand. No further words were exchanged, or needed.
Alexander McCall Smith, The Handsome Man's Deluxe Café
(Series: # )
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