Phuti Radiphuti opened his mouth to speak, and Mma Makutsi waited for his answer, but no words were formed. He bit his lip, and looked apologetic.
“Don’t worry, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi lightly. “We don’t have to talk now. We can talk a bit later, after we have danced. Don’t worry. It is my first time at a dance class too.”
Mr Fanope was now organising the couples and was signalling the band to start.
“Take your partners,” he called out. “No, do not crush them, gentlemen. A good dancer holds his partner lightly. Like this. See?”
They began to dance, and it became straightaway apparent to Mma Makutsi that her partner had very little sense of rhythm. While she counted slow, slow, quick, quick, as they had been instructed to do by Mr Fanope, he seemed to be counting slow, slow, slow, quick, or even slow, slow, slow, slow. Whatever he was doing, it bore no relation to what Mma Makutsi herself was doing.
After a few minutes of uncoordinated shuffling, Mr Fanope came up to them and tapped Phuti Radiphuti on the shoulder.
“No, Rra,” he said, shaking a finger at him. “You are all over the place. This is not football. This is a quickstep. You go slow, slow, quick, quick, like this.”
Phuti Radiphuti looked ashamed.
“I am very so … so … sor … sorry,” he stuttered. “I am not a good dancer. I am sorry.”
“Let me do the counting,” said Mma Makutsi. “You just listen to me this time.”
They resumed the dance, with Mma Makutsi counting loudly and guiding Phuti Radiphuti in an attempt to bring their movements into unison. It was not easy; Phuti Radiphuti seemed inordinately clumsy, and no matter how clearly she counted he appeared to be following a quite different rhythm.
“It is important to move quickly after I count two,” shouted Mma Makutsi above a particularly loud passage of drumming. “That is why the dance is called the quickstep.”
Phuti Radiphuti nodded. He looked rather miserable now, as if he was regretting the decision to attend the lesson. Mma Makutsi, for her part, was sure that people were looking at them as they stumbled along. She had changed her mind about whether it would have been better to remain firmly seated, unapproached by any man, than to be subjected to this awkward, bumbling performance. And there, only a few couples away, was somebody she recognised. She stole a glance and then looked away. Yes, it was her, one of the women from her year at the Botswana Secretarial College, one of those fun-loving glamorous girls who ended up getting barely fifty per cent, and there she was, dancing with a confident and attractive man. Mma Makutsi hardly dared look again, but was forced to do so when they found themselves getting closer and closer together.
“So!” shouted the glamorous girl. “So there you are! Grace Makutsi!”
Mma Makutsi affected surprise, smiling at the other girl. She noticed the eyes of the other move quickly to Phuti Radiphuti and then come back to rest on her, amused.
“Who is that?” stuttered Phuti Radiphuti. “Who …”
“She is just somebody I know,” said Mma Makutsi carelessly. “I have forgotten her name.”
“She is a very good dancer,” said Phuti Radiphuti, stumbling over each word.
“Dancing is not the only thing,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “There are other things, you know.”
THE DANCE CLASS lasted for almost two hours. There were further exhibitions of the quickstep, performed with shimmering fluidity by Mr Fanope and Mma Betty, and then demonstrations of the waltz, which they were then all invited to attempt. Mma Makutsi, who had detached herself from Phuti Radiphuti while the demonstration was being performed, was hoping that somebody else would come and ask her to dance, but was quickly sought out by Phuti Radiphuti, who guided her clumsily back onto the floor.
At the end of the evening, he thanked her and offered to drive her home.
“I have a car outside,” he said. “I can take you.”
She hesitated. She felt sorry for this man, who seemed harmless enough, but this was not what she had hoped for, nor anticipated, for the evening. She had seen at least four men who looked attractive and interesting, but they had not looked at her, not for so much as an instant. Instead it had been her luck to have the attention of this poor man, decent though he was, with his terrible stutter and his awful clumsiness. So she should say no to his offer, so as not to encourage him, and wait for a minibus, or even walk home. It would take her no more than thirty minutes, and it was perfectly safe at this hour of night.
She looked at him, and noticed that there were dark patches in the armpits of his shirt. We are all human, all creatures of water and salt, all human. And she thought for a moment of her brother, her poor brother Richard, whom she had loved and looked after, and who had suffered from those dreadful fevers that bathed him in sweat at night. She could not hurt this man; she could not say to him, no, I cannot accept your kindness.
She agreed, and they left the room together. At the doorway, Mr Fanope smiled at them and said that he looked forward to seeing them the following Friday.
“You make a very good couple,” he said. “You are coming on nicely. You are a good dancer, Mma, and you, Rra, I think you will be good in the future.”
Mma Makutsi’s heart sank. If she had feared that she might be landed with this man at every class, then this fear had just been confirmed.
“I’m not sure that I shall be able to come here again,” she blurted out. “I am very busy.”
Mr Fanope shook his head. “You must come, Mma. Your friend here needs you to help him with his dancing, don’t you, Rra?”
Phuti Radiphuti beamed with pleasure, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. “I am very happy dancing with …” The words came painfully slowly, and he was interrupted by Mr Fanope before he could finish.
“Good,” said the instructor. “We shall see you both then, next Friday. That is very good.” He gestured at the other dancers. “Some of these people over there don’t really need lessons. But you do.”
Outside, they walked in silence to the car park behind the hardware store. Phuti Radiphuti’s car was at the far end, a modest white car with a twisted aerial. Yet it was a car, which told Mma Makutsi something about him. As Mma Ramotswe would have pointed out to her, the mere fact that he has a car tells us something, Mma. It means that he has a good job. Now look at his hands, Mma, and his shoes, and see what they say about him. As he started the car, Mma Makutsi looked at his hands, but they told her nothing. Or at least they told her one thing, she thought, with an inward smile. He has all his fingers. He is not a butcher.
She directed him back to her house, where he dropped her, keeping the engine running. She was relieved that he had no expectations beyond that, and she thanked him politely as she alighted.
“I will see you next week,” she said, although she had not planned to say this. She had not planned to give any commitment, but she had done it, more out of pity for him than anything else. And she noticed that he appeared to appreciate the gesture, as he smiled and started to say something. But he did not finish. The words were stuck, and he became mute. So she closed the door, and waved to him, and he drew away in his white car, and she watched the red lights of the car disappear down the road, into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
MR POLOPETSI STARTS AT THE GARAGE
THE REPAIR of the bicycle had been effected by the younger apprentice. He had managed to straighten the handlebars and attend to a buckle in the wheel, with the result that even if the bicycle was not as good as new, it was possible to ride it safely. Mma Ramotswe had her misgivings about this; she would have liked to be able to say to its owner that it was perfect, indeed that it had been improved upon, but she felt that she could not claim this. Instead she would have to say that they had done their best, and that she hoped that he might be satisfied with the repair. Of course, in view of the offer she was about to make him, he would be unlikely to protest very much.
She had asked him to come to the garage to fetch the bicycle and now
he was here, knocking at the door of her office, his hat in his hand. She had bade him enter and he had done so, not boldly as men usually entered, but almost apologetically. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and thought how this must be the effect of prison, at least its effect on an honest man who had been sent there unjustly. What greater wrong can there be than that, what greater hurt? To know that you were reviled for something that you had not done, or for something for which you did not deserve to be punished; that must be very painful, she thought.
She rose to her feet to greet him.
“You are very welcome, Rra,” she said. “You must come in and sit down, and we can talk. Then …”
“It is not ready? It is not fixed?”
She smiled to put him at his ease. “Of course it’s ready, Rra. We have done our best, or rather the apprentice through there—you might have seen him—has done his best. I hope that it is all right.”
His relief was visible. “I am glad of that, Mma. I need that bicycle to look for work.”
Mma Ramotswe looked across the room to where Mma Makutsi was sitting at her desk and they exchanged glances.
“Well, Rra,” she began. “On that thing I have something to say to you. I can tell you …”
As she spoke, Mr Polopetsi suddenly raised a hand to stop her. “No, Mma,” he said, his tone becoming firmer. “Please do not tell me. I have had so many people telling me how I can find work. They all tell me that I must look in this place and look in that place. And I do that, and it is no good. It is always the same thing—I tell them about what happened to me and they say thank you, but we cannot help you. That is what they tell me. Every time. So please do not tell me again. I know you are being kind, but I have heard these things so many times.”
He stopped, and again there was an apologetic look, as if the courage that his declaration had required had now run out.
Mma Ramotswe stared at him. “I was not going to say that, Rra,” she said quietly. “I was not going to give you advice. No, I was going to offer you a job. That is all.”
For a few moments Mr Polopetsi said nothing, but looked at her, and then looked over his shoulder at Mma Makutsi, as if for confirmation. Mma Makutsi smiled encouragingly.
“Yes, Rra,” she said. “Mma Ramotswe does not say things that she does not mean. She is going to offer you a job.”
Mma Ramotswe leaned forward and tapped her desk. “This job is right here in the garage,” she said. “And maybe you will do a bit of work for us too. You can help us. It is not a big job.”
Mr Polopetsi appeared to be having difficulty in taking in what was being said to him. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Then he asked a question.
“Is this job for a long time?” he asked. “Or just for a few days?”
Mma Ramotswe looked down at her desk. She had not discussed this matter with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and now, faced with the hopes of Mr Polopetsi, she had to make a decision.
“It will be for at least a year,” she said confidently. “We cannot see what will happen beyond that. But you will be safe for a year.”
After she had spoken, she glanced at Mma Makutsi, who raised an eyebrow. Mma Makutsi understood that there was an impulsive side to her employer, just as there sometimes was to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Both of them could act in that way when they were being kind, and then find that there were reproaches from the other. There were two fine examples of this that Mma Makutsi knew about. Mma Ramotswe had acted in exactly that way when she had promoted her to Assistant Detective. Mma Makutsi knew that this had been done in times of financial difficulty when sound economic sense should have dictated precisely the opposite course of action. But Mma Ramotswe had been unable to disappoint her and had gone ahead and done what her heart dictated. And then Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had done just the same thing, had he not, when he had adopted the two children from the orphan farm? Everybody knew that Mma Potokwane pushed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni around and must have browbeaten or tricked him into that decision, but the wily matron knew exactly how to play on his good nature. So this decision was nothing unusual, although Mma Ramotswe would at some point have to own up to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that she had given this assurance.
“Well, Rra?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like this job?”
Mr Polopetsi nodded his head. “My heart is too full to speak,” he said. “My heart is too full, Mma. You are a very kind lady. God was watching when he made you knock me over. That was God’s act.”
“That is kind of you,” said Mma Ramotswe in a businesslike tone. “But I think it was something altogether different. Now I think that we should go through there to speak to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni so that he can start you off.”
Mr Polopetsi stood up. “I am very happy,” he said. “But I know nothing about cars. I hope that I can do this job.”
“For years we have had two young men working here who know nothing about cars,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “That did not stop them. So it should not stop you, Rra.”
“That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But let us talk about that later.” She paused before adding, “There is one thing, Rra.”
Mr Polopetsi hesitated. “Yes?”
“You have this job now,” said Mma Ramotswe, “so you can tell us about what happened to you. Tell us at lunchtime today, right from the beginning, so that we know all about it and will not have to wonder what happened. Tell us so that we no longer have to think about it.”
“I can do that,” said Mr Polopetsi. “I can tell you everything.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Now you can start work. There is a lot to do. We are very busy these days and we are very pleased to have another man …”
“To order about,” interjected Mma Makutsi, and then laughed. “No, Rra, do not worry. I am only joking about that.”
MR J.L.B. MATEKONI was busy at lunchtime, taking the remaining apprentice off with him to deal with a breakdown out on the Molepolole Road. So it was only Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi who sat in the office listening to Mr Polopetsi while he told his story. Mma Makutsi had made sandwiches for them with the bread they kept in the office cupboard—thick slices with generous helpings of jam—and Mma Ramotswe noticed how eagerly Mr Polopetsi tackled the food. He is hungry, she thought, and realised that he had probably been giving what little food there was to his family. She signalled to Mma Makutsi to make more sandwiches, which Mr Polopetsi wolfed down as he spoke.
“I was born in Lobatse,” he began. “My father was one of the attendants at the mental hospital there. You will know the place. His job was to help the doctors control the very sick people who struggled when the doctors tried to treat them. There were some very strong patients and they would shout and strike out at everybody. My father was a strong man too, and he had a special jacket that he could put on these people and tie their arms behind them. That would make it easier for the doctors.
“I worked hard at school. I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up, but when the examinations came along I did not do well enough. I knew the answers to the questions, because I had worked so hard, but I became very frightened when the examinations started and I could not write properly. My hand would shake and shake and the examiners must have wondered who was this stupid boy who could not even write neatly. So I never did as well as I should have. If I hadn’t shaken like that, then maybe I would have been given a scholarship and gone off to South Africa to study medicine. That happened to one boy at my school, but it did not happen to me.
“But I did not sit and complain about this because I knew that God would find me some other work. And He did. When I was sixteen I was given a job in the hospital where my father worked. There is a pharmacy in the hospital and they needed somebody to wash the bottles and to help carry and lift things. I also had to write notes in the drugs stock book, and I had to count the bottles and the pills. I was very good at that and they made me a pharmacy assistant when I was twenty. That was a very good job. I even took some examinations to do with that work and I found that
I was not so frightened this time. I wrote neatly and I passed.
“I worked down there for twelve years before they sent me up to Gaborone. I was very pleased to get this new job because it was more senior and I was given more money. I became a pharmacy assistant at the Princess Marina, which is a very fine hospital. There is a very big pharmacy there and they have many, many shelves of bottles. I worked very hard and did well. Now I could marry a lady whom I had met at my church. She is a very good lady and she has given me two children, two girls, this big and this big, and they are very good children.
“I was a very happy man and a very proud one too. Then one day a very bad thing happened to me, a thing which changed my life forever and which I can never forget. And it was just an ordinary day, the same as any day. When I left my house that morning I did not know what was going to happen to me. I did not know that this was the last day that I would be happy.”
Mr Polopetsi paused to bite into the fresh sandwich which Mma Makutsi had passed him. He took a large mouthful, and the two ladies watched him in silence as he chewed on the food. Mma Ramotswe wondered what it was that could have suddenly brought his world to an end. He had said when they had first met them that there had been an accident, but what accident could have resulted in his spending two years in prison? A road accident? Had he driven while drunk and killed somebody? He seemed an unlikely candidate for that.
“We were very busy that morning,” continued Mr Polopetsi, wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sometimes it was like that. All the wards would run out of medicines at the same time and there would be a whole line of out-patients waiting for their prescriptions. So we would be running this way and that, trying to get things sorted out. There were two pharmacists who were ill that day because there was a lot of flu in the town. So we were very busy.