In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (28 page)

“You are,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are very important. You are the best mechanic in Botswana.”

“Yes,” said Mr Polopetsi. “That is true, Rra. You are the very best mechanic. I have been proud to work with you.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned and looked at them, first at Mma Ramotswe, and then at Mr Polopetsi.

“You are a good mechanic too, Rra,” he said to Mr Polopetsi. “I have seen the way you handle an engine. You respect machinery.

That comes from having worked in the hospital. You are like a doctor dealing with a patient.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mr Polopetsi, and then she addressed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “And he is a good detective too,” she said. “He is the one who followed the tracks of the van. That was a fine piece of detective work. We could use him from time to time, as a sort of assistant. Maybe he could be an assistant-assistant detective to Mma Makutsi. She would like that.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said. “That would be a good idea.” He paused, and frowned. “You did not think that your job was over, did you, Rra? Just because Charlie has come back?”

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Mr Polopetsi nodded. “I did think that, Rra. And it is all right with me. I cannot expect you to give a job to everyone.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “But I never thought that you should go, Rra. I should have told you. I never thought that you should go. What is going to happen to this place once those boys finish their apprenticeship—if they ever finish it? Where would I be then if I did not have somebody like you to help me? And now you have heard what Mma Ramotswe says about your doing some work for her from time to time. You are going to be a very busy man, Rra.”

THAT AFTERNOON, just as Mma Ramotswe was on the point of suggesting that they close the agency an hour earlier than normal, as she needed to go to the butcher to collect some meat for that evening’s meal, Mr Polopetsi came into the office to announce that there was a man who was asking to see her. He was an elderly

man, he said, who had arrived in a car driven by a driver, and he did not wish to come inside. Could Mma Ramotswe speak to him outside, under the tree?

Mma Ramotswe smiled. This was what an elderly person, a traditional person, might feel comfortable doing: talking under a tree, as people had always done. She went outside, and saw that her visitor was already standing under the tree, his hat in his hand. He looked so like her father, she thought, with a pang of regret; he had enjoyed talking to people while standing or sitting under a tree, watching the cattle grazing, or simply looking at the sky and the hills of the country that he had loved so much.

“Dumela, Mma Ramotswe, you remember me, do you not?”

She reached forward and they shook hands.

“I remember you well, Rra. You were a friend of my father. I have not seen you for a long time, but of course I remember you. You are well, Rra?”

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He tapped his head lightly with a forefinger. “My head is getting

very old now,” he said, smiling as he spoke. “And that means that I forget many things. But I have not forgotten Obed Ramotswe.

We were boys together. You do not forget that.”

She nodded. “You were his good friend,” she said.

“And he was a good man, your father.”

There was a silence. She wondered whether she should invite him into the office for tea, but decided that this was not what he wanted. But what then did he want? Sometimes old people just liked to talk about the past, that was all, and perhaps that was why he had come to see her.

But no, there was something else. “I have a son,” he said. “I have a son who is called Phuti. He is a very good man, but he has not found a wife. That is because he is a very shy man, and has always been like that. He cannot speak properly, and his words come out very slowly. That makes him very shy with women. I think that maybe the girls used to laugh at him when he was younger.”

“People can be very cruel,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes,” said Mr Radiphuti. “But now he has met a very nice lady.”

Ah, thought Mma Ramotswe. This is why he has come to see me. He has come to ask me to find out something about this lady. She had been asked many times to do that sort of thing—to investigate a prospective marriage partner. It was a common thing for detectives to do, and indeed there was a whole section in Clovis

Andersen’s book about how to approach such a task.

“Who is this lady?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “If you give me her name, then I shall see if I can find out anything about her for you. I can find out whether she would make a good wife for your son.”

Mr Radiphuti fingered his hat awkwardly. “Oh, I am sure that she would make a very good wife for him,” he said. “And I think that you would know that thing already.”

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Mma Ramotswe looked at him in incomprehension, and he broke into a smile. “You see, Mma,” Mr Radiphuti went on, “the lady works in that office over there, just behind you. So you will know her very well.”

For a few moments Mma Ramotswe did not say anything. Then, very quietly, she said, “I see.” Then she paused, and said again, “I see.”

“Yes,” said Mr Radiphuti. “My son has been seeing your assistant.

She has been very kind to him and has made his dancing much better. She has also helped his speaking, because she has given him confidence. I am very happy about that. But there is a problem.”

Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. She had allowed herself to hope, on Mma Makutsi’s behalf, but now it seemed that there was some difficulty. It would be a familiar story of disappointment

for Mma Makutsi. That seemed inevitable now.

Mr Radiphuti slowly drew breath before proceeding—a thick, wheezy sound. “I know that my son would like to marry this lady, I am sure of that. But I am also sure that he will never get round to asking her. He is too shy. In fact, he has told me that he cannot ask her because he would just stutter and stutter and no words would come. So he does not feel that he can ask her this important question.”

He stopped, and looked imploringly at Mma Ramotswe.

“So what can we do, Mma?” he went on. “You are a clever lady. Maybe you can do something.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the sky through the branches of the acacia tree. The sun was lower now, which always seemed to make the sky seem emptier. It was a time of day that made her feel a bit sad; a time of thinness and soft light.

“It is a very strange thing,” she said. “But it seems to me that there is no reason that I know of why one person should not act as the messenger for another person in a matter like this. Have

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you seen those love messages that Zulu women used to make in beads and send to others? Those messages might contain a proposal

of marriage. So why should we not use a messenger in a case like this? I see no reason.”

Mr Radiphuti’s gnarled fingers worked more anxiously on the brim of his hat. “Do you mean that I should ask her, Mma? Is that what you want me to do? Do you think…”

She raised a hand to stop him. “No, Rra. Do not worry. A woman is the best messenger in a case like this. But I must first ask you: Are you sure that your son wishes to marry this lady? Are you one hundred per cent sure?”

“I am,” he said. “He told me that. And, what is more, he knows that I was coming to talk to you about it.”

Mma Ramotswe listened carefully to his reply. Then, telling him to wait where he was, she made her way back into the office, where her assistant was sorting a pile of papers on her desk. Mma Makutsi looked up as Mma Ramotswe entered the room.

“What did he want?” she asked casually. “Is it a client?”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but stood there, smiling.

“Is it something funny?” asked Mma Makutsi. “You look as if you have heard something amusing.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not funny. It is very important.”

Mma Makutsi put down a piece of paper and looked quizzically

at her employer. There were times when Mma Ramotswe was opaque in her manner, when she seemed to want Mma Makutsi to work something out for herself, and this seemed to be one of those occasions.

“I cannot guess, Mma,” she said. “I just cannot guess. You are going to have to tell me what it is.”

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. “Would you like to get married some day, Mma?” she asked.

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Mma Makutsi looked down at her shoes. “Yes,” she said. “I would like to get married one day. But I do not know if that will happen.”

“There is a man who wishes to marry you,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I understand that he is a good man. But he is too shy to ask you himself because he is very worried about his stammer …”

She tailed off. Mma Makutsi was staring at her now, and her eyes were wide with astonishment.

“He has sent his father to ask you whether you will marry him,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “And I have come as the messenger

from the father. All you have to do is think very carefully. Do you like this man? Do you love him enough to marry him? Is that what you want? Do not say yes unless you are sure. Be very careful, Mma. This is a very important decision.”

As she finished her sentence, it seemed to her as if Mma Makutsi was unable to speak. She opened her mouth, but then she closed it again. Mma Ramotswe waited. A fly had landed on her shoulder and was tickling her, but she did not brush it off.

Mma Makutsi suddenly stood up, and looked at Mma Ramotswe. Then she sat down again, heavily, almost missing her chair. She took off her glasses, those large round glasses, and polished

them quickly with her threadbare lace handkerchief, the handkerchief that she had treasured for so long and which, like the tiny white van, was near to the end of its life.

When she spoke, her voice was distant, almost a whisper. But Mma Ramotswe heard what she said, which was, “I will marry him, Mma. You can tell the father that. I will marry Phuti Radiphuti.

My answer is yes.”

Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, I am happy, Mma Makutsi,” she shrieked. “I am happy, happy, happy. His father said that Phuti was one hundred per cent certain that he wanted to marry you. One hundred per cent, Mma. Not ninety-seven per cent—one hundred per cent!”

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They went outside together, to the place where Mr Radiphuti was standing. He looked at them anxiously, but could tell from their expressions what answer they were bringing him. Then the three of them spoke together for a short time, but only a short time, as Mr Radiphuti was keen to get back to his son to tell him what Mma Makutsi’s response was.

Back in the office, Mma Ramotswe tactfully said nothing. Mma Makutsi gathered her thoughts, standing before the window,

looking out to the trees in the distance and the evening sun on the grey-green hills beyond the trees. She had so much to think about: her past, and the place from where she had come; her family, who would be so pleased with this news, up there in Bobonong; and her late brother, Richard, who would never know about this, unless, of course, he was watching from somewhere, which he might be, for all she knew. She loved this country, which was a good place, and she loved those with whom she lived and worked. She had so much love to give—she had always felt that—and now there was somebody to whom she could give this love, and that, she knew, was good; for that is what redeems us, that is what makes our pain and sorrow bearable—this giving of love to others, this sharing of the heart.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the acclaimed No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe

and taught law at the University of Botswana. He is the author of more than fifty books: novels, stories, children’s books, and specialized

titles such as Forensic Aspects of Sleep. A professor of medical law at Edinburgh University, he lives in Scotland.