In the Company of Cheerful Ladies tn1lda-6

by Alexander McCall Smith

Now it was as if Mma Ramotswe had herself become imbued with the confidence that they had in her. She sat back in her chair and smiled as she laid out the contours of her plan.

  “The first part,” she said, “is to go immediately to Tlokweng and get the man whose bicycle has been broken. We can offer him work here, as I have discussed with you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This man can then do all the unskilled work in the garage, as if he were an apprentice on the first day of his apprenticeship. I think that he will be a good worker. He will not be a proper apprentice, of course, but Charlie’s young friend will imagine that this is just what he is. That means that the news will get back to Charlie straightaway that we have found somebody to replace him. That will give him a big shock, I am sure of it.”

  On hearing this, Mma Makutsi let out an exclamation of delight. “That will teach him to take off his overalls and throw them in a puddle of oil,” she said gleefully.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her disapprovingly and she lowered her eyes.

  “The second part of the plan,” Mma Ramotswe continued, “is to find out more about this woman of Charlie’s and then to see if there is anything we can do to help him come to his senses. I am sure that she is a married lady. Now, if that is so, then there will be a husband somewhere, and it may be that he is paying for that expensive silver Mercedes-Benz. Do you think that men like to pay for cars like that to be driven around in by young men who are seeing their wives? I do not think they do. So all we have to do is to find out where this man is and see to it that he finds out what is going on. Then we let things sort themselves out, and I think that we shall soon have Charlie back, knocking on the door, asking for us to forget what he said about the garage.”

  “And about me,” added Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “About you too.”

  Mma Makutsi was emboldened. “And would it not help if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni beat him?” she asked. “Just a bit. Would that not help him to behave better in the future?”

  They both looked at her, Mma Ramotswe in astonishment, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in alarm.

  “Those days are past,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is no longer possible, Mma.”

  “Pity,” said Mma Makutsi.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT THE ACADEMY OF DANCE AND MOVEMENT

  EVERYBODY’S SPIRITS were considerably lifted by the way in which a credible plan of action had emerged from a shocking and disagreeable row. Mma Makutsi was particularly pleased that she could go home that evening without a burden of worry and guilt over what had happened. For that evening she was due to embark on a new and exciting project—the most important thing that she had done since the founding of the Kalahari Typing School for Men. Unlike the typing school, however, this did not involve work for her, which would be a pleasant change. For as long as she could remember, her life had been a matter of work: as a girl she had worked at home in all the usual tasks of the household, unremittingly; she had walked six miles to school each morning and six miles back to acquire an education; and then, when her great opportunity had presented itself and she had taken up that place at the Botswana Secretarial College, paid for by the scrimping and saving of her entire family, she had worked harder than ever before. Of course she had been rewarded—with that glorious result of ninety-seven per cent—but it had all been such hard work. Now it was time to dance.

  She had seen the advertisement in the newspaper and had been immediately intrigued by the name of the person who had placed the advertisement. Who was this Mr Fano Fanope? It was an unusual name, but its musical qualities seemed very suitable for one who offered classes in “dance and movement, and the social skills that go with those things.” As to the name, Fano Fanope was a bit like Spokes Spokesi, the famous radio disc jockey. These names had a forward lilt to them; they were the names of people who weregoing somewhere. She reflected on her own name: Grace Makutsi. There was nothing wrong with a name like that—she had certainly encountered stranger names in Botswana, where people seemed to like naming their children in an individual and sometimes rather strange way—but it was not a name which suggested much movement or ambition. Indeed, one might even describe it as a safe name, a rather stodgy name, the sort of name that might well be held by the leader of a knitting circle or a Sunday School teacher. Of course, it could have been much worse, and she could have been burdened with one of those names which children then spend the rest of their days in living down. At least she was not called, as one of the teachers at the Botswana Secretarial College had been called, a name which, when translated from Setswana, meant:This one makes a lot of noise. That was not a good name to give a child, but her parents still did it.

  Now this well-named Fano Fanope was proposing to offer dancing classes (with other skills included) every Friday night. These would take place in a room at the President Hotel, and there would be a small band provided. The advertisement also revealed that instruction would be given in a wide range of ballroom dances, and that Fano Fanope, who had achieved recognition in dancing circles in four countries, would personally instruct all those who registered for the class. It would be wise not to wait, the advertisement went on, as there were many people who were keen to improve their social skills in this way and demand would be high.

  Mma Makutsi read the advertisement with close interest. There was no doubt in her mind that it would be good to be able to do some of those obscure dances that she had read about—the tango, for one, looked interesting—and there was also no doubt that dancing classes were a good place to meet people. She met people at work, of course, and there were her new neighbours, who were perfectly friendly, but she was looking forward to a rather different sort of meeting. She wanted to meet people who had been places, people who could talk about fascinating things, people whose lives encompassed rather more than the daily round of work and home and children.

  And there was no reason why she should not enter into such a world, thought Mma Makutsi. After all, she was an independent woman with a position. She was an assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency; she had her own small business in the shape of the part-time Kalahari Typing School for Men; and she had a new house, or part of a house, in a good area of town. She had something behind her now, and it did not matter if she wore very large round glasses and had a difficult complexion; it was her turn to enjoy life a bit more.

  She prepared for the evening with care. Mma Makutsi did not have many dresses, but there was one, at least, a red dress with a line of small bows along the hem, that would be ideal for a dancing class. She took this dress out of the cupboard and ironed it carefully. Then she showered, under cold water, as there was no hot water in the house, and spent some time in the other tasks of making herself ready to go out. There was nail varnish to be applied, a very fine pink one that she had bought at ridiculous expense the previous week; there was lipstick; there was powder; there was something to put on her hair. All this took the best part of an hour, and then she had to walk off to the end of the road to catch the minibus into town.

  “You’re looking smart, Mma,” said an older woman in the crowded vehicle. “You must be meeting a man tonight. Be careful! Men are dangerous.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. “I am going to a dancing class. It is the first time that I have gone to it.”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, there will be plenty of men at a dancing class,” she said, offering Mma Makutsi a peppermint from a small bag she had extracted from a pocket. “That’s why men go to dancing classes. They go to meet pretty girls like you.”

  Mma Makutsi said nothing, but as she sucked on the peppermint she thought about the prospect of meeting a man. She had not been strictly honest with herself, and she was prepared to admit it, even if only to herself. She would like to learn to dance, and she would like to meet interesting people in general, but what she really wanted to do was to meet an interesting man, and she hoped that this would be her chance. So if what her neighbour in the minibus said was true, then perhaps this was the night that
it would happen.

  She alighted from the bus at the top of the mall. There were no lights on in the Government buildings behind her, as it was Friday evening and no civil servant would ever work late on a Friday evening, but the mall itself was lit and there were people strolling about, enjoying the cool night air and chatting with friends. There was always so much to talk about, even if nothing much had happened, and now people were going over the events, or non-events perhaps, of the day, catching up on gossip, hearing about things that were happening, or might just happen if one waited long enough.

  Outside the President Hotel there was a small knot of young people, mostly in their teens. They were standing about the open staircase that went up to the verandah where Mma Ramotswe liked to have lunch on special occasions. They fell silent as Mma Makutsi approached the stairs.

  “Going to learn to dance, Mma?” muttered one of the young men. “I’ll teach you how to dance!”

  There were titters of laughter.

  “I don’t dance with little boys,” said Mma Makutsi as she went past.

  There was silence for a moment, and she added, “When you’re big, come and ask me then.”

  This brought laughter from the rest of the young people, and she turned and smiled at them as she went up the stairs. Her success in this good-natured repartee gave her confidence as she entered the hotel and asked for directions to the room in which the class was to be held. She had felt some trepidation about the outing—what if she failed to remember the steps of the tango, or whatever it was they were going to learn? Would she look stupid? Would she possibly even trip and fall over? And who would be there? Would the people who went to classes like this be much more sophisticated than she was, much richer? It was all very well being the most distinguished graduate of her year from the Botswana Secretarial College, but would that count for much here, in the world of music and elegant dancing and mirrors?

  The dancing class was to be held in a room at the back of the hotel, a room which was used for business lunches and cheaper private parties. As Mma Makutsi made her way along the corridor, she heard the sound of an amplified guitar and drums. This was the band which had been promised in the advertisement, and it was a sound which filled her with a feeling of anticipation. And there were voices too, the sound of people talking amongst themselves; there were going to be a lot of people there, it seemed.

  At the entrance to the room there was a small table at which a comfortable-looking woman in a red sequinned dress was seated. She smiled at Mma Makutsi and pointed to a small printed notice which gave the cost of the class. It was forty pula, which was not cheap, but then this was a proper dancing class, thought Mma Makutsi, with a real two-piece band and a room in the President Hotel. She reached into her purse, took out the money, and paid.

  “Are you experienced, or are you a beginner?” asked the woman.

  Mma Makutsi thought about this. She had danced before, of course, but then so had just about everybody. From the point of view of this woman, with her sequinned dress, though, Mma Makutsi must be very much a novice.

  “I have done some dancing,” said Mma Makutsi. “Like everybody else. But not very much.”

  “Beginner,” said the woman.

  “I suppose so,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes,” said the woman. “If you have not been to a dance academy before, then you are a beginner. But you need not be ashamed. Everybody has to begin somewhere.”

  The woman smiled at her encouragingly and pointed at the doorway. “Go in. We shall be starting very soon,” she said. “Mr Fanope is in the bar, but will come very soon. He is a very famous dancer, you know. Johannesburg. Nairobi. He has danced in all these places.”

  Mma Makutsi went in. It was a large room, the centre of which had been cleared and the carpet taken up. Chairs had been placed around the sides, and at the far end, on a small platform, the two musicians, the drummer and the guitarist, were perched on stools. The guitarist was fiddling with a lead to his instrument, while the drummer, a thin man wearing a silver-coloured waistcoat, was staring up at the ceiling, tapping his drumsticks against his knee.

  Most of the chairs were occupied, and for a moment Mma Makutsi felt awkward as the eyes of those already there fell upon her. She felt that she was being appraised, and she searched quickly for any face that she knew, for any person whom she could approach and greet. But there was nobody, and under the gaze of the sixty or so people present, she crossed the floor to take a seat on one of the few chairs which were still free. Glancing around, she saw, to her relief, that she was dressed in much the same way as the other women, but none, she saw, was wearing glasses. For a moment she thought about taking hers off and putting them away, but the difficulty with doing that was that she really needed them and without them she would not be able to make out what was happening.

  A few minutes later Mr Fanope entered the room, followed by the woman in the red sequinned dress. He was a rather small, dapper man, wearing a white evening jacket and a bow tie. Mma Makutsi noticed that he was wearing black patent leather shoes. She had not seen a man in patent leather footwear before and she thought them most becoming. Would Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wear such shoes, she wondered? It was difficult to see him in shoes like that at the garage—the oil would spoil them so quickly—but she could hardly imagine him in shoes like that even in other circumstances. This was definitely not his world, nor the world of Mma Ramotswe, when one came to think about it. Would Mma Ramotswe be a good dancer? Traditionally built women could be rather good at dancing, thought Mma Makutsi, as they have the right bearing, at least for some dances. The tango would hardly suit somebody of Mma Ramotswe’s build, but she could certainly imagine her doing a waltz, perhaps, or a sedate jive. Traditional dancing presented no problems, of course, because the whole point about traditional dancing was that everybody could join in. A few weeks previously they had been at the orphan farm for Mma Potokwane’s birthday party, and the children’s traditional dancing group had performed in the matron’s honour, with all the housemothers joining in. Some of them were of a very traditional build—from all that sampling of the good food they cooked for the children—and they had looked very dignified as they had joined in the line of shuffling, singing dancers. But all of that was a long way away from the world of Mr Fanope and his President Hotel dance academy.

  “Now then,bomma andborra, ” said Mr Fanope into the microphone. “Welcome to the first class of the Academy of Dance and Movement. You have made a very good choice coming here tonight because this is the number-one place to learn ballroom dancing in Botswana. And I am the best teacher for you people. I will make dancers out of all of you, even if you have never danced before. Everybody here has a dancer inside, and I will let that dancer out. That is what I will do.”

  Somebody clapped at this point, and a number of others followed suit. Mr Fanope acknowledged the applause with a small bow.

  “We are going to start this evening with a simple dance. This is a dance that anybody can do, and it is called the quickstep. It goes slow, slow, quick; slow, slow, quick, quick. It is very simple, and Mma Betty and I are going to show you how to do it.”

  He nodded to the musicians. As they began to play, he moved away from the microphone and turned to the woman in the red sequinned dress. Mma Makutsi watched in fascination as they danced across the floor. They were both extraordinarily light on their feet, and they both moved in such perfect harmony, as if they were one body, moving on strings pulled by a single hand.

  “Watch what we do,” shouted Mr Fanope, above the music. “Watch us now. Slow, slow, quick, quick.”

  After a few minutes, he disengaged from Mma Betty and the band stopped playing.

  “Choose your partners,” he shouted. “Men, you get up and ask the ladies. If anybody is left over, Mma Betty and I will take it in turns to be your partner. Mma Betty will dance with men, and I shall dance with the ladies. Men, get up and choose a lady.”

  At this signal, the men rose to their feet
and crossed the floor or turned to a lady sitting nearby. There was a sudden flurry of activity, and Mma Makutsi caught her breath in the excitement of it all. A man was coming towards her, a tall man with a moustache and a blue shirt. She looked down at her shoes. He would be a good man to dance with, a man who would lead his partner confidently.

  But he did not ask her; he approached the woman sitting next to her, who rose up smiling and took his hand. Mma Makutsi waited. Everybody seemed to be finding a partner and moving onto the floor—everybody except her. She lowered her eyes. This was the humiliation she had feared; she should not have come. She would end up being danced with by Mr Fanope, out of charity, and everybody would know that nobody had asked her. It’s my glasses, she told herself. It’s my glasses, and the fact that I am a plain girl. I am just a plain girl from Bobonong.

  She looked up. A man was standing in front of her, bending down to speak to her. In the general hubbub of noise she could not make out exactly what he was saying, but he was clearly a man, and he was clearly asking her to dance.

  Mma Makutsi smiled and stood up. “Thank you, Rra,” she said. “I am called Grace Makutsi.”

  He nodded, and pointed back to the dance floor, and they made their way together into the thick of the crowd. Mma Makutsi took a surreptitious glance at her partner. He was slightly older than she was, she thought; not very good-looking, but with a kind face. And he walked in a slightly strange way, as if his shoes did not quite fit him.

  “What is your name, Rra?” she asked, as they stood together amongst the other couples, waiting for the music to start.

  The man stared at her. It seemed that it was an effort for him to speak.

  “I am called Phuti Radiphuti,” he said. That is what he said, but it did not come out as directly as that. Called was c … c … c … called and Phuti was ph … ph … phuti.

  It was a bad speech impediment, and Mma Makutsi’s heart sank. She was a kind woman, like Mma Ramotswe, but it was typical of her luck, she thought, that she should be the last to be picked and then to be chosen by a man who moved in an odd way and had a very pronounced stutter. But he was still a man, wasn’t he, and at least she was dancing with somebody and not sitting unhappily, unwanted. So she smiled encouragingly and asked him whether he had ever danced before.