Mma Makutsi listened to what he had to say, but she disagreed. “I am not saying you’re wrong, Rra,” she said. “But even if they know who I am, will that make any difference?”
“It will,” said Phuti. “They will think that I have sent you. And if they find out that you were there on behalf of somebody who is opposed to their scheme, then they will think that I have put you up to it.”
Mma Makutsi was not prepared to accept this. “But women are no longer under their husbands’ thumbs, Rra. That’s all over now.”
Phuti was not one to question women’s rights, and he knew that what his wife said was, to an extent, quite true. But at the same time he knew how people thought about things, and he knew his concerns were well founded. He waited, though, for a few moments before he delivered his plea. “I’m asking you, Mma: please don’t do anything that will embarrass me in my business. I am asking you that.”
This conversation took place in the kitchen, where Mma Makutsi was preparing the evening meal. Now she stopped what she was doing and stood quite still at the sink, the pot in her hand half-filled with water. Phuti had never spoken to her in such an impassioned way—he was a mild man, not given to shows of emotion, but now this was something different. For a few moments she thought of agreeing without hesitation—it would be easy for her to say that she would abandon the plan—but then something within her resisted the idea. Phuti was not an overbearing man—in fact, he was the opposite—but the truth of the matter was that women in Botswana had for years been subject to male domination. Women had been told that men would make all the decisions; women had been told that their place was doing exactly what she was now doing—preparing a meal in the kitchen—and not trying to run the country, or even any small part of it; women had been obliged to take a back seat in everything, even those areas where they did all the real work. It was not that Botswana was particularly bad in that respect—it was not. Botswana had a good record on most matters, and great strides had been made in bringing about equality of the sexes. But there were still many battles to be fought against male assumptions, and now she felt that this was one of them. She was sure that Phuti’s fears were groundless and that there was no risk to his business if she were to do as she planned. She would persuade him; she would make him see things from her perspective, and in this way she would be saved the indignity of going back to Mma Potokwane—Mma Potokwane, of all people!—and confessing to her that her husband had vetoed her plan. That would be a major humiliation, thought Mma Makutsi: I cannot do what you wanted me to do because my husband says I must not. No, she would not put herself in that position; she simply would not.
Mma Makutsi put down the saucepan. She drew in her breath, fixing Phuti with a look that was half understanding and half determined. “Nonsense,” she said. “Nonsense, Phuti.”
Phuti frowned. “I am not talking nonsense, Grace. I never talk nonsense.”
“But, Rra,” she said, “there is no grounds for what you say. That is why I call it nonsense.”
He frowned again—more deeply this time. “No, no, Grace. You are the one who’s talking nonsense, not me. I’m not talking nonsense.”
“I am not talking nonsense, Phuti. It is not nonsense to carry out a decision approved by Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe.” She felt herself becoming heated. These two ladies were pillars of the community—standard-bearers for the women of Botswana. She would not have them described as talkers of nonsense; she would not.
Phuti, rather unusually, was also deciding to dig in. For years, he said to himself, the men of Botswana had been dominated by strong women telling them what to do; this was just another example. That Mma Potokwane was a prime example of the problem—if ever there was a bossy woman, it was the matron of the Orphan Farm. Poor orphans! Or, rather, poor boy orphans, who would be ordered about endlessly by a regiment of women, at the apex of which sat Mma Potokwane, the ultimate arbiter of their fate. Well, freedom might not be a prospect for those poor little boys, but out in the wider world, at long last, men were beginning to run their own lives without being manipulated by these ladies. It was time for men to stand up for themselves.
He steeled himself. “Mma Potokwane,” he said quietly, “is a cow.”
Mma Makutsi gasped. “What did you say, Phuti? What did you call Mma Potokwane?”
He almost recanted, so shocked was he by his own temerity. But it was too late; the men of Botswana—the patient, long-suffering, henpecked men of Botswana—were counting on him, he thought, and he could not let them down by retreating in the face of the first tirade.
“I said that she was a cow, Grace. And I said that because it’s true. That is what Mma Potokwane is. She is just like a cow that stands in the middle of the road with a stupid expression on its face. She reminds me of a cow.”
Mma Makutsi steadied herself by holding on to the edge of the sink. She had never heard Phuti use language like this. “You cannot say that, Phuti,” she hissed. “You cannot.”
He was like a small boy emboldened by sudden daring. “But I have said it,” he retorted. “And I’ll say it again if you like.”
Mma Makutsi moved away from the sink. “Then you can make your own dinner,” she said, adding, “if you can. Men can’t cook, of course.”
It was a gratuitous, childish insult, tossed into the situation with as little thought as usually accompanied such insults. She immediately regretted it, and would even at this point have stopped herself and apologised, but the momentum of the argument was too great.
“Then I shall go out for dinner,” said Phuti. “There are plenty of restaurants where men can go without being treated like this.”
He left the room. Mma Makutsi looked down at the abandoned pot in the sink. She did not know what to do. It was the first real argument of their marriage, and she wondered, appalled, whether this was the way that marriages ended: with fights about little things, with an exchange of harsh words, with little patches of hurt feelings that became swamps of resentment. She started to cry, her large spectacles misting up with her tears.
* * *
—
HE WAS BACK before nine that evening. Mma Makutsi had taken to her bed, and was lying in the darkness when Phuti entered the room. She heard him cross the floor, and she closed her eyes in a pretence of sleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed, awkwardly, and reached out to her. She felt his hand upon the blanket that covered her shoulder; she shifted slightly, involuntarily.
“I am a very unhappy man,” he whispered. “I am a very unhappy man who has been very rude to his wife. Now I am coming to say how sorry I am.”
She opened her eyes wide, and sat bolt upright. He was not expecting this, and he almost fell off the side of the bed. She took his arm to steady him and save him from the tumble.
“Oh, Phuti,” she said. “I am the unhappy one. I am the unhappy one who has been unkind to her husband and who is now very, very sorry.”
“No,” he said. “I am the one. It was my fault.”
“No, it was my fault.”
He laughed, and with his laughter the tension that had filled the air seemed to fade away. “We must not start another argument about whose fault it was.”
Her relief was palpable; it was as if a light had been switched back on. “No,” she said. “We must not do that.”
Phuti now made his declaration. He had given the matter thought; indeed, he had thought about nothing else over his solitary dinner in the restaurant—not a good dinner, he said, as everything was cold and lacked the taste of Grace’s cooking. He had thought about what she proposed to do and had decided that it was not for him to object to any scheme endorsed by Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe. “I am very sorry that I said unkind things about Mma Potokwane,” he confessed. “I’m ashamed of the words I used.”
Mma Makutsi had to admit that his words were surprising, and quite unlike him. But, she thought,
we all think such words from time to time, and occasionally thought stronger words than that; and she felt that one should not be too hard on those who actually uttered them. Even Mma Ramotswe must have her moments when…She stopped herself. No, she could not imagine Mma Ramotswe ever thinking uncharitably about somebody else—although, now that she came to think about it, there were occasions on which Mma Ramotswe became quite short with people. But that was only when they deserved it, and she was always, always prepared to forgive.
There were, of course, people who used strong language all the time. Mma Makutsi had noticed this and had wondered why it was that such people were always swearing. Was it frustration with the world? Was it because they found that nothing worked as they wanted it to work, with the result that they felt they had to express their anger in this way? When she had been at school up in Bobonong, she remembered that there had been a teacher who had been particularly strict when it came to swearing. This woman, who taught mathematics, kept a bar of carbolic soap and a jug of water in the cupboard behind her desk and would publicly wash out the mouth of any child reported for the use of bad language. The soap treatment would also be applied in cases of lying, and in such cases would even be performed twice in quick succession, to deal with any lingering untruths. This had been extremely effective, as the soap, a large bar of Lifebuoy, with its smell so redolent of hospital corridors, had a stinging astringent taste that took a long time to fade.
Then it had all stopped rather suddenly. A schools inspector, nosing about in cupboards, had come across the soap and had somehow elicited an account of what was going on. This, he declared, was not the sort of educational practice that should be encouraged in a modern country, and it must stop. The soap went, and the level of bad language went up accordingly. That should surprise nobody, thought Mma Makutsi: if people think they can get away with something, they do it. That was a simple and, she thought, self-evident proposition. By and large, people will not do things that they know will bring disapproval. If you know that somebody might wash your mouth out with carbolic soap if you should use bad language, then you will avoid the use of bad language. If, however, you know that you can say what you like and there will be no consequences, then you will say what you like.
Now Mma Makutsi knew that there were people who took the view that children should be allowed to behave as they wanted to behave. There were people who said you should never tell a child that he or she could not do something, because that would crush the child’s spirit. Mma Makutsi could scarcely believe that anybody would say something so obviously wrong as that, but they did. And she had heard somebody on the radio, somebody described as an expert in the raising of children, saying exactly that, and the interviewer from Radio Botswana actually agreeing with her. Mma Makutsi had listened in complete disbelief and had later told Mma Ramotswe of what she had heard. Mma Ramotswe had shaken her head and said, “There are many people these days who think that the sun goes round the moon.” That, thought Mma Makutsi, was a good way of putting it. Everybody knew that the moon went round the sun or…She had decided to ask Charlie, just to see whether somebody of his age would know about things like that. He had not hesitated to give his answer. “The sun goes sideways,” he said. “It goes from east to west. That’s the way the sun goes.” He had then said, “Everybody knows that, Mma; I am surprised you didn’t.”
But now, here was Phuti saying that he was ashamed of his words, and she just wanted to reassure him that she understood and that there would be no need for anybody to say anything more about the incident. She also wanted to tell him that she was prepared to drop the plan altogether, and that there would be no further mention of it. But that was not what happened, and, rather than prolong the issue, she quietly agreed that she would go to see the developers as planned, but would be more than careful in what she said.
“Then that is settled,” said Phuti. And added, “You are my darling, Grace. You are truly my darling.”
Phuti, like so many men, was undemonstrative. He did not use romantic language very much; in fact, he had never used it, and for him to say this came as a complete surprise to Mma Makutsi. But what a wonderful thing it was for a husband to say to his wife: You are truly my darling. A man who said that would not have to say much more; indeed, he could remain silent for the rest of the day, for the rest of the week, and his wife, basking under the light of such words, would surely feel that he had said enough to last for months and months.
She said, “You are my darling too.” And in that way their day, troubled as it had been, drew to a gentle close.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EDDIE IS ONE FOR THE LADIES
THE GENERAL AIR of excitement that had prevailed since the announcement of Mma Ramotswe’s standing for election did not, of course, eclipse the tasks of everyday life, including those of running the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Mma Makutsi had to deal with a difficult ongoing case connected with the affairs of an elusive trading company that was being pursued, with every justification, by its creditors; Mma Ramotswe was busy with a report on an allegedly errant husband; and Mr. Polopetsi was engaged in the background vetting of prospective junior employees of a diamond-cutting firm. Of these three cases, the simplest one was the one Mma Ramotswe was handling. She had discovered that the husband whose fidelity was being impugned was, as far as she could tell, completely innocent. His private life, it was emerging, was really rather dull. He went out only infrequently, and when he did, it was almost always to go to the Gaborone Golf Club, where he either played golf with the same male friend or sat in the bar and read the newspaper until it was time to go home. To Mma Ramotswe fell the difficult task of telling the suspicious wife that her husband was really rather dull, and that she had no cause for concern. She wanted to say that she did not think any other woman would find him in the least bit interesting anyway, and that this should allay any wifely anxiety, but she felt that would be tactless. That information would have to be conveyed in some other way.
If the investigations of the three more senior members of the firm were proving routine, the same could not be said for that with which Charlie was concerned—the case of Dr. Marang and the hit-and-run motorist. He had told Mma Ramotswe about the visit that he and Fanwell had paid to Mochudi, and about his conversation there with Eddie.
“He is the right man to talk to about this,” said Charlie confidently. “He said he would get in touch with me.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. There were many people who said they would get in touch but who did not—the world, it seemed, was full of people who made idle promises. And one of the things about getting on a bit in life was that you came to realise that half of what people agreed to do would never be done. Charlie was still too young to know that, but he would find out before too long. Of course, Mma Ramotswe did not approve of cynicism—she still took people on trust, she still gave them the benefit of the doubt, but at least she had learned not to be disappointed when people failed to do what they said they would do. She hoped that Charlie would come to understand that too, and that he would not become distrustful in his dealings with others. Poor Charlie, she thought: he has so many lessons to learn about the world and its problems. He was still at the optimistic stage in life; he still believed that there was nothing that he could not do, that life would get better and better. For most people, Mma Ramotswe thought, the discovery that this was not so happened some time after their thirtieth birthday. That meant that Charlie, who was…Now how old was Charlie? she wondered. She had to admit that she still thought of Charlie and Fanwell as being about eighteen, which was how old they had been when she had first met them. They had been junior apprentices then, in Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and the bane of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s life. “There are some things that are sent to try us,” he had once remarked to her, “and in my case it is apprentices.” But years had passed since then, and so Charlie would be about twenty-five, possibly even twenty-six—on the outside, th
at is; how old you were inside was another matter altogether.
Now she said to him, “Well, Charlie, that is very good. Although, this friend of yours, this…”
“Eddie,” Charlie supplied.
“Yes, this Eddie—he may not get in touch with you, you know. Sometimes people don’t keep their promises, I’m afraid to say.”
Charlie shook his head vehemently. “No, Mma. He will get in touch. He will not dare not to.”
Mma Ramotswe was amused by his certainty. “You shouldn’t count on things like that, Charlie,” she warned. “That is not the way a detective works. Do not put all your eggs in one basket—especially if that basket has a hole in it.”
Charlie looked puzzled. “What have baskets to do with this, Mma?”
“It’s just a way of saying things,” answered Mma Ramotswe. “It is not about real baskets.”
“Or eggs?”
“No, it is not about eggs—or it is, maybe, in a general way.” She sighed. “It is not about actual eggs, Charlie. It’s about things that you want to happen—that sort of egg. So what it means is this: don’t count on just one answer to your problems.”
Charlie saw the point. “Well, why didn’t you say that, Mma?”
“I did, Charlie. But let’s not spend too much time on baskets…”
“Or eggs.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Or eggs. All I’m telling you is that we must have some other line of enquiry in case this friend of yours…”
“Eddie, although we used to call him Giraffe, because he’s so tall, Mma. He was the tallest boy in the school, even when he was quite young. You saw his head sticking up no matter how many people were around. There was Giraffe, just like a real giraffe.”
“If Eddie doesn’t come up with anything, then we must think of some other way of tackling this case.”
“But I told you, Mma,” Charlie protested. “I told you: he will. I know he will.” He paused. “I know he will because he thinks that, if he doesn’t, I will do something to him.”
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 14