The Double Comfort Safari Club

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Moripe Moripe met her gaze. “I am very sure, Mma. If you spend a long time with somebody, and you talk to them a lot, then you remember them.”

  Mma Ramotswe skirted round what she thought was a general observation. “Who was the guide who looked after her, Rra?”

  Moripe Moripe looked surprised by the question. “But I’ve just told you, Mma. It was me. I was the one. I looked after her for five or six days. That is why I remember her.”

  It was then that Mighty intervened. “You can trust this man, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “He is well known to us. I know him. And Tebogo knows him too.”

  The mention of the name Tebogo appeared to amuse Moripe Moripe. “That is a good man,” he said.

  “Moripe Moripe is going to marry Tebogo’s sister,” said Mighty. “They are good friends.”

  They are good friends. It took a moment or two for the words to sink in, as is often the case when something is said that suddenly offers a way out of an impossible situation. They are good friends. As she repeated the words to herself, Mma Ramotswe felt an immense relief. Bride price, she thought. Lobola. It was often there in Botswana, in the background, playing an important role in people’s affairs, like a strong wind that always blew, or a strong current under the surface of water. Always there.

  They had not yet told Moripe Moripe about the legacy, but now she felt she could. “I have a curious story to tell you, Rra,” she said. “But first, I think you should sit down.”

  They sat down more or less where they were, under a tree, with the sun burning down over the swamps in a flourish of red. “This story is one of extraordinary coincidence, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe began. And she told him of the two Mrs. Grants arriving one shortly after the other, and of their going to nearby camps. It seemed unlikely, but one could see how it had happened. Unlikely things do happen, said Mma Ramotswe, and she knew, for she had seen many such things happen in her job, and had long since come to the conclusion that the extraordinary was often not quite as extraordinary as people imagined it to be. Then, after relating what had happened, she went on to tell him of the deathbed request by Mrs. Grant—the real Mrs. Grant. “And that is what I have come to tell you, Rra. You have been given twenty thousand pula. It is her way of saying thank you.”

  Moripe Moripe took the news calmly. “That is very kind, Mma. Very kind.”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mighty, who looked down at the ground in silent sympathy. How was she going to tell him that she had already promised the money to another, even if it was his future brother-in-law?

  “Tell me, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are going to marry Tebogo’s sister. Are the parents late—her parents?”

  “They are. They are both sadly late.”

  “So lobola will be payable to the uncles …” She hardly dared hope. But you had to hope; you had to. Not only about this, but about everything.

  “To the brother. There is only one uncle and he is …” Moripe Moripe tapped the side of his head. “He is very happy, but he does not know what is going on. He thinks every day is Sunday. It is very strange.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought it would be improper to let out a cry of delight. It could be misinterpreted, she felt, and she would not want Moripe Moripe to think that she took pleasure in the plight of his future uncle-in-law.

  “So you have to pay the lobola for your future wife to Tebogo?”

  Moripe Moripe looked glum, but almost immediately brightened. “Yes, and I was going to find it very difficult, Mma. I have asked him whether we can defer the payment. My sister has been ill and has many children. I have had to support them.”

  “So you have been able to pay nothing?”

  “Yes. But now … Well, now I can give him the money.”

  “He thinks he already has it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And in a way, he has.”

  She shivered. The sun had disappeared now, and the air had become cooler. It was a very good end to the day, she thought. A debt had disappeared. A mistake had been made, and been rectified by an extraordinary coincidence. No, she thought, nothing is extraordinary. Such things have happened before, and will happen again. There were probably numerous Mrs. Grants, travelling the world and causing confusion. It was nothing unusual.

  THE TRIP BACK by boat was uneventful. Mma Ramotswe sat in the bow, sweeping the river ahead of them with the beam of Mighty’s powerful yellow torch. On one or two occasions she thought that she saw eyes shining back at her, but it was only a trick of the water, a stone on the bank, a leaf on the surface, and there was no sign of any hippo. When they reached the camp, Mighty took her to the kitchen, where she was given a plate of food. Mma Makutsi had already eaten, she was told, and had gone back to their room with a paraffin lamp. Mighty stayed with her while she ate, and then conducted her back to the staff quarters, his torch again sweeping the darkness for animal hazards. “We have an old elephant who comes into the camp,” he said. “He is not aggressive, but we wouldn’t like to bump into him at night.” She agreed. She would not like to bump into anything at night, unless it was a meerkat, perhaps, or a dassie. Even then …

  Mma Makutsi had settled on her sleeping mat, the paraffin lamp still burning in a corner of the room. Mma Ramotswe told her of the meeting with Moripe Moripe and of the unexpected, but welcome, outcome. “We made a bad mistake,” she said. “I was dreading telling Tebogo that it was not him after all who would get the money. Now I can tell him the truth. I can tell him about the mistake, but reassure him that he will be getting most of it, if not all, as the lobola that Moripe Moripe owes him. So everybody should be happy enough.”

  “That is an excellent outcome,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are very few cases when you can say at the end that everybody is happy.”

  “And we are happy too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “This has been a successful business trip, and a very comfortable safari that we have had.”

  “I am not sure that I like safaris,” said Mma Makutsi. “Maybe I’m a town girl at heart.”

  Mma Ramotswe said nothing to this. It was getting late, and she was tired. So she went to the lamp and turned down the wick until there was just a tiny flickering of the flame, and then no light at all. She lay in the darkness, mulling over what had happened that day. Mma Makutsi muttered something that she did not quite catch, but was probably Goodnight. She said Goodnight, softly, in case Mma Makutsi was already asleep, or drifting off.

  Later that night, much later, Mma Ramotswe awoke. At first she had no idea why—perhaps it was a bad dream—but she suddenly found herself wide awake. The curtain across the window made the room pitch dark, and it was silent too, with only the faint sound of Mma Makutsi’s breathing on the other side. Then she heard the sound. It must have penetrated the veils of sleep and prodded her into consciousness. There it was—a curious sniffing sound.

  Her thoughts went immediately to snakes. There was a particular sort of snake, the puff adder, that made a sound like that when it was agitated. Those snakes were always finding their way inside and causing terrible trouble. Perhaps there was one in the room already, sliding its way across the floor to where she lay. She sat bolt upright. The sound came again, and this time she was able to locate it as being outside the room. It was definitely outside, and she had decided now that this was no snake.

  She rose to her feet and crept silently across the room to the low window. Very slowly, she drew the curtain and peered outside. The moon was a sliver away from fullness, bathing the staff quarters and the surrounding bush in silver light. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, and then everything was clear, sharply delineated enough to throw ghostly moon shadows on the ground.

  She looked, and saw, barely an arm’s length away from the gauze window, looking directly in at her, a fully grown lion. He looked straight at her, surprised, and she saw for a moment the moon in his eyes. Then, with a sudden tensing of muscle and a whipping movement of his tail, he turned and shot back into the bush. It happened so quickly that she wondered for a moment whether she had imagined it,
but there was a rustle of leaves in the bush where he had run, and that was proof that this was no dream, no illusion.

  She heard her heart thumping within her, her mouth dry from shock and fear. She stared at the place where only seconds ago the lion had been; she would not have been surprised had she seen his shadow in the moonlight, imprinted on the ground, as a shadow will register on a photographic plate, caught, as now, in silver.

  She let the curtain fall back into place. She made her way back to her sleeping mat. She would not wake Mma Makutsi, nor, she thought, would she tell her about this the following morning. There were some things it was better that people—and Mma Makutsi in particular—did not know.

  THEY STARTED their journey home the next day. The boatman did not engage them in unsettling conversation, but kept up his tuneless whistle for much of the way back. Then, picking up the van from the cousin’s house, they started the long drive home. They talked about all sorts of things on the way back: about weddings and children and money. About cattle. About jealousy and envy and love. About cakes. About friends and enemies and people they remembered who had gone away, or changed, or even died. About everything, really.

  They stayed overnight in Francistown, as they had started late from Maun and needed the break. Their hotel was cheap and noisy, and there were mosquitoes to keep them from sleeping. In the morning they left without breakfasting, eager to get away from the smell of the place, and stopped at a small village on the main road, where they bought doughnuts and large mugs of tea. By noon they were back in Gaborone.

  Mma Ramotswe dropped Mma Makutsi off at her house and made her way to the office to attend to the mail, which Charlie would have picked up from the postbox for them. She was going through the small number of letters she had received when Mma Mateleke arrived.

  “I do not have an appointment, Mma,” her visitor said. “But you do not need an appointment to see an old friend, do you?”

  Mma Ramotswe felt tired. She was not in the mood to see anybody, but she could not turn Mma Mateleke away. “I am always happy to see you,” she said.

  “Good,” said Mma Mateleke. “Since I saw you last, my husband has been very attentive. He has tried to take me out to dinner, to the Portuguese restaurant—you know the one? But I do not have time for such things, Mma, particularly when the invitation is the result of guilt over an affair. Men are very easy to read, aren’t they?”

  Mma Ramotswe did not reply, and so Mma Mateleke continued. “So tell me, Mma, have you found out that my husband is having an affair? Who is the woman?”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. She wanted to be at home; she did not want to have to give Mma Mateleke the advice that she had planned to give her. She just did not have the energy. But she could hardly refuse to answer, and so she said, “I have looked into it, Mma. And I am satisfied of one thing: your husband is not having an affair. No girlfriend. Nothing.”

  Mma Mateleke stared at her. “You are sure, Mma?” the midwife asked. “You are sure that he is not seeing somebody?”

  Mma Ramotswe suddenly became very alert, very aware of what was happening. And at that moment, simply by looking at her friend, she knew. Mma Mateleke was disappointed. She wanted to hear that the Reverend Mateleke was having an affair. That realisation made it all clear. A wife would not be disappointed to hear that her husband was not having an affair, unless she herself was having an affair. If she was having an affair, it would be much easier for her to blame him for the breakdown of the marriage if he were having one too. It was very simple.

  Mma Ramotswe stared at her friend. “I can tell that you are disappointed, Mma. It shows.”

  Mma Mateleke made a dismissive gesture, but said nothing.

  Mma Ramotswe thought of what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said to her about the man he had met on the Lobatse Road, the man who appeared to have driven out to rescue Mma Mateleke when her car broke down. He had wondered whether that man was Mma Mateleke’s lover, but Mma Ramotswe had rather dismissed the suggestion. He had mentioned the man’s name, though, and it came back to her now. “So tell me, Mma,” she said. “How long have you been having an affair with that man—with Mr. Ntirang?”

  Mma Mateleke’s eyes narrowed. “Ntirang?” And her voice, small and strained, provided further confirmation.

  “I cannot help you in this matter,” said Mma Ramotswe wearily. “All I can say is this: I believe that your husband is very fond of you. I believe that he is anxious because I suspect that he knows. So you must now decide what to do. I cannot make that decision for you. You must choose.”

  Mma Mateleke said nothing. She stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then left the room without saying goodbye. Mma Ramotswe sat down and closed her eyes. The long drive had tired her to the extent of being incapable of making tea. But Mr. Polopetsi came in, saw the state she was in, and made tea for her. He did not ask her why she looked so despondent, so defeated, but sat there, silently, sharing her tea, until she was ready to gather herself and go home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A DAM OF HEALING WATERS

  THREE DAYS LATER, with everything back to normal after the Maun trip, they were sitting in the office when Mma Ramotswe noticed that it was time, as it so often seemed to be, for morning tea. Mma Makutsi put on the kettle, her accustomed task, and lined up the two teapots at the ready.

  “Be sure to use the big one for the ordinary tea,” said Mma Ramotswe from the other side of the room. “That would be best.”

  Mma Makutsi hesitated. “But it is the one you have always used,” she ventured. “I do not want to change things …”

  Mma Ramotswe was insistent. “No, Mma. We have already discussed this. I am happy with that small teapot for my red bush tea. I am happy to change.”

  The words I am happy to change made Mma Makutsi think. What Mma Ramotswe said about herself was probably true: when change came along, she often seemed to welcome it, or at least accept it. There were many people who did not—who harped on about the past and how things used to be, who never understood that some things have to be different as time passes. Mma Ramotswe was not one of these … Mma Makutsi stopped. No, perhaps she was. She always said that the old Botswana morality should not be changed; she always went for midmorning tea at the President Hotel on Saturdays and did not want that changed; and she had been very reluctant indeed to change her van. And yet, there were many novel things that Mma Ramotswe seemed to accept. Perhaps she was a mixture, as most of us were; we accepted some changes—changes we liked—and resisted others—changes we did not like. Yes, that must be it.

  She made the tea as her employer instructed. That was a good thing, as that morning not only did Mr. Polopetsi come in with his mug ready for filling, but also Charlie and Fanwell, and, last of all, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He did not linger, but poured himself a large cup and then returned to the garage, where there was a tricky repair being made to an important car. And as well as the entire staff, there was a visitor who wanted tea that morning: Mma Potokwane. She arrived just as Charlie and Fanwell were draining the last drops from their mugs, and caused their rapid departure. Even Charlie, who held few people in awe, was wary of Mma Potokwane, who seemed to remind him of all that was most powerful and daunting in Botswana womanhood.

  It was not that Mma Potokwane had ever said very much to Charlie. It was true that she had once asked him what his long-term plans were, and asked the question in such a way as to imply that she at least could tell at a glance that he had none. It was true that she had once said to Mma Ramotswe—in his hearing—that he reminded her of a young man at the orphan farm who had turned out very badly and was now living in a cardboard box outside Lobatse. These comments were hardly confidence-building, and Charlie resented them. Yet it was not so much what she said that he objected to—it was the look that Mma Potokwane gave him. Normally Charlie could face down any look from a woman; after all, he had received many such looks from former girlfriends—looks of pure, distilled reproach—and knew how to deal with them. One simply l
ooked the other way. But with Mma Potokwane it was different; her look, as Fanwell had once suggested, could stop the Mafikeng train in its tracks, and probably had.

  If Mma Potokwane had a difficult relationship with Charlie, the same could be said of her dealings with Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe was aware of this, and had attempted to reassure her assistant that the matron surely had no real objection to her; it was just the way that she looked, a question of manner, really. “It is difficult running an orphan farm,” she said. “All those children. All those house mothers, all wanting this, that, and the next thing. And you know that Mma Potokwane would do anything for her people—anything.”

  That was certainly true. Mma Potokwane would stop at nothing to secure some benefit for the children in her care. She would cajole and wheedle until people gave the children what they needed, and when it came to dealings with officialdom, she would give no quarter. She always won, and the children benefited.

  That morning when Mma Potokwane called out a cheerful Ko! Ko! and came into the room, Mma Makutsi exchanged a concerned glance with Mma Ramotswe, quickly thinking of reasons why she might have to leave the office on unspecified, but urgent, business. Her concern, though, was misplaced: it soon became apparent that Mma Potokwane had come on an errand of sympathy, and that sympathy was directed at Mma Makutsi herself.

  “Mma Makutsi,” she began, “I have heard of Mr. Radiphuti’s accident. I am very sorry, Mma. And I am so sad for you, Mma, so sad.”

  Mma Makutsi looked up. Only two people so far had said anything like this to her—Mma Ramotswe herself and the woman she had met on the bench outside the hospital. But here was a third.

  “That is very kind of you, Mma. Thank you.”

  “I am always telling the drivers who deliver things to our place to watch out when they reverse. They do not listen, do they?”

  Mma Makutsi nodded. “I think that is probably true. They are busy. They forget.”