That would be far in the future, and there was much to be done before that happy outcome could be achieved. First of all, he would take them into town and buy them new clothes. The orphan farm, as usual, had been generous in giving them going-away clothes that were nearly new, but it was not the same as having one's own clothes, bought from a shop. He imagined that these children had never had that luxury. They would never have unwrapped clothes from their factory packaging and put them on, with that special, quite unreproducible smell of new fabric rich in the nostrils. He would drive them in immediately, that very morning, and buy them all the clothes they needed. Then he would take them to the chemist shop and the girl could buy herself some creams and shampoo, and other things that girls might like for themselves. There was only carbolic soap at home, and she deserved better than that.
MR J.L.B. Matekoni fetched the old green truck from the garage, which had plenty of room in the back for the wheelchair. The children were sitting on the verandah when he arrived home; the boy had found a stick which he was tying up in string for some reason, and the girl was crocheting a cover for a milk jug. They taught them crochet at the orphan farm, and some of them had won prizes for their designs. She is a talented girl, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; this girl will be able to do anything, once she is given the chance.
They greeted him politely, and nodded when he asked whether the maid had given them their breakfast. He had asked her to come in early so as to be able to attend to the children while he went off to the garage, and he was slightly surprised that she had complied. But there were sounds from the kitchen-the hangings and scrapings that she seemed to make whenever she was in a bad mood-and these confirmed her presence.
Watched by the maid, who sourly followed their progress until they were out of sight near the old Botswana Defence Force Club, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the two children bumped their way into town in the old truck. The springs were gone, and could only be replaced with difficulty, as the manufacturers had passed into mechanical history, but the engine still worked and the bumpy ride was a thrill for the girl and boy. Rather to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's surprise, the girl showed an interest in its history, asking him how old it was and whether it used a lot of oil.
"I have heard that old engines need more oil," she said. "Is this true, Rra?"
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni explained about worn engine parts and their heavy demands, and she listened attentively. The boy, by contrast, did not appear to be interested. Still, there was time. He would take him to the garage and get the apprentices to show him how to take off wheel nuts. That was a task that a boy could perform, even when he was as young as this one. It was best to start early as a mechanic. It was an art which, ideally, one should learn at one's father's side. Did not the Lord himself learn to be a carpenter in his father's workshop? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. If the Lord came back today, he would probably be a mechanic, he reflected. That would be a great honour for mechanics everywhere. And there is no doubt but that he would choose Africa: Israel was far too dangerous these days. In fact, the more one thought about it, the more likely it was that he would choose Botswana, and Gaborone in particular. Now that would be a wonderful honour for the people of Botswana; but it would not happen, and there was no point in thinking about it any further. The Lord was not going to come back; we had had our chance and we had not made very much of it, unfortunately.
He parked the car beside the British High Commission, noting that His Excellency's white Range Rover was in front of the door. Most of the diplomatic cars went to the big garages, with their advanced diagnostic equipment and their exotic bills, but His Excellency insisted on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
"You see that car over there?" said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to the boy. "That is a very important vehicle. I know that car very well."
The boy looked down at the ground and said nothing.
"It is a beautiful white car," said the girl, from behind him. "It is like a cloud with wheels."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned round and looked at her.
"That is a very good way of talking about that car," he said. "I shall remember that."
"How many cylinders does a car like that have?" the girl went on. "Is it six?"
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled, and turned back to the boy. "Well," he said. "How many cylinders do you think that car has in its engine?"
"One?" said the boy quietly, still looking firmly at the ground.
"One!" mocked his sister. "It is not a two-stroke!"
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's eyes opened wide. "A two-stroke? Where did you hear about two-strokes?"
The girl shrugged. "I have always known about two-strokes," she said. "They make a loud noise and you mix the oil in with the petrol. They are mostly on small motorbikes. Nobody likes a two-stroke engine."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. "No, a two-stroke engine is often very troublesome." He paused. "But we must not stand here and talk about engines. We must go to the shops and buy you clothes and other things that you need."
THE SHOP assistants were sympathetic to the girl, and went with her into the changing room to help her try the dresses which she had selected from the rack. She had modest tastes, and consistently chose the cheapest available, but these, she said, were the ones she wanted. The boy appeared more interested; he chose the brightest shirts he could find and set his heart on a pair of white shoes which his sister vetoed on the grounds of impracticality.
"We cannot let him have those, Rra," she said to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "They would get very dirty in no time and then he will just throw them to one side. This is a very vain boy."
"I see," mused Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thoughtfully. The boy was respectful, and presentable, but that earlier delightful image he had entertained of his son standing outside Tlok-weng Road Speedy Motors seemed to have faded. Another image had appeared, of the boy in a smart white shirt and a suit... But that could not be right.
They finished their shopping and were making their way back across the broad public square outside the post office when the photographer summoned them.
"I can do a photograph for you," he said. "Right here. You stand under this tree and I can take your photograph. Instant. Just like that. A handsome family group."
"Would you like that?" asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "A photograph to remind us of our shopping trip." The children beamed up at him.
"Yes, please," said the girl, adding, "I have never had a photograph."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood quite still. This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: "That is me." And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.
He caught his breath, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of pity for these two children; and pity mixed with love. He would give them these things. He would make it up to them. They would have everything that other children had been given, which other children took for granted; all that love, each year of lost love, would be replaced, bit by bit, until the scales were righted.
He wheeled the wheelchair into position in front of the tree where the photographer had established his outdoor studio. Then, his rickety tripod perched in the dust, the photographer crouched behind his camera and waved a hand to attract his subject's attention. There was a clicking sound, followed by a whirring, and with the air of a magician completing a trick, the photographer peeled off the protective paper and blew across the photograph to dry it.
The girl took it, and smiled. Then the photographer positioned the boy, who stood, hands clasped behind him, mouth wide open in a smile; again the theatrical performance with the print and the pleasure on the child's face.
"There," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "Now you can put those in your rooms. And one day we will have more photographs."
He turned round and prepared to take control of the wheelchair, but he stopped, and his arms fell to h
is sides, useless, paralysed.
There was Mma Ramotswe, standing before him, a basket laden with letters in her right hand. She had been making her way to the post office when she saw him and she had stopped. What was going on? What was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doing, and who were these children?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SULLEN, BAD MAID ACTS
FLORENCE PEKO, the sour and complaining maid of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, had suffered from headaches ever since Mma Ramotswe had first been announced as her employer's future wife. She was prone to stress headaches, and anything untoward could bring them on. Her brother's trial, for instance, had been a season of headaches, and every month, when she went to visit him in the prison near the Indian supermarket she would feel a headache even before she took her place in the shuffling queue of relatives waiting to visit. Her brother had been involved in stolen cars, and although she had given evidence on his behalf, testifying to having witnessed a meeting at which he had agreed to look after a car for a friend-a skein of fabrication-she knew that he was every bit as guilty as the prosecution had made him out to be. Indeed, the crimes for which he received his five-year prison sentence were probably only a fraction of those he had committed. But that was not the point: she had been outraged at his conviction, and her outrage had taken the form of a prolonged shouting and gesturing at the police officers in the court. The magistrate, who was on the point of leaving, had resumed her seat and ordered Florence to appear before her.
"This is a court of law," she had said. 'You must understand that you cannot shout at police officers, or anybody else in it. And moreover, you are lucky that the prosecutor has not charged you with perjury for all the lies you told here today."
Florence had been silenced, and had been allowed free. Yet this only increased her sense of injustice. The Republic of Botswana had made a great mistake in sending her brother to jail. There were far worse people than he, and why were they left untouched? Where was the justice of it if people like... The list was a long one, and, by curious coincidence, three of the men on it were known by her, two of them intimately.
And it was to one of these, Mr Philemon Leannye, that she now proposed to turn. He owed her a favour. She had once told the police that he was with her, when he was not, and this was after she had received her judicial warning for perjury and was wary of the authorities. She had met Philemon Leannye at a take-out stall in the African Mall. He was tired of bar girls, he had said, and he wanted to get to know some honest girls who would not take his money from him and make him buy drinks for them.
"Somebody like you," he had said, charmingly.
She had been flattered, and their acquaintance had blossomed. Months might go by when she would not see him, but he would appear from time to time and bring her presents-a silver clock once, a bag (with the purse still in it), a bottle of Cape Brandy. He lived over at Old Naledi, with a woman by whom he had had three children.
"She is always shouting at me, that woman," he complained. "I can't do anything right as far as she is concerned. I give her money every month but she always says that the children are hungry and how is she to buy the food? She is never satisfied."
Florence was sympathetic.
"You should leave her and marry me," she said. "I am not one to shout at a man. I would make a good wife for a man like you."
Her suggestion had been serious, but he had treated it as a joke, and had cuffed her playfully.
"You would be just as bad," he said. "Once women are married to men, they start to complain. It is a well-known fact. Ask any married man."
So their relationship remained casual, but, after her risky and rather frightening interview with the police-an interview in which his alibi was probed for over three hours-she felt that there was an obligation which one day could be called in.
"Philemon," she said to him, lying beside him on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's bed one hot afternoon. "I want you to get me a gun."
He laughed, but became serious when he turned over and saw her expression.
"What are you planning to do? Shoot Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Next time he comes into the kitchen and complains about the food, you shoot him? Hah!"
"No. I am not planning to shoot anybody. I want the gun to put in somebody's house. Then I will tell the police that there is a gun there and they will come and find it."
"And so I don't get my gun back?"
"No. The police will take it. But they will also take the person whose house it was in. What happens if you are found with an illegal gun?"
Philemon lit a cigarette and puffed the air straight up towards Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's ceiling.
"They don't like illegal weapons here. You get caught with an illegal gun and you go to prison. That's it. No hanging about. They don't want this place to become like Johannesburg."
Florence smiled. "I am glad that they are so strict about guns. That is what I want."
Philemon extracted a fragment of tobacco from the space between his two front teeth. "So," he said. "How do I pay for this gun? Five hundred pula. Minimum. Somebody has to bring it over from Johannesburg. You can't pick them up here so easily."
"I have not got five hundred pula," she said. "Why not steal the gun? You've got contacts. Get one of your boys to do it." She paused before continuing. "Remember that I helped you. That was not easy for me."
He studied her carefully. "You really want this?" "Yes," she said. "It's really important to me." He stubbed his cigarette out and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
"All right," he said. "I'll get you a gun. But remember that if anything goes wrong, you didn't get the gun from me."
"I shall say I found it," said Florence. "I shall say that it was lying in the bush over near the prison. Maybe it was something to do with the prisoners."
"Sounds reasonable," said Philemon. "When do you want it?" "As soon as you can get it," she replied.
"I can get you one tonight," he said. "As it happens, I have a spare one. You can have that."
She sat up and touched the back of his neck gently. 'You are a very kind man. You can come and see me anytime, you know. Anytime. I am always happy to see you and make you happy."
"You are a very fine girl," he said, laughing. "Very bad. Very wicked. Very clever."
HE DELIVERED the gun, as he had promised, wrapped in a wax-proof parcel, which he put at the bottom of a voluminous OK Bazaars plastic bag, underneath a cluster of old copies of Ebony magazine. She unwrapped it in his presence and he started to explain how the safety catch operated, but she cut him short.
"I'm not interested in that," she said. "All I'm interested in is this gun, and these bullets."
He had handed her, separately, nine rounds of stubby, heavy ammunition. The bullets shone, as if each had been polished for its task, and she found herself attracted to their feel. They would make a fine necklace, she thought, if drilled through the base and threaded through with nylon string or perhaps a silver chain.
Philemon showed her how to load bullets into the magazine and how to wipe the gun afterwards, to remove fingerprints. Then he gave her a brief caress, planted a kiss on her cheek, and left. The smell of his hair oil, an exotic rum-like smell, lingered in the air, as it always did when he visited her, and she felt a stab of regret for their languid afternoon and its pleasures. If she went to his house and shot his wife, would he marry her? Would he see her as his liberator, or the slayer of the mother of his children? It was difficult to tell.
Besides, she could never shoot anybody. She was a Christian, and she did not believe in killing people. She thought of herself as a good person, who was simply forced, by circumstances, to do things that good people did not do-or which ihey claimed they did not do. She knew better, of course. Everybody cut some corners, and if she was proposing to deal with Mma Ramotswe in this unconventional way, it was only because it was necessary to use such measures against somebody who was so patently a threat to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. How could he defend himself against a woman as determined as that? It w
as clear that strong steps had to be taken, and a few years in prison would teach that woman to be more respectful of the rights of others. That interfering detective woman was the author of her own misfortune; she only had herself to blame.
NOW, THOUGHT Florence, I have obtained a gun. This gun must now be put into the place that I have planned for it, which is a certain house in Zebra Drive.
To do this, another favour had to be called in. A man known to her simply as Paul, a man who came to her for conversation and affection, had borrowed money from her two years previously. It was not a large sum, but he had never paid it back. He might have forgotten about it, but she had not, and now he would be reminded. And if he proved difficult, he, too, had a wife who did not know about the social visits that her husband paid to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's house. A threat to reveal these might encourage compliance.
It was money, though, that had secured agreement. She mentioned the loan, and he stuttered out his inability to pay.
"Every pula I have has to be accounted for," he said. "We have to pay the hospital for one of the children. He keeps getting ill. I cannot spare any money. I will pay you back one day."
She nodded her understanding. "It will be easy to forget," she said. "I shall forget this money if you do something for me."
He had stared at her suspiciously. "You go to an empty house-nobody will be there. You break a window in the kitchen and you get in."
Tears of the Giraffe tnlda-2 Page 13