The Miracle at Speedy Motors tn1lda-9

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Ramotswe got up from her desk and walked across the room to retrieve the letter. She read it through again, silently, and then returned it to its envelope. “It’s for Motholeli’s treatment,” she said. “That can be the only reason why he has applied for a loan.”

  “Did he not tell you how much it would cost?” asked Mma Makutsi. “That loan is for a lot of money, Mma. A lot. And if he fails to pay it back, then the bank takes the garage.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “He is a kind man,” she said. “He has always been a kind man.”

  “Eee,” said Mma Makutsi. “Eee, Mma.” It was really all that one could say in the face of such behaviour.

  “But I can’t let him do it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We cannot have a mortgage on this building. It is our main property.”

  “And if we lost this building, then where would there be for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency?” asked Mma Makutsi. “We would be out on the street, along with the hawkers and the vegetable sellers. Can you imagine clients coming to an agency that was just a roadside stand?”

  “They would not come,” said Mma Ramotswe. She imagined for a moment Mma Makutsi typing on a small, upturned wooden box, perhaps under a large blue umbrella to protect her from the sun, her ninety-seven per cent certificate from the Botswana Secretarial College leaning against the side of the box. No, it would not do.

  “I shall have to get this money myself,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi let out a low whistle. “Have you got that much in your account, Mma? It is a lot of money.”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I do not have that. Not in money.”

  Mma Makutsi knew what Mma Ramotswe was going to say. “Your cattle?”

  There was silence. In Botswana, the sale or slaughter of one’s cattle is the last resort; it is the last thing that anyone wishes to do. Cattle were the ultimate security, the property that stood before the very gates of indigence and kept them from opening. Once one had sold the cattle, there would be nothing left to sell.

  Mma Ramotswe nodded her reply. “I have a large herd,” she said. “My daddy was very good with cattle. He left me some very fine beasts, and they have multiplied. There are many of them now. I shall not have to sell all of them.”

  “It is not a good thing to sell cattle,” said Mma Makutsi. “Is there no other way, Mma?”

  “I do not see one,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall go out to the cattle post and choose the ones to sell.”

  “This is a very sad day,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is.” She would have liked to say that it was not, that there was a positive side to this; she was not one to concentrate on the bleak. But where was the positive side in having to dispose of those lovely animals, the legacy of her father, the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of the very cattle that had gathered round his house when in Mochudi he lay in his final illness; had gathered, she thought, to say goodbye to their owner?

  But she would have to do it, and so she prepared the next day to go out to the cattle post, a journey of six hours on a very bumpy dirt road. She went in the tiny white van and stopped halfway through the journey to eat a sandwich by the side of the road. It was mid-morning, and getting hotter. A hornbill watched her from the branch of a tree, casting his unnaturally large eye upon her. From another tree, some distance away, a lourie cried out with its distinctive call. She looked up at the sky. What was money? Nothing. A human conceit, so much smaller a thing than love, and friendship, and the pursuit, no matter how pointless, of hope. What did it matter that this money was being thrown away for no good reason? It mattered not at all, she decided.

  And when, a few hours later, she stood with the man who looked after the cattle and identified those that she would sell, she did not think that it was the wrong thing to do, but picked them out bravely, without regret. That one, she said, and that one over there; that one is the calf of a cow my father called the brave one, that one came from far away, over that side, and was very strong; that one had a father who had only one horn. The cattle were rounded up, lowing, watching with their wide brown eyes, their heads moving to keep flies at bay; it was hot that afternoon and the trees themselves seemed to wilt; there was dust, kicked up by the cattle as they moved; there was the sound of bells tied round the necks of some of the herd. They are the ones who give music to the other cattle, her father had said of those ones.

  Now that line came back to her, and she said it, under her breath. They are the ones who give music to the other cattle.

  “What was that, Mma?” said the man. “What did you say?”

  Mma Ramotswe looked down at him; he was a short man, bow-legged, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. She smiled. “It was something my daddy said. He was a man who knew a lot about cattle.”

  The man inclined his head respectfully. “I have heard that, Mma. I have heard people say that about him. They have said it.”

  That Obed Ramotswe should be remembered, that people should still speak of him; that touched her. One did not have to be famous to be remembered in Botswana; there was room in history for all of us.

  “He was a very good man,” she said. “He loved his cattle. He loved his country.”

  She had not intended to utter an epitaph, but that, she realised, was what she had done. And she thought: if your spirit is anywhere, then it is here, among your cattle, where you might hear what I have just said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MR. SEKAPE REVEALS SOME PECULIAR VIEWS

  SHE HAD TO DECIDE. She could tell Mma Sebina first that she had found her brother, or she could speak to the brother, to this Mr. Sekape, and reveal to him that he had a sister. The two possibilities raised quite distinct issues. Mma Sebina had asked her to find relatives for her; Mr. Sekape had not. So while it would be no shock to Mma Sebina if Mma Ramotswe came up with a brother, that might not be the case with Mr. Sekape. He would have got up that morning in the belief that he had no sister, and by the time he went to bed he would do so in the knowledge that he did have one. That would be a major change in his circumstances.

  And yet that, surely, was what life was like. There would inevitably be certain days when things changed dramatically—days when we received bad news or good, which could dictate the shape of the rest of our lives. That had happened to her on that day, that fateful day, when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had proposed to her, on the verandah of the house, as the sun went down. She had started that day without a fiancé and ended the day with one. And in Mma Makutsi’s case there must have been a day, some time ago, when she had begun the day as an ordinary student of the Botswana Secretarial College and ended it as the college’s most distinguished graduate in its entire history.

  The news that one had a sister surely should be good news. It was possible that there were some people who did not want a sister, but she felt that there was no reason to assume that Mr. Sekape would be one of these. Most people would be concerned that a newly discovered relative would make some sort of claim on them—a perfectly reasonable concern in a country where there was strong pressure to look after relatives. But Mma Sebina showed every sign of being quite well off, and she would not be asking Mr. Sekape for money. So there was no reason to hold back from telling him.

  But what swayed her most was the fact that Mma Sebina might not be back until the following day, and Mma Ramotswe, quite simply, felt that she could not wait that long. The discovery was so thrilling that she wanted to tell somebody; no bearer of such momentous news could be expected to wait. So that decided that: she would go to the bank just before lunchtime and speak to Mr. Sekape during his lunch hour. That would give him time to compose himself again for the start of the afternoon’s business.

  She parked the tiny white van near the museum; a shady place under a tree had just been vacated, and she nosed into that, ignoring the knocking sound which continued to come from the engine. She would have to speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about that when he came back, unless…she spoke t
o him first about the whining sound that his own truck seemed to make. If one had a mote in one’s eye, then talking about the mote in another’s could preclude discussion of one’s own. She switched off the ignition and sat quite still as she contemplated the idea that had just occurred to her. If she managed to distract Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s attention from her van, then she could speak to Charlie about fixing it in his spare time. Charlie would not say anything about her having to get a new one, and, if he did, she could ignore his advice. And then if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni raised the subject, the tiny white van would be in good health again and there would be no awkward discussions about replacing it.

  Cheered by the thought of this neat solution, Mma Ramotswe locked her van and crossed the road to the back of the Standard Bank. She looked at her watch anxiously; it was a few minutes before one, and she hoped that Mr. Sekape had not gone off for his lunch early. Even if he had, she would be able to find out where he had gone and seek him out there. But it would be easier to get him here, in the mall, where she could take him off to the President Hotel verandah a few yards away and make her disclosure.

  She entered the bank. A security guard at the entrance looked her up and down and nodded to her.

  “You have decided that I am not a bank robber,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  The guard laughed. “You are right, Mma,” he said. “Bank robbers do not look at all like you. They’re…” He tailed off, and looked to Mma Ramotswe for help.

  Mma Ramotswe understood. “You’ve never seen one, Rra? No? That’s just as well, I think. We do not go in for bank robbers in Botswana.”

  The guard looked relieved. “I suppose I know what to do, which is nothing.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not conceal her surprise, and the guard continued: “I have been told that I must not try to disarm anybody who comes to rob the bank. I have to bear in mind the safety of the customers. That is the first thing I must do.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “That is probably best, Rra. And anyway, here in Botswana if anybody came to rob the bank you’d probably know exactly who they were. You could simply threaten to tell their mothers. That would put a stop to any bank robbery.”

  The guard clapped his hands together. “Exactly, Mma! So my job is…is…” He could not bring himself to say unnecessary; nobody can be expected to admit that his job is unnecessary.

  “Ceremonial,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Your job is ceremonial.”

  “That is what it is. Thank you, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe acknowledged his thanks and moved on into the bank. Nearer pay day, at the end of the month, there would be long lines of people waiting for the tellers; now there were just a few customers at each of the windows. She looked around, made her way across the floor to a desk bearing a large Enquiries sign, and asked for Mr. Sekape.

  The woman behind the desk picked up a telephone and spoke a few words into the receiver. “He will come down,” she said. “He is upstairs, Mma. But you have caught him just before he goes out for lunch.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a few steps backwards and waited. It is my job, she told herself; I am just doing my job. But the significance of what she was about to tell Mr. Sekape made her heart beat faster, her mouth feel dry.

  SHE TOLD HIM that she had some news for him, that it was not bad news, but that she would need to talk to him outside. Could he join her out in the square? As they walked, they could talk. He was not to be alarmed; it was something that she thought he would be happy to hear.

  He was not alarmed, nor even surprised by her request. In a country where news was often conveyed by messenger, it was not unusual for a stranger to announce that there was something they needed to discuss. There were a hundred things that might be talked about on such an occasion: difficulties with marriage negotiations, problems over the custody or education of a child, matters relating to cattle; it could be anything.

  “It’s getting hotter,” said Mr. Sekape as they moved out from the shade of the bank building. “There will be more rain soon, I think.”

  “I hope so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I was on the Lobatse Road the other day and there was a lot of green. And the dam too—I have read in the newspapers that the level is getting higher.”

  “That is all very good,” said Mr. Sekape. “This is all very good news.”

  But it is not this news that you have brought me, Mma, he thought. You have not come to talk about the rains.

  She glanced at him sideways, taking in the neat appearance, the black trousers with the thin leather belt, the polished shoes. He was exactly as she had imagined he would be, a mid-level employee of the bank, doing well, heading for promotion to branch manager at some point. Such lives were quietly and correctly led to the very edge of the grave; lives of caution and respectability, with few high points and moments of excitement. She allowed her glance to move to his left hand: no ring. That was not conclusive, of course, but it was surprising; she would have expected a ring.

  They walked slowly up the centre of the square that opened up in front of the President Hotel. Traders had set out their wares on the large concrete flagstones that covered the square, the goods ranged out carefully on sheets of plastic or sacking: roughly made sandals, wooden carvings, lines of glistening sunglasses. They passed a dealer in traditional medicines who had created small piles of herbs, roots, barks, crushed leaves. Mma Ramotswe looked down and saw a root that she recognised, that she had been given to chew as a girl, which worked, she thought, for something that she had forgotten about—a sore stomach, perhaps. She leaned down and asked the woman selling the herbs whether that was for the stomach and the woman nodded. “You have a pain, Mma? In your stomach?”

  “I have no pain, Mma. But I know that is a good thing, that one. It is very good.”

  Mr. Sekape said nothing. He wanted to hear what she had to say to him; he was not interested in old roots.

  Mma Ramotswe straightened up. “You were adopted, Rra,” she said. “Mma Potokwane has told me.”

  Mr. Sekape stopped, and stiffened. “That is true, Mma. I was very small. I was looked after by a lady who lived right here in Gaborone. She was a teacher at the secondary school. She became my mother.”

  “And her husband?”

  He shook his head. “He was late by the time she took me. He worked for the government, in the Ministry of Education. She had a small pension from them, but her own job was a good one. She gave me everything.”

  They started to walk again. His initial stiffness of manner when she had first raised the matter of his adoption had eased, and he began to talk more freely. “She is late now. Three years ago. I still miss her, because I carried on living in her house right up to the end. Now I have that house to myself.”

  Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic sound, something between yes and I see. “You must miss her.” And she thought of her own father, whom she missed.

  And that was what she was thinking—of Obed Ramotswe and of her father’s cousin, who had, all those years ago, given her a root to chew for a sore stomach—when Mr. Sekape stopped, and touched her lightly on the arm, and asked, “What is it, Mma? What have you come to tell me?”

  And now that the moment had come, she replied, without thinking of how she might put it, “I have come to tell you that you have a sister, Rra. I do not think that you know about her, but you have a sister.”

  She heard him catch his breath. She saw his hand go to his face, to somewhere near his mouth, and then drop again.

  “Yes, Rra. This lady, your sister, has come to me and asked me to find her family. And I have found you.”

  At first he said nothing. He turned his face away, to look in the direction of the government buildings at the other end of the square, and she thought, this is not welcome news for him, but then, when he turned back to face her, there was no mistaking the emotion within him. His voice cracked as he spoke; he stopped to compose himself. “You have found me a sister, Mma? You have found her?”

  “I have, Rra. I can take you to her. I can take
you to her…” She shrugged. “Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after. I can do that.”

  He was looking down at the ground. Behind him, two women were walking slowly across the square, carrying bags stuffed with purchases. One of the women looked up, and Mma Ramotswe recognised her; a friend of Sister Banjule at the Anglican hospice, who had nursed Mma Makutsi’s brother in his final days; by these bonds of friendship are we linked, one to another.

  “Dumela, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “Dumela, Mma.” Mma Ramotswe did not know the other woman’s name, but it did not matter; the two passed on and she was left with Mr. Sekape, who looked up.

  “No, Mma,” he said. “Please take me today. Please take me now. I cannot wait.” He looked about him. “I must buy her a present. I must…”

  He seemed flustered, and Mma Ramotswe took his hand. “There will be plenty of time for that, Rra. A whole lifetime, don’t you think?”

  MMA RAMOTSWE would have liked to have had more time to arrange the meeting with Mma Sebina, but Mr. Sekape was insistent. They could not wait, he said, because anything could happen; there could be a road accident, there could be a storm, and the meeting might never take place; none of us, he said, can be completely sure of seeing the next day. And what a waste of her hard work it would be, he said, if this sister were to be snatched away from him just when he had discovered her. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was perhaps being somewhat pessimistic; neither of them was aged, neither of them seemed afflicted by ill health; one day, surely, would not matter. But she did not voice these objections. She might have hoped to give Mma Sebina more warning, to give her time to get used to the existence of a brother, but she could not say no to Mr. Sekape in his almost boyish enthusiasm, because if she did, it crossed her mind, the disaster that he feared might just occur. There might be an accident, and then…