Mma Blessing shook her head. “There are many people who are not wanted. In the old days, everybody was wanted by somebody, Mma Ramotswe. Now it is different. Nobody wants other people.”
This remark was followed by silence. Then Mma Makutsi said, “Your place is next door, Rra?”
Tefo nodded. “That is my place. I built it myself.” There was a note of pride in his voice.
“You’re very lucky to be able to build a house,” said Mma Makutsi. “If I tried to build a house, I’m sure it would fall down.”
Tefo laughed. “I don’t think so, Mma. I’m sure that you would be very good at building houses.”
“I don’t think so,” Mma Makutsi retorted. “Not me.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. The exchange between her and Tefo was badinage, but it had a slightly flirtatious air to it.
Suddenly Mma Makutsi said, “Would you show it to me, Rra? Could I see this place you’ve built?”
Tefo hesitated. He looked briefly at Blessing and then at her mother. “Now, Mma?” he said to Mma Makutsi.
“Why not?”
He rose to his feet. As he did so, his stick fell to the floor. As he started to bend down to retrieve it, Mma Makutsi stepped forward. “You must let me pick that up, Rra,” she said. “Your hip…”
He shook his head. “I am all right. Or mostly all right. I can do these small things.”
“It must be very painful,” said Mma Makutsi.
Tefo patted his leg. “If I do not ask it to do too much for me, it is all right,” he said.
Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe. There was a message in the look, but Mma Ramotswe was unsure what it was. So she said, “May I come and see your place too, Rra?”
Tefo said that he was happy to show anybody his house. “I used breeze blocks for the foundations,” he said. “There are very good foundations in my house. And the lower parts of the walls are made of those blocks too. Termites cannot eat concrete, you see. Or only those termites who have metal teeth…”
Mma Makutsi laughed. “I wouldn’t like to be bitten by one of those,” she said.
“It depends where you get bitten,” said Tefo. “I should not like to sit on a termite like that.”
To Mma Ramotswe’s surprise, Mma Makutsi giggled girlishly. “No, that would not be good. Definitely not.”
“The tea will be ready when you get back,” said Mma Blessing. “You can drink it after you have seen the house.”
They went outside. “You have a very nice view from this place,” said Mma Makutsi. “The hills over there. The trees…”
Tefo seemed pleased. “It is a good place to be, Mma. People who live in big towns don’t know what they’re missing.”
“They don’t miss everything,” muttered Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe looked at her quizzically. Mma Makutsi, meeting her look, gave a small signal with her hand. Mma Ramotswe shook her head, as discreetly as she could.
They stepped over the wire fence, held down for them by Tefo. “I am very pleased with these trees,” he said, pointing to the paw-paws. “I get fruit from them. I shall plant some more one day, I think.”
“Paw-paw is very good for you,” said Mma Makutsi. “Now, Rra, show us this place of yours. You must be very proud of having built it all yourself. Look at it, Rra! Very good.”
* * *
—
AT THE END OF THEIR VISIT, after the drinking of the tea and the making of farewells, they walked the short distance to the parked van in silence. It was not until they were back on the main road that the conversation began, as Mma Ramotswe had been busy negotiating the obstacles on the badly maintained track from the village. “Don’t talk to me just yet,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “I do not want to end up in a ditch.”
“There is much that I want to say.”
“Me too,” said Mma Ramotswe, swinging the steering wheel to avoid a place where the track had collapsed into a ditch.
On the main road, a tarred surface once again beneath their wheels, Mma Makutsi began. “Did you see it, Mma? Did you see it?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am very disappointed. I must say that.”
“Disappointed?” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “Maybe we should be disappointed that acting standards have fallen so low. Maybe we should be discussing how sad it is that nobody in this country could ever get a job in the films. Maybe we should say that there’s a big need for a drama college in these parts. Maybe we should be saying all that, Mma.”
She was right, thought Mma Ramotswe. “You put it very well, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi snorted. “Did you see how many times he changed legs, Mma? First, he said it was his left hip. Then he said something about his right leg, I seem to recall. Then, when we went over to his house, he had his stick in his right hand, having held it in his left hand just a few moments before.”
“I saw that,” Mma Ramotswe replied. “It was a good idea of yours to get him to show us his house.”
“Oh, I knew immediately, Mma Ramotswe. I knew the moment he came into the room. I knew.”
“But how, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi hesitated. “There’s something I call the guilty look, Mma. You can’t mistake it. You take one look at somebody and you know straightaway.”
Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. “But can you be sure, Mma?” There was nothing about that in Clovis Andersen’s book—nothing remotely like that. The Principles of Private Detection was all about observation and conclusions based on the evidence of one’s eyes. It was not about unfounded suspicion. And yet, thought Mma Ramotswe, and yet…She had never been deaf to her feelings and the instincts that occasionally moved her to conclude one way or the other, but she was not convinced that you would ever know straightaway…
“I am sure.”
There was another reason for immediate distrust of Tefo, but Mma Makutsi did not mention it to Mma Ramotswe. Her shoes had said something. That tiny voice that apparently only she could hear had whispered to her as he came into the room. Don’t trust these people, Boss. That was what they had said. She was sure of it, although she knew, of course, that shoes could not talk. And yet hers seemed to do just that. Unless the voice came from within, she told herself. If it did, then there was a rational explanation for the phenomenon. And yet she was sure she had heard them. The voice had come from down below, not from up in the head. And it had spoken with that small, nasal voice that shoes have. It was all very puzzling, but the message, at least, was clear. Don’t trust these people, Boss. What could be less ambiguous than that?
CHAPTER SIX
VEHICLES HAVE A SMELL
IT WAS QUITE BY CHANCE that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni should have decided that afternoon to change the oil in Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van. At the last minute an important client had cancelled an appointment for the routine service of his two Mercedes-Benz delivery vans, and this meant both Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and his junior mechanic, Fanwell, found themselves with time on their hands. It was the sort of cancellation that would normally be extremely irritating, but, in this case at least, Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors was prepared to forgive more or less anything. This client, who ran a business providing sound equipment for weddings and other special occasions, had made a point of bringing his expensive vans to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni when many in his position would have taken them to one of the large garages on the other side of town. “I do not like those big places,” he announced. “They charge you hundreds of pula just to drive over their threshold. They say, ‘How are you, Rra?’ And then the next thing they say is, ‘That will be three hundred pula.’ And then they ask, ‘When do you think the rains will arrive?’ That’s two hundred and fifty pula. ‘Now then, what is the trouble with your vehicle?’ Five hundred pula please. And so on.”
These ruminations, already producing a grin of pleasure on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s face, became even better. “And then th
eir mechanics, Rra,” the client continued, “oh, my goodness. Are those people trained to take an engine to pieces and then put it back again? They are not. They are computer operators, that’s what they are. They call themselves mechanics, but I may as well call myself a brain surgeon—which I am not, by the way. They plug your car into their computer—‘One thousand pula, please, payable now’—and the computer says there is big rubbish going on somewhere, and it tells them where it is. But do you think they know how to fix that rubbish? They do not, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. What the computer says is, ‘You must take out that part and replace it with a new part, number 678a/b (three thousand pula). Then everything will be all right again and we shall all be happy.’ That is what the computer says.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “You have diagnosed what is wrong with those places, Rra. You are one hundred per cent right about all that. I do not have a computer, of course.”
“No, you do not have a computer, Rra, because you are a proper mechanic, rather than an IT person. You have tools. You have oil cans. You have your instruments, just like a surgeon has his scalpel. That is the difference, you see. And you know how an engine works. Those fellows in those places know how a cash register works. Oh yes, they are very good at that, I can tell you!
“So,” the client went on, “I am very happy to be bringing my vans to you, Rra, because I know that I will not have to take out a bank loan to pay your bill. I also know that you will try to fix anything that needs to be fixed rather than just giving up and throwing some part away. That is the difference.”
“Thank you, Rra. It is good to hear that you approve of what we do at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.”
Any relationship based on such sentiments can survive the occasional cancellation at short notice. In addition, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni knew that the calling-off of the service was for a very good reason: the client was required to provide sound amplification for a major funeral taking place out of town. This was for a well-respected retired politician who, as a young man, had served under Seretse Khama himself and who, full of years, had died out at his cattle post, on the land that he loved, amidst the cattle that he cherished. There would be large crowds at the ceremony in his village, and the speeches would be long. There was nothing worse than listening to a speech you could not hear, and the family was keen to have good loudspeaker arrangements to ensure that everybody could pick up every word of what was said.
The cancellation, justified though it was, left the garage idle. For this reason, when his eye fell on Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi returning from their visit to Blessing, it occurred to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to service the van and perhaps attend to the suspension. Suspension was the van’s main weak point—among rather a lot of weak points, if the truth be told—this being particularly so on Mma Ramotswe’s side of the vehicle. “Your van sags a bit,” he had said to her, “because the weight is mostly on one side, Mma…” And he had added quickly, “That is quite normal, of course. It is nothing to do with—”
“Being traditionally built?”
“No, it is nothing to do with that, Mma. It is a distribution issue. That is all.”
Now he turned to Fanwell and suggested that he get the key from Mma Ramotswe and move her van onto the inspection ramp. “We can spend a bit of time on that front suspension,” he said. “And the oil will need changing. Give an old engine clean oil and she’ll thank you.”
“Who’ll thank you, Rra? Mma Ramotswe or the engine?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “I meant the engine,” he replied. “But Mma Ramotswe will thank you too.”
Fanwell drove the van over and positioned it on the pneumatic ramp. As he got out of the cab, he remarked to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “Funny smell, Rra.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. You had to watch the electrics on an old vehicle, as cables had a habit of burning out when their plastic sleeves rotted. “Something burning, do you think?”
Fanwell shook his head. “You stick your nose in there, Boss. It’s not that sort of smell. That plastic burning smell is different. I always recognise that. No, this is…Well, it’s a sort of…sort of cattle smell.” He frowned; something was puzzling him. “But not quite.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni opened the driver’s door and sniffed at the air inside. He looked puzzled as he walked round to the back of the van and lowered the tailgate. He sniffed inside the back of the van.
“It’s coming from in there,” he said. “And yet, it’s empty. There’s nothing in the van.”
Fanwell scratched his head. “But you must admit that there has been something, Boss. It’s not there now, but there was something there earlier on. Has Mma Ramotswe been carting cattle dung around? Maybe for use in somebody’s fire, do you think? Or for making one of those traditional floors?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was at a loss. “Vehicles have a smell,” he said to Fanwell. “We all know that. But this…I have never smelled a van that has this particular smell.” He paused. “Perhaps I should ask Mma Ramotswe what she’s been carrying in here. Sometimes she goes to that garden centre, to Sanitas, and gets those unusual fertilisers for her beans. Some of them smell a bit strange, if you ask me. But this smell…” He shook his head. “This is what I would call a mysterious smell, Fanwell.”
Fanwell shrugged. “Or Charlie might know?”
“Why Charlie?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
“Because he’s been driving the van. Mma Ramotswe lent it to him. Did she not tell you?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not answer, but turned on his heel and made his way into the office to have a word with Mma Ramotswe. She was busy talking on the telephone, but signalled to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to sit down in the client chair while she finished the call. Mma Makutsi was filing—an activity that always engaged her attention completely, and so she just nodded curtly and continued with her task.
“Well, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe as she put down the receiver. “Are you ready for a cup of tea?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “I’m about to change the engine oil in your van,” he said. “And give it the once-over too.”
She thanked him. She remembered what he had told her about the importance of regular oil changes in an old vehicle.
“But there is one thing,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said. “One thing is puzzling me, Mma. And it’s puzzling Fanwell too. There is a smell, you see. I was wondering what you had been carrying in the van.”
For a few moments, Mma Ramotswe did not answer. But then she remembered; yes, there had been a smell, and she had noticed it the previous day, when she had been driving home. She had opened the window to try to get rid of it, but it had lingered. She had made a mental note to ask Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it, but it had slipped her mind. Now she said, “Yes, Rra. You are absolutely right. There is a smell. I smelled it yesterday.”
“And did you have anything in the van that might have caused it?”
She shook her head. There was always a reason for a smell. She did not think that Clovis Andersen had said anything about smells in The Principles of Private Detection, but had he addressed the subject he would undoubtedly have said something like, There is no smell without a reason for a smell. That is basic. Rotten smell, rotten situation…Perhaps she could write that in the margin in the chapter on “Drawing conclusions from the evidence of your senses”—a very important chapter that she and Mma Makutsi had often discussed.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni raised the question of Charlie’s use of the van. “What did Charlie do with your van? Fanwell said that you lent it to him yesterday.”
“He needed it to help a friend with something.”
“With something?”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Yes, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He did not tell me what it was. He was helping a friend to transport something.”
Mma Makutsi now detached herself from her filing. She had warned Mma Ramotswe
that Charlie might be up to something, and here was the fallout she had worried about. She fixed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni with a quizzical stare. “Has he done something to the van, Rra? This morning I thought there was something wrong with it.” She threw a glance at Precious. “I said that, didn’t I, Mma Ramotswe?”
“The van is all right,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It’s just that there’s a smell.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes narrowed. “A smell, Rra? An illegal smell? Do you think it’s an illegal smell?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It’s certainly not dagga. You can always tell if somebody’s been smoking dagga. No, it’s not that.”
“But still illegal, do you think?” pressed Mma Makutsi.
She wanted him to say yes, it was, but he did not. And perhaps I should not be surprised, she thought; she would be hard pressed to think of any other illegal smells, although undoubtedly there were some. The smell of money being laundered, for example—that might be a memorable smell, if one were ever to encounter it, although of course nobody ever actually put dirty money in the wash…
“I’m not saying anything about illegality,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “All I’m saying is that Charlie must have been carrying something unusual yesterday. Now there is a smell. And there is also a bit of buckling on the tailgate.” He paused. “Where is Charlie, by the way?”
“It is his day off,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I’d like to have a word with him,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I’d like to ask him to explain himself. If you borrow somebody’s vehicle, you don’t abuse it.”
He said that with conviction. But it was not only his deep-seated respect for vehicles that had been offended here; there was the additional issue of truth-telling. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni felt strongly about the truth—as did Mma Ramotswe—and the idea that somebody should fail to mention damage done to a borrowed item was anathema to him.
“He’ll be at his uncle’s place, where he used to stay,” said Mma Makutsi. “He hangs about there on his day off. That new wife of his…Queenie-Queenie…She works, and so he can’t see her until after five.”
How to Raise an Elephant Page 8