How to Raise an Elephant

by Alexander McCall Smith

  It all happened very quickly. Fanwell shouted out, and there was a cry from the back as Charlie, too, yelled out something. Then there was a trumpeting sound and a series of thuds, followed by another shout from Charlie.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had toppled over sideways, and found himself lying on top of Fanwell.

  “You’re squashing me, Boss,” muttered Fanwell.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni struggled to extricate himself. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Fanwell’s response was muffled. “I’m not hurt. But what about Charlie, Boss? What if the elephant has landed on top of him?”

  From the back of the van there came a shout. “I’m all right, Boss, but the elephant has gone. Run away, Boss. Gone.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DITCH into which Mma Ramotswe’s van had toppled ran alongside a desolate stretch of road. On either side of this road was a broad stretch of scrub bush, heavily wooded with acacia trees. This was criss-crossed with cattle tracks and dotted, here and there, with anthills. It was buffer land between the populated, semi-rural fringes of Tlokweng, and the true bushland beyond. There were some miles of that before the border fence that marked the boundary, the edge of Botswana and the beginning of the country’s sprawling neighbour, South Africa. It was a landscape of thorn trees and nondescript shrubs, with grass and rocks and places for snakes to hide, and for birds of prey to circle over. In the dark, it was full of shadows, and shapes for the imagination to worry about.

  Once Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Fanwell had extricated themselves from the front of the van, they immediately went round to the back to join Charlie, who was clambering out over the now more damaged tailgate.

  “What happened?” asked Fanwell.

  Charlie dusted himself down. “He suddenly shifted his weight,” he replied. “He went over to that side and that did it. Bang. The boss…” He looked apologetic. “I’m not blaming you, Boss—it must have been hard with this useless old steering…”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni brushed this aside. “But the elephant, Charlie? Where did it go?”

  Charlie pointed vaguely into the surrounding darkness. “Over there, Rra. Or, maybe…” He pointed in another direction. “Or maybe over there. It was off like a shot. Bam! Gone, Boss.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “We’re not going to find him in this darkness.”

  “No,” said Fanwell. “And what about us, Boss? Are we going to walk now?”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked around him. In the distance, a mile or two away, he could see the lights of the Orphan Farm through the trees. “It’s not too far,” he said. “But I think we might be able to get the van back on the road. If two of us push on that side, and one pulls, we can get it back the right way. Then we can drive.”

  Charlie laughed. “It’s good that I’m so strong, Boss.”

  “We’ll see,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “Fanwell’s not so strong,” said Charlie.

  “I have more brains than you, Charlie,” retorted Fanwell. “Look at my head, then look at yours. See how small yours is.”

  It was good-natured badinage, of the sort that those who have had a shock might resort to for the release of feelings, but Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni put an end to it. He took Charlie with him to the side of the van and showed him where to push; Fanwell, on the opposite side, was to try to use his weight to pull the side of the van down. There was a certain amount of grunting and it seemed at first that the van’s centre of gravity had shifted in such a way that movement would be impossible.

  “You’ll have to get your tow truck, Boss,” said Charlie, as he pushed unsuccessfully.

  “Maybe,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, between exertions. “Maybe not. You must not be a defeatist, Charlie.”

  Charlie was silent for a moment as he shoved at the reluctant van. Then he said, “This is a big mess, Boss. That elephant has gone. We’ll never find him in the bush.”

  “We can look tomorrow, Charlie. Just push. Ready? One, two, three!”

  More effort was expended. The van was not a heavy vehicle—it was, in fact, tiny by the standards of vans, and for a moment or two it teetered on its side, before rocking back into its sideways-on position.

  “What if it falls on Fanwell?” asked Charlie, wiping his brow. “Then we’ll have lost an elephant and a mechanic.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Charlie,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni scolded. “Fanwell will not let that happen.”

  “I won’t,” shouted Fanwell, from the other side. “But I’m going to come round to your side. I’ll help you push.”

  Fanwell joined them, and it was just the shift in forces that was required. After a further call of “Heave!” from Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and a gradually increasing rocking of the van, they reached their objective. With a noise that was rather like a sigh, followed by a convincing crashing sound, the van was righted and was back on all four wheels.

  “That will be the end of its suspension,” said Charlie. “It was always bad, that suspension, with Mma Ramotswe sitting in the van all the time…”

  A stern glance from Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni silenced Charlie.

  “Now we can get back in and go up to Mma Potokwane’s,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “She is expecting us.”

  “And tell her what, Rra?” asked Charlie. “That we have no elephant after all?”

  “She may have some ideas, Charlie. You never know.”

  Fanwell looked miserable. “This has been a big disaster,” he said. “When people hear about this, they will laugh. They’ll laugh and laugh, Boss. They’ll say, ‘So you couldn’t take a tiny elephant—not much bigger than a new-born calf—you couldn’t take a little creature like that and get it from one place to another. Three of you…Three! And you end up in a ditch and the elephant runs away…’ Oh, this is a big disaster, Boss. Big-time.” He paused; a further unfortunate dimension had arisen. “And what is Mma Makutsi going to say, Rra? What will she say? You know how she is. Even if she doesn’t say anything, she’ll look at us. She’ll just look, and we’ll feel that small.” He indicated with his forefinger their diminished size.

  “I don’t care what Mma Makutsi thinks,” Charlie snorted. “She is always thinking. I don’t care.”

  “We must not worry about things that haven’t happened yet,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, climbing into the driver’s seat. “First things first. We’ll go and speak to Mma Potokwane and see what she says.”

  “What if she laughs?” said Charlie, morosely. “And there’s my friend too. The elephant is his property, Boss, and we’ve lost it. Imagine what he’ll say.”

  “He had no business landing you with an elephant,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni retorted. “You can’t go round giving people elephants and then complaining if something happens.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Fanwell. “He had no business doing that.”

  Charlie did not respond directly, but still muttering, “Big mess,” he took his place in the cab and they set off. Ahead of them, through the leaves of the acacia trees, the lights of the Orphan Farm beckoned. Above them, the night sky of Botswana, with its white fields of stars, was impassive. The tiny drama was the least of what it witnessed; far greater things went wrong everywhere, all the time; but this, as each of them knew, was not a good thing to have happened. Without its regular bottles of formula, the elephant would not survive long in the bush, but would dehydrate and die. Charlie knew that, just as did Fanwell and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Nobody said anything about it, but they knew it.

  “Mma Potokwane will think of something,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as they neared the entrance to the Orphan Farm. “She always does.” He thought about it further. No, he was right. He had known Mma Potokwane for many years and never—not on one single occasion—had she been at a loss for a suggestion or, even more importantly, a decision. A crisis, to her, was a challenge to
be tackled with an assessment; a sigh, perhaps, if it was serious enough, and then a firm command. It always worked. Every single time he had seen her faced with a problem, he had seen it work.

  * * *

  —

  SHE MADE THEM TEA, and listened as Charlie spilled out the story of the accident and the elephant’s escape. As he spoke, a smile played about her lips, and this, after a while, became a broad grin.

  “The important thing,” she said when Charlie reached the end of his account, “is that nobody was hurt. No bruises, no broken bones—nothing. That is what I call a good accident.”

  Fanwell looked surprised. “But the van was over on its side, Mma. Like this…” He indicated with his hands the drunken angle at which the van had ended up.

  “But you sorted that out,” said Mma Potokwane cheerfully. “And Mma Ramotswe’s van has probably seen worse. It has all those scratches and dents on it. All over the place.” She gave Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni a reproachful glance, as if to suggest that he might be ashamed at the fact that his wife was driving round in such a shabby vehicle.

  He was sensitive to that. “That is another problem, Mma Potokwane. I have always tried to get her to use another van—a newer one. There are many good vans that are looking for a home, but she says…”

  He did not finish. “I know, I know,” Mma Potokwane said. “Mma Ramotswe is a loyal woman, Rra. She is loyal to her old van—and I am happy that she is, because that means she is loyal to her old friends like me. I have many dents and scratches too.”

  Charlie pointed into the darkness. He looked agitated. “There’s a little elephant out there,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

  Mma Potokwane remained calm. “Have you been the one feeding that elephant, Charlie?” she asked.

  Charlie did not see the point of the question. “We shouldn’t waste time talking about all that, Mma. We have to do something.”

  “Then answer my question, Charlie.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I’ve been feeding him.”

  Mma Potokwane nodded. “In that case, I’m sure we shall be able to find him.”

  Charlie pointed at the darkness again. “Out there, Mma? Look at it. That bush is quite thick. He could be anywhere by now—maybe even halfway up to Maun.”

  “Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Charlie,” said Mma Potokwane. “He’ll be somewhere close by—you mark my words.” She paused. “And he’ll come back to you, I think.”

  Fanwell expressed surprise at this. “Why, Mma? Why will he come back to Charlie?”

  Mma Potokwane smiled with the air of one who knew something nobody else knew. “There is an elephant lady I know,” she said. “She visited me here last year.”

  They waited.

  Eventually Fanwell broke the silence. “Who is this elephant lady, Mma?”

  “She is called Mma Stevens,” said Mma Potokwane. “She does the same job as I do.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked puzzled. “At one of the other orphanages?” he asked. “The one up at Francistown?”

  Mma Potokwane laughed. “Her orphans are different.”

  They were not sure what to make of that.

  “And this lady,” Mma Potokwane continued, “told me that when you feed one of these little elephants, it thinks you are its mother.”

  “The elephant thinks that?” asked Fanwell. He turned to point at Charlie. “He thinks you’re his mother. You said that before. Remember?”

  Charlie grinned. “Yes. You see? I told you that, didn’t I? When you came round to my uncle’s place. I told you that the elephant thinks that.”

  “So,” said Mma Potokwane. “I think he’ll come to you, Charlie. If you go out there.”

  Charlie frowned. “There?” he asked, pointing to the darkness that was the bush.

  “You’re not frightened, are you?” Mma Potokwane asked.

  Charlie hesitated. “Me? Of course not.”

  Fanwell gave him a searching look. “Are you sure, Charlie?”

  “I am definitely not frightened,” said Charlie.

  “What about snakes?” asked Fanwell. “That is a good place for cobras out there. They like to walk about at night.”

  “They do not walk,” snapped Charlie.

  “No, they do not walk,” Fanwell retorted. “But some of them can stand up. Or the front half of them can stand up. Cobras can. And mambas too. They go up and hiss. That is a bad sign. If a snake like that hisses at you, it is a very bad sign.”

  Mma Potokwane put an end to the alarmist talk. “Snakes keep well away from people if they can,” she said. “Isn’t that so, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking of something else. “I think Fanwell should go with Charlie,” he said. “It will be better if Charlie has somebody to keep him company.”

  Mma Potokwane thought this a good idea. “Go out there,” she said. “Go out there and wait. These elephants have a way of knowing that people are there. Mma Stevens told me about that.”

  “Who is this lady?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And how does she know so much about elephants?”

  “She is the one who will be taking this baby elephant,” Mma Potokwane replied. “When we get it back. She has an elephant orphanage up north. They take very small elephants whose mothers have been shot by poachers. They look after them at a place they have just outside Maun.”

  “So that is where you are going to send my elephant?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “It’s all planned. They are expecting it in the next few days.”

  Charlie sounded gloomy. “If we get it back,” he said, his voice heavy with doubt.

  “We will,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am confident we will.”

  Charlie and Fanwell were dispatched into the darkness. “I am not sure about this,” muttered Charlie.

  “I am,” said Mma Potokwane.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NICE THINGS ABOUT YOUR SKIN

  MMA RAMOTSWE was completely on her own—and it felt very strange. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had gone off in her van with Charlie and Fanwell to deal with the baby elephant, and the children, Motholeli and Puso, were both spending the night on separate sleepovers with friends, it being a Friday evening, with no school the following morning. She had agreed to their request, although she knew that sleepovers would mean a late night for both of them—in Motholeli’s case because of the teenage conversation that would go on past midnight; in Puso’s case, the friend who had invited him was proposing to make a fire and they would be cooking sausages in the open until well past Puso’s normal bedtime. But it did not matter if Saturday was a write-off; the children often did nothing in particular on a Saturday morning, and a long lie-in would probably suit everybody.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had told her that he might not be back until nine, or even later, and that she should have her dinner rather than wait for him: he would be happy enough with a bowl of soup or a sandwich when he eventually returned. She already had soup in a pot in the fridge and she would leave that on the stove for him, she decided, along with two thick-cut slices of bread between which she would place a thick slice of roast Botswana beef. That was exactly the sort of sandwich that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—or indeed any man—liked. In Mma Ramotswe’s experience, men did not like thin sandwiches, and they certainly did not like sandwiches that had vegetables in them. Lettuce or cucumber, or any other greens for that matter, were all very well, but most men did not like to discover these things in their sandwiches. Meat was what men liked in sandwiches—and if the man was sophisticated, then he might like a bit of mustard as well.

  It was a strange feeling being dropped off at the house by Mma Makutsi, who asked her, as she stepped out of the car, “What are you going to do, Mma?”

  “Now, Mma?”

  “Yes. You said that the children were off with friend
s. And with no husband until later tonight—you are a free lady, Mma!”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is what it’s like for us women, Mma. There is always somebody else to worry about, and then suddenly there is nobody and we think…”

  Mma Makutsi took over. “We think: What are we going to do with our time?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You could put your feet up,” suggested Mma Makutsi. “You could treat yourself to a very long bath, with bath salts, Mma. You could close your eyes and imagine what it must be like to be able to do that every day—just lie in the bath with bath salts.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I don’t have any bath salts, Mma.” An idea came to her. “Would red bush tea do, Mma? I have read that it is very good for the skin. It soothes outside, as well as inside.”

  Mma Makutsi had heard that too, but she had not been convinced. People said all sorts of things were good for this, that, and the next thing, but she was sceptical—just as she would imagine Clovis Andersen would be about many of these claims. One of the cardinal principles of private detection, he reminded his readers, was the importance of evidence. Don’t believe something because you want it to be true, he wrote. Nor should you believe everything you read or are told by other people. Ask them for the evidence, and if they cannot produce it, then politely say “I am unconvinced” and leave it at that.

  So now she said to Mma Ramotswe, “I am unconvinced, Mma.” And then she added, for good measure, “Where is the evidence, Mma? That is what I would like to know: Where is the evidence?”

  Mma Ramotswe met Mma Makutsi’s unbelieving gaze. Her eyes drifted to a patch of slightly angry skin below her colleague’s chin. Mma Makutsi had always had skin trouble—nothing too serious, of course, but it would be wrong to describe her complexion as completely untroubled. She used some sort of cream that was meant to keep irritation under control, but Mma Ramotswe was suspicious of creams and emollients. They might be active in the way their makers claimed, but there could be no doubt but that they clogged the pores, and that, as everybody surely knew, was bad for your skin. Skin needed to breathe, and if there was a layer of oily cream preventing it from doing that, then it was no wonder that it flared up.