How to Raise an Elephant

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “And then a very strange thing happened, Mma,” continued Mma Matlapeng. “This arrogant father had a big fall. Bang! He went bankrupt. My husband told me that he had been appointed to wind up his affairs. I felt sorry for the family, but I was able to talk to the son about it. I did not want to turn him against his father, but I was able to point out to him that his father had shown that he was human, like everybody else. I think it made all the difference, Mma. He had been in awe of his father for a long time; now he could stand up to him—inside.”

  “And his mathematics?”

  “He started to do very well, Mma. He has gone off now to do a degree in mathematics. He wants to be an actuary. Do you know about actuaries, Mma?”

  “They are the people who tell you when you’re going to die?”

  Mma Matlapeng laughed. “Well, not you personally—but you as a lady of such and such an age, living in such and such a place, and smoking twenty cigarettes a day, or whatever dangerous things you’re doing. Not that you smoke, Mma, I’m not accusing you of that, but some people do. Then bang, their arteries get clogged up and they become late. The actuaries can say to these people: you are going to last so many more years because that’s what the actuarial tables say about somebody like you.” She paused. “I’m not sure that it would make me any happier to know when I was going to die, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe agreed with her on that. That was not knowledge that she wanted to have. She said, almost without thinking about it, “Are you happy now, Mma? You said that would not make you any happier…”

  Mma Matlapeng frowned. “Am I happy now?”

  “Yes.”

  Mma Matlapeng looked away. For some time, she said nothing, and the silence in the kitchen became noticeable. Then, “You know, Mma, the other day—did you hear something?”

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated, but then made her decision. “I suppose I did, Mma. I heard…”

  She was not sure how to put it. A loud discussion? A little disagreement? There were tactful ways of describing it, but before she could choose which expression to use, Mma Matlapeng continued, “I am very ashamed, Mma. I have only just moved to this place, and then people hear me shouting.” She paused; she looked shamefaced now. “And everybody will be thinking: Who is this woman who shouts and shouts like that? That’s what they’ll be thinking, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe tried to reassure her. “I hardly heard you, Mma. It was very faint. I really don’t think people will be talking.”

  Mma Matlapeng reached out and touched Mma Ramotswe’s arm briefly. “You are far too kind, Mma. I’m afraid I lost control. I shouted.”

  “We all shout,” said Mma Ramotswe. “From time to time, that is. Is there anybody—anybody, Mma—who hasn’t shouted at one time or another?”

  “In private, maybe, Mma. You can shout a little in private, but you have to keep your voice down. I didn’t, and now I’m very embarrassed, Mma, because you must be wondering what sort of people have moved in beside you. I wouldn’t be surprised, Mma, if you have been thinking that we are a very low sort of person.”

  Mma Ramotswe made a dismissive gesture. “Certainly not, Mma. I have not been thinking that. Although…” She stopped. She had not intended to say anything about her misgivings, and indeed it would be quite inappropriate to mention the single beds.

  “Although what, Mma?”

  “Although I did wonder if you and your husband were happy together…You seemed very cross with him.”

  Mma Matlapeng sighed. “I was. I have been very cross with my husband for ten months now.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. With her experience of matrimonial investigations, there could be only one reason for that: an errant husband. It was a familiar story.

  She looked at Mma Matlapeng, who nodded, as if to confirm the suspicions that she imagined were in Mma Ramotswe’s mind. Then she said, “Yes. The usual, Mma.”

  “Oh.”

  Mma Matlapeng continued, “I think that one woman does not have to explain these things to another woman. We are all sisters, Mma. We all know how men behave.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent for a few moments. Mma Matlapeng was right, of course; all women knew how men behaved. And although she was not one to consign all men to the crowded ranks of philanderers, many men freely and by their own actions enrolled themselves therein. It was something to do with the way men were inside. They had to do these things when common sense and caution, not to say loyalty and simple decency, pointed in the other direction. It was not only tragic—it was puzzling.

  She lowered her voice. “I take it that your husband has…has wandered, Mma. I take it that is what you’re saying to me?”

  Mma Matlapeng inclined her head. Then she raised it, and gravity of manner was replaced by outrage. “Yes, he has wandered, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe made a clicking sound with her tongue. It was a noise that so many women, all over the world, made when they thought of the behaviour of men. It was a universal gesture. “Men can be very foolish,” she said. “I believe it is something to do with their brains.”

  “I don’t think it’s their brains,” said Mma Matlapeng. “The brain often says stop, but the rest of the man is not listening at that point.”

  “No, it is in the brain,” insisted Mma Ramotswe. “Everything we do, Mma, comes from the brain. The brain says, ‘Do this,’ and we do it. That is the latest view, Mma.”

  “Hormones,” said Mma Matlapeng. “It is to do with hormones. Hormones are very bad news for men.”

  “That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But the point I’m making, Mma, is that your story must be the commonest story in the country. Up and down the land, there are men being affected by hormones, and doing stupid things.” She sighed once more. “We women have to live with it, I’m afraid.”

  Mma Matlapeng frowned. “Do we? Do we have to put up with this sort of thing? Why, Mma?”

  “Because I don’t see men changing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We can tell them that we expect better—and that will have some effect—but we are not going to change some things about men. We are not going to be able to change their nature.”

  “So, we tolerate it?” asked Mma Matlapeng. And then she continued, “So, I have to accept that my husband can go off for a weekend with another woman, Mma? Are you suggesting that?”

  “Is that what happened?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Matlapeng did not answer immediately, and Mma Ramotswe wondered whether her question had been too intrusive. She was about to change the subject when her neighbour suddenly answered, “Yes. It started about a year ago. I found out quite quickly. A wife can always tell.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew what she meant. Over the years she had listened to any number of women in her office saying exactly that. “You can always tell, Mma,” they would say. “A wife is never wrong about that sort of thing. Wives have an instinct for such things.” And, by and large, these women who said that were right. Wives could tell, no matter how much their husbands tried to hide what was going on. Women could tell.

  “She is another of these bankruptcy people,” Mma Matlapeng continued. “She works in a different firm, but she does the same sort of thing as he does. They met when a mine went bankrupt.” She gave Mma Ramotswe a sceptical look. “How can a mine go bankrupt, Mma? All you have to do is dig.”

  “I suppose there are wage bills, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then perhaps they dig in the wrong place and they have to start again, and that costs money, and so on. Running a business is not easy. At any moment you can discover that you have no money to pay the bills and none of your clients is replying to your reminder that they should pay the invoice you sent them a month ago. And you don’t know where to turn…”

  Mma Matlapeng thought about this. “I suppose you’re right, Mma, but anyway, he met this woman and she must have encouraged him. You know how there are some women
who encourage men, Mma. You know about those women?”

  Mma Ramotswe indicated that she did. “There is a well-known woman like that,” she said. “There is a certain lady in this town called Violet. She is famous for that sort of thing.”

  “I have never heard of her,” said Mma Matlapeng. “This woman is called Rose.”

  “They are both names of flowers,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Not that there can be any connection, but it’s interesting that they should both have flower names.”

  Mma Matlapeng tackled a piece of chicken on the side of her plate. “This chicken is very delicious, Mma,” she said. “But to get back to this woman. How could she? She knew that he was married. She knew that, and yet she allowed this affair to develop.”

  “That is what happens, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is to do with male weakness. Men are weak when it comes to that department, Mma. That is what they are like.”

  Mma Matlapeng was having none of that. “Well, women should tell them that it is not going to happen. If women said, ‘I am not going to have anything to do with a married man,’ then the man would just go home and behave himself.” She paused. “I confronted him, Mma. I sat him down in a chair and told him that I knew all about it. He closed his eyes and sank his head in his hands. He said that he would bring it to an end. He said that he did not know what had come over him.”

  Mma Ramotswe listened. This was not what usually happened. “You were lucky, Mma. Often men just say nothing. Or they deny it all and then the next day they disappear with the other woman. There have been many cases like that.”

  “I believe that he did as he said he would do,” said Mma Matlapeng. “She turned up at the house the following day and tried to claim him. Right in front of my nose, Mma. She didn’t seem to mind that I knew. She came and tried to drag him away.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “That must have been very awkward, Mma.”

  Mma Matlapeng laughed. “I saw her off,” she said. “I was in the kitchen when this happened. He was in the garden—he had been washing his car—when she came and grabbed him. I went outside. We had a hosepipe at the side of the house, and he had been using that. I took it and sprayed her with water. She was completely soaked. She was shouting and swearing, Mma—very bad language—but I just turned up the pressure on the tap and tried to get the water into her mouth. She eventually went away, dripping.”

  Mma Ramotswe was smiling. She did not approve of violence, but there were times when a bit of gentle force seemed to be justified: people who used bad language should not be surprised if other people came and washed their mouth out with a hosepipe.

  “And then I sprayed him too,” continued Mma Matlapeng. “Just for good measure. I felt very cross, Mma—I hope you can understand why. I soaked him too, and he just stood there because he was in the wrong and could not do anything about it. If you are in the wrong and somebody sprays you with water, you have to accept it.”

  Mma Ramotswe was not sure what to say. She could understand how Mma Matlapeng had felt, but she was not certain that this was the way to repair a marriage. So she asked, “And then, Mma?”

  “And then?” echoed Mma Matlapeng. “And then I told him what he could expect, Mma. I told him that he could stay in the house if he wanted, but that I would not forget what he had done. And that is where we are now, Mma. He is in disgrace. He is like a dog that has stolen the mince and is in disgrace.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s doubts about the wisdom of this were unassuaged. There was a limit to the extent to which a husband might be punished before it might occur to him to leave. It seemed to her that Mma Matlapeng had embarked on a dangerous strategy. “You have to be careful with husbands,” she said. “They might go away if things are too uncomfortable for them. I have seen that happen, Mma.”

  “I don’t think he will go away,” said Mma Matlapeng. “I own the farm, you see.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited.

  “We have a big farm down near Lobatse,” Mma Matlapeng explained, a note of triumph in her voice. “We have a house in the town, but we also have a farm. It is probably one of the best farms in that part of the country.” She paused, and then, with a smile, continued, “And it’s mine, Mma. It belonged to my parents, who are late, and it is now mine.”

  Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but, having first offered the pot to Mma Matlapeng, she helped herself to a chicken drumstick and a spoonful of sauce. There was more pumpkin and a bowl of rice from which she ladled several spoonfuls onto her plate. Then she topped up their water glasses before she tackled her second helping. She needed to think about what Mma Matlapeng had just said: it was the piece of information that made sense of what she had just heard. It was an old, familiar story of a relationship that had gone wrong but that was limping along because of some outside factor—children or property. And both of these, when one thought about them, amounted to the same thing: dependence.

  This situation, she thought, was slightly different from the usual case. It was so often the woman who was obliged to remain in an unhappy marriage or partnership because the man held all the financial cards. Here, it was different—she was well off and even if he, as a bankruptcy accountant, was no doubt comfortably placed, the really important asset was hers. And about time, thought Mma Ramotswe—it was about time that men stopped hoarding all the property and allowed women to have their fair share. It would take years—centuries, perhaps—before there was a just division, but at least things were moving in the right direction.

  They ate in silence for a while. Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Matlapeng was smiling, as if she were relishing the satisfaction of having an errant husband exactly where she wanted him. Then Mma Ramotswe said, “And what about the future, Mma?”

  Mma Matlapeng laid her knife and fork aside. “Very good,” she said, and then added, “I mean the chicken is very good, Mma Ramotswe—not the future. Although I don’t see anything wrong with the future.”

  Mma Ramotswe considered this. “The future…Well, the future, Mma, is…I mean, what about him, Mma?”

  “My husband? He’d better watch out, Mma. If he wants a future—any future—he’d better watch out.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. There was a question that she wanted to ask, but she was not sure whether this was the time to ask it. Perhaps it was.

  “Are you going to forgive him, Mma?”

  Mma Matlapeng looked astonished. “Forgive?”

  “Yes. Sometimes we do things that we regret. All of us, Mma. We do things and then we think, Oh, goodness, look what I’ve done. And then we feel very bad about ourselves, and we hope that—”

  “That nobody notices?”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “That was not what I was going to say, Mma. I was going to say, ‘And then we hope that people will forgive us.’ I think that is what we sometimes hope—often, in fact.”

  Mma Matlapeng was concentrating on what Mma Ramotswe said. She was listening. And this encouraged Mma Ramotswe to continue, “Forgiveness is very powerful, Mma. It can change things completely. It’s like the rain that we long for. Everything is dry, dust everywhere, and then the rain comes. You smell it coming and suddenly it is there and it changes everything. You know what that is like, Mma—the first rains.”

  Mma Matlapeng was clearly struggling. “I don’t see what the rain has to do with it, Mma,” she said. “People still behave badly when it rains.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “That’s not the point, Mma. I’m saying that forgiveness is like the rain. That’s all I’m saying. It makes things better. Rain does that too. Things grow…”

  Mma Matlapeng went off on another tack. “But if you forgive people, Mma Ramotswe, then you know what happens?” She did not let Mma Ramotswe respond, but went on to answer her own question. “If you forgive them, they say, ‘Good, now I can go and do it again.’ I’m telling you, Mma—that’s how people think
. It’s just like that in the classroom: you have an unruly pupil and you let him off. The next moment, when you turn your back, he does the same thing again. That’s the way it is, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her plate, now wiped clean. They had finished the chicken, the two of them, and it was time for a fat cake, dusted in sugar, and a cup of tea perhaps. She offered these to Mma Matlapeng, who accepted with enthusiasm. “This has been a wonderful dinner, Mma Ramotswe. You are a very good cook, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe took the fat cakes out of the fridge and set them out on two plates. She took a bite, watched by Mma Matlapeng, who was removing excess sugar off the first of her cakes.

  “No,” said Mma Matlapeng, as she licked the tip of a finger. “If you go round forgiving people, then they will be very pleased and will do it again.”

  She looked at Mma Ramotswe challengingly as she said this, and Mma Ramotswe almost gave up. But then she thought of Bishop Mwamba, and of what he had said about forgiveness. His words had never left her; she had heard them in the cathedral opposite the hospital, on a warm Sunday morning, with the great ceiling fans above their heads turning slowly. He had said, “It is our duty to forgive because if we do not, then we sentence ourselves to the repetition of the very things we want to avoid.” And she had thought at the time: Yes, that is right. If you forgive somebody, then normal life can resume. You start again.

  So she said to Mma Matlapeng, “We have to forgive, Mma, because it is wrong to hold something against somebody forever.”

  Mma Matlapeng was studying her fat cake, poised before her lips. She hesitated.

  “We have to, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “Because it’s cruel to make somebody suffer more than they deserve. Forgiveness stops that.”

  Mma Matlapeng continued to study the fat cake. She opened her mouth and took a bite.

  “Is that what you really think, Mma?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  She picked up a fat cake and popped it into her mouth. She could no longer talk now, nor could Mma Matlapeng, and so they finished the fat cakes, their mouths full of pleasure.