How to Raise an Elephant

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Look at the time,” said Mma Matlapeng at last. “I must go home, Mma. I’ve enjoyed myself very much, thank you.”

  Mma Ramotswe saw her guest out as far as the gate. Then she turned and walked back to the house, through the cool of the evening. Above her, high above her, the constellations of the African sky dipped and swung against the darkness of the night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THIS IS A BIG MESS

  MMA MAKUTSI could not contain herself. She arrived early at the office the following morning—a good half an hour before Mma Ramotswe—and had tidied the desks, opened the windows, and switched on the kettle by the time Mma Ramotswe’s white van swung off the road and was securely parked in its place under the acacia tree.

  “You are very early today,” Mma Ramotswe remarked as she entered the office and hung her scarf on the back of her chair. “A lot of the birds are still in their beds in the trees, and yet the office is already up and running!” She heard the asthmatic hissing of the kettle, and she smiled. “And I see that the kettle is already heating up. That is all very good, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi waved a hand airily. “Phuti made an early start today too,” she said. “He’s expecting a big consignment of furniture from over the border and he likes to be there when they unpack it. He says some of the men are very careless.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, Mma Makutsi, that people treat other people’s property like that. I think that if something doesn’t belong to you, you should be—”

  She did not finish. Mma Makutsi waved her hand again. “Yes, yes, Mma. You’re right about that. We should all be careful.” She paused, and then added, “All the time. We should be careful all the time. But tell me, Mma: What happened? I’m very keen to hear.”

  “I shall tell you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. She looked at the kettle. “That kettle is very old. It takes more and more time to boil. I think that soon we’ll have to switch it on when we leave the office the day before so that the water is boiling by the time we arrive in the morning.”

  Mma Makutsi sucked in her cheeks. “Maybe. Maybe. But I was wondering, Mma…”

  Mma Ramotswe was not deliberately dragging her feet, but she had noticed something different about Mma Makutsi and now realised what it was. “Your new glasses, Mma,” she exclaimed. “You’ve abandoned your new glasses.”

  Mma Makutsi’s hand shot up to adjust her old, familiar glasses. “I’ve decided that this pair is still useful, Mma,” she said. “I’ll keep the other pair for special occasions—when it’s important to be fashionable. These will do for everything else.”

  Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. It was always satisfying to her when functionality won over fashion. In her mind, all the fuss over designer labels was a distraction from the main issue, which was comfort. Things should be comfortable. Shoes should not pinch your feet; glasses should not sit awkwardly on the nose; blouses should not bunch up at the armpits; dresses should not cling to your skin but allow air to circulate freely on a hot day. Mma Makutsi had good dress sense—even if she tended to prefer colours that were rather too bright, and occasionally clashing—but she was far too easily swayed by the cajolery of commerce. If something was said to be “the latest thing,” then you could be sure that Mma Makutsi would take such a claim seriously, whereas Mma Ramotswe would simply laugh and point out that latest things did not seem to last very long and that many of them, anyway, were instantly recognisable as “the latest thing” of some years previously, and were now being recycled to a gullible public.

  “I like those glasses,” she said. “I mean, these old…or, rather, these traditional glasses of yours. I like them a bit more than those new, fashionable ones.”

  Mma Makutsi got up from her desk to attend to the kettle, which was now emitting cloudlets of steam from its spout. “This is a very stupid kettle,” she said. “But, Mma, let’s not talk about kettles and glasses and things. What I am very keen to hear is what happened last night out at Mma Potokwane’s place. That is what I want to hear.” She paused. “And where is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? And Charlie and Fanwell? Where are all the men?”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That would be a good title for a song, Mma, don’t you think? ‘Where Are All the Men?’ It would be a song that many ladies would sing, I think. Where are all the men, la, la, la? Where are all the men?”

  Mma Makutsi had no time for such frippery. “Mma, you must tell me. I’m bursting now. I’m bursting with curiosity. Did they move that little elephant?”

  Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “They did, Mma. It all went very well—or rather, it went very well after it went badly. At first it went very badly and then…well, then, things got better and it went well. Now, I think, it is all going very well again.”

  Mma Makutsi poured the hot water into the two teapots—one containing red bush tea for Mma Ramotswe, and the other containing Five Roses tea for herself.

  “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will be in shortly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that Charlie and Fanwell are not expected in until ten o’clock. They were all out very late last night, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni told them they did not need to come in until later. They will be having a long sleep. It was two o’clock, you see, by the time Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni got home.”

  Mma Makutsi registered her surprise. “Two o’clock, Mma! What happened? You must tell me.”

  She poured them each a mug of tea and then settled in the client’s chair, facing Mma Ramotswe across her desk.

  Mma Ramotswe took her first sip of red bush tea. “He was very tired when he got home. I was asleep, but I always wake up if somebody comes into the room. He said that I should go back to sleep as everything was all right and I did not need to worry. But I was awake by then, and so I got him to tell me exactly what had happened.”

  “Which was what, Mma?”

  “Which was that they had an accident on the way to Mma Potokwane’s. My poor van, Mma, it has more scrapes down the side from toppling into a ditch. The elephant moved, you see, and that disturbed the van’s balance.”

  “Oh, Mma!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Your poor van is being trampled by elephants and then driven into a ditch. And then there are its suspension troubles…How much more can it bear?”

  “It is very strong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That van has a very strong heart inside it. It will be all right.”

  “So what happened then, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe explained how the accident had occurred very near the Orphan Farm and how they had managed to complete the trip after righting the van. “Without the baby elephant, of course. It had run off into the bush and it was very dark. They could not see where it had gone and so they went to tell Mma Potokwane about what had happened.”

  “And she said?”

  “She said that Charlie should go out into the bush to wait for the elephant to come to him. She said that these little elephants think that the person looking after them is their mother. She said that this would bring him back to Charlie.”

  Mma Makutsi listened in fascination. “They are very strange creatures,” she said. “They think just like us. They have very large brains, I believe.”

  Mma Ramotswe continued her account. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni eventually went out with the two boys. Young men, of course—they are no longer boys.”

  “Sometimes,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Anyway, he did not want them to get lost or get into some sort of trouble, and so he went with them in the end. And they wandered about through the bush—rather them than me, Mma.”

  “Me too,” agreed Mma Makutsi, with a shiver.

  “And then, after hours and hours, the little elephant suddenly appeared from behind some trees and rushed up to Charlie. They had its bottle with them and they gave it the formula they’ve been feeding it. It was very thirsty, and they used the bottle to mak
e sure it stayed with them on the way back to the Orphan Farm. Then they put it in the cattle stockade that Mma Potokwane had fixed up for them, and that’s where it is right now.”

  Mma Makutsi, who had been on the edge of her seat during this story, sat back. “Well, well,” she said. “That is a very good ending, Mma.” She hesitated. “But what now?”

  “Mma Potokwane has been in touch with her friend up north. There is an American lady who has a place up near Maun. They look after elephants that have lost their mothers. She is sending a truck. They’ll take it up there. They’ll give it a home.”

  Mma Makutsi picked up her mug. “I’m pleased, Mma.”

  “So am I,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  She looked out of the window, at the patch of sky it revealed. Had it darkened? She thought perhaps it had, and she stood up to get a better view.

  “Take a look up there,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “Do you think those are rain clouds, Mma—or do you think it’s just the heat?”

  Mma Makutsi stood up. She adjusted her glasses, her large, round glasses, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe saw herself reflected in the lenses. So that, she thought, is what Mma Makutsi sees when she looks at me.

  “I think that might be rain,” said Mma Makutsi. “Yes, I think so. I hope so.”

  They finished their tea.

  “We have some difficult business today,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she drained her cup. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, but I’ll have to do something, I’m afraid. And I was hoping that you would come and help me, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi knew immediately what it was. “Blessing?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m going to have to go and see her.”

  Mma Makutsi waited, but then she prompted, “And sort it out, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I have to. I can’t ignore her. She’s a cousin—even if a very remote one.”

  Mma Makutsi sighed. “They’re trying to trick you, Mma. That man is acting.”

  “But you heard from the magistrate. She told you. He really was convicted.”

  “Yes, but…But even if that part of the story is true, this business about the operation is obviously a lie. It’s a trick to get you to give them money. That’s all it is, Mma.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe. This good woman, this generous woman, was obviously a tempting target for a couple of confidence tricksters. But such people always were: good people were the ideal victims.

  Mma Ramotswe was decisive. “We need to go down there,” she said.

  Mma Makutsi glanced out of the window. “What if it rains? That road down there will be difficult.”

  Mma Ramotswe was confident. “My van has had worse things happen to it,” she said, with a grin. “And so have we, Mma Makutsi.”

  * * *

  —

  MMA MAKUTSI was largely silent on the way down to Blessing’s village. Mma Ramotswe knew the reason for this: when her colleague had misgivings about something, she usually expressed these through silence. This, in a way, was a far more eloquent way of expressing opposition than by saying directly why she felt as she did. And now, as the tiny white van bumped its way along the rough track to the village, the silence was a pointed one.

  The sky had darkened behind them as they set off on the Lobatse Road; large purple clouds, heavy with rain, had stacked up in the north-west and were moving slowly south. The intentions of these clouds were clear enough: within a short time, a few hours at the most, they would discharge their liquid burden in a heavy deluge. The sky would become white with rain, falling in great curtain sweeps across the land, blown into lashing, cleansing showers. And when that happened, the very earth would seem to leap up into the embrace of the longed-for rain, with dust and soil being confused in a brown blur. Tracks like the one they were on would become seas of mud, with puddles like minor lakes stretching across fields, bordered by ditches that had become narrow fast-flowing rivers. But that had not yet happened as Mma Ramotswe drew up in front of Blessing’s house and suggested to Mma Makutsi that they should watch the time. “Twenty minutes at the most, Mma,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the storm clouds.

  “If that,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

  They had been spotted, and as they made their way up the front path, Blessing appeared in the doorway.

  She appeared to be surprised. “Mma Ramotswe!” she exclaimed. “And Mma Makutsi too. You are bringing us rain. Pula! Pula! Pula!” The Setswana word for rain was also the word for good luck—and repeated thus was an invocation of good fortune. It was also the name of Botswana’s currency, of course, but in these circumstances, Mma Ramotswe thought, that was a bit unfortunate.

  They went inside, where Blessing offered them tea. From the room off the living room, a cough was heard.

  “That is my mother,” said Blessing. “She is sleeping today, but she still coughs in her sleep. She does not wake up so much these days.”

  “I thought that I should come to see you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I needed to talk to you in person.”

  “You are always welcome, Mma,” said Blessing, her gaze shifting anxiously from Mma Ramotswe to Mma Makutsi, and then back again.

  Mma Ramotswe clasped her hands together. She knew what she had to do, but she was not finding it easy.

  “You came to see me about Tefo,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Blessing. “The cousin.”

  Mma Makutsi exchanged glances with Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But he is also your friend, isn’t he? Your husband, maybe.”

  Blessing lowered her gaze. “He is not a close cousin, Mma.”

  “That is not my business,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “You can marry somebody who is not a very close cousin,” said Blessing, her voice rising.

  “I know that, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe calmly. “But I didn’t come to talk about that. I came to tell you why I can’t help. I think I must tell you that, rather than ignore your cry for help. You are my cousin and I must speak to you directly.”

  Blessing was tight-lipped.

  “We do not think that Tefo really needs an operation, Mma. We think that you are trying to get money from me for some other reason.”

  She sat back. She had said it.

  Blessing’s hands shot up to her face. “Oh, Mma,” she wailed. “You are accusing me.”

  Mma Makutsi had been silent until then, but now she said, “We are, Mma. We’re accusing you—and him too. We’re accusing you both of lying.”

  Blessing wailed again. “You are sitting there, in my own house, and telling me that I’m a liar. You are doing that, Mma Ramotswe. I cannot believe it.”

  Mma Ramotswe winced. “We’ve found out something about the past,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “We found out that you had been convicted of stock theft and that Tefo’s conviction was really for something that you had done, Mma. If you had been convicted a second time, you would have received a very severe sentence. You didn’t want that, and so you made him take the blame. You knew that would have bad consequences for him, but you thought it better than your going to jail.”

  It took Blessing a few moments to respond. When she did so, it was through tears. “How can you say such a thing, Mma? How can you?”

  “Because it’s what happened,” Mma Makutsi said.

  Blessing turned to her. “You keep quiet, you stupid woman. Who do you think you are?”

  “I am a detective,” said Mma Makutsi through clenched teeth. “And I can spot a thief when I see one.”

  Mma Ramotswe tried to stop Mma Makutsi, but failed. Inwardly she groaned; the situation, she thought, was now irretrievable, and it might be best if they were to leave.

  Blessing rose to her feet in indignation. “I am not a thief! I am not!” She paused. She was shaking, and her fists
were clenched tight. Mma Ramotswe spotted that, and the sight disturbed her. She had always believed that clenched fists were a sign of innocence. There was nothing about that in Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection, but she was convinced that it was true, and now, seeing Blessing’s fists closed in this way she began to have her doubts. “Please, Mma, I only wanted to say—”

  She was cut off by Blessing. “He did it once, Mma. I know that. And I protected him. The second time was not him at all, Mma. I was the victim of a man who had become very envious of me. He framed me, Mma, and there was nothing we could do. The evidence was planted by this other man, who is now late.”

  Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “What are you saying, Mma?” she asked. “Are you saying that you took the blame for him the first time? That you were wrongly convicted?”

  “Yes!” shouted Blessing. “That’s exactly what I am saying, Mma. Tefo did take something on that first occasion. I had to take the blame then, because if he had been convicted, they would have deported him. I told him that he was never to do it again and that I would throw him out if he did. But he did not. He was genuinely sorry, Mma.” She wiped the tears off her cheek. She was calmer now, her voice more level.

  Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue.

  “And then, much later, I was found in possession of an animal that they said I had stolen. I did not steal it, Mma—it was planted in my herd by a disgruntled herdboy. But it looked very bad for me, because the herdboy had put my brand on it—over the real owner’s brand.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded her head. She understood: it would be easy to frame somebody in that way—if you had access to the other person’s brand.

  “If I had been convicted,” Blessing went on, “I could have been sent to prison because it would be a second conviction for me. So Tefo had to confess and say that it was him rather than me. They charged him. We were lucky that they did not deport him, but at that stage he had children here, and we were told that he would probably not be made to leave the country. So he confessed to something that neither of us had done.”