How to Raise an Elephant
Page 24
“Children believe so many things,” said Mma Makutsi. “I thought Santa Claus lived in Francistown and came down to Gaborone by train.”
“We have to believe in something,” said Mma Potokwane, adding, “Don’t we? Because if we don’t, then why bother…” She pointed towards the elephant pens. “Why bother with this, or anything really?”
Mma Makutsi thought about this—she broadly agreed—as did Mma Ramotswe, who had always thought it a great pity that some people went through life without seeming to believe in anything—even kindness, or happiness, or the importance of cooking pumpkin the right way. You did not necessarily have to believe in big things—small things would do. But you had to believe in them and you had to do what you could to make them come about. That was important.
Debra asked them about Charlie. “This young man who looked after the elephant down in Gaborone—could you tell me about him?”
It was Mma Makutsi who answered. “He is our assistant. Very junior.”
“But doing very well,” Mma Ramotswe interjected.
“He is certainly trying,” conceded Mma Makutsi. “One day he will be better at everything—I hope.” She thought for a moment. “He was good at this, though, Mma. He was very kind to the little elephant and I think he will be happy when we show him the photographs we have taken of it up here. He will be pleased to see it with its friends.”
Debra smiled. “Do you think we might be able to bring him up here to see it in its new surroundings?”
Mma Ramotswe hesitated, but then thought: Why not? Charlie had never had a paid holiday and he deserved one, she thought. And Mma Makutsi was thinking exactly the same thing, as she now said, “Phuti and I could stand him to the trip, I think. We’ll get his bus fare.”
“That will be wonderful,” said Debra. “That little elephant will remember him, you know.”
And then, just before they all went off to bed, and the last logs of the fire were crackling into embers, Mma Ramotswe asked, “Is it hard to raise an elephant?”
It was some minutes before anybody answered. But then Debra said, “I don’t think so, Mma. It’s not hard to do anything if you do it with love.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. It was just the right answer—of course it was.
* * *
—
THEY RETURNED HOME two days later, having retraced their steps back past the Makgadikgadi Pans and down the long arrow of the Francistown to Gaborone road. Mma Ramotswe did most of the driving at this stage of the trip, as she found that Mma Potokwane drove too slowly and Mma Makutsi drove too fast: she drove at just the right speed, which, although she would never have said so herself—nor even have entertained a thought to this effect—was how she did everything. Just right. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would certainly have said that, as would all those who knew her: the world was not always an easy place, and people could so easily get it all wrong—except for Mma Ramotswe, who somehow simply seemed to know. And how did that happen? Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sometimes asked himself. Was it to do with the example of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, of whom people said very much the same sort of thing? Possibly; but then that explanation—the explanation of heredity—did not always work: there were plenty of people who were quite unlike their parents one way or another. There were plenty of good people who had flawed parents, and flawed people who had good parents. So was it to do with the place you were born in—your village—and the people who taught you the things that you needed to learn: Your first teacher at school, perhaps, or those who came later? Or was it to do with your friends, with the people you spent your time with and with whom you shared your secrets? Often that was a matter of luck as to who happened to be around at the time when you were ready to send out the first, tentative messages of friendship and of love. So luck could play a large role in it, and it was luck, he thought, that had brought him and Mma Ramotswe together. They might easily have not met; she might so easily have gone to another garage to have her van repaired and quite another mechanic might have been blessed with the fine marriage that he had been vouchsafed. Yes, luck was there, lurking in the shadows, ready to play its role, for better or worse; although one hoped, of course, that it would be for the former.
They dropped Mma Makutsi off first, at her house, where Phuti Radiphuti was waiting, holding Itumelang Andersen Radiphuti, who was waving frantic, childish greetings of delight to his mother. Then Mma Ramotswe drove out to Tlokweng to drop off Mma Potokwane at the Orphan Farm, where a small child suddenly appeared from behind her office and ran to embrace her legs and bury his head in her skirts. And Mma Potokwane looked at Mma Ramotswe and smiled, and Mma Ramotswe’s heart gave a lurch, because somehow she felt this whole trip had been about that, about the thing that she was now seeing before her.
And then, at last, she returned to Zebra Drive, and to her own house just as the sun was setting, where she found the children doing their homework, supervised by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. They all hugged her and gave her a kiss, and she hugged them, and kissed them back. “I have made dinner for all of us,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is scrambled eggs, Mma, and fried sausages too. It is in the warming oven—all made in advance.” He spoke so proudly that she did her best to suppress her smile—but it was hard.
After the children had gone to bed, Mma Ramotswe sat on the verandah with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and they talked, as they liked to do, while sipping a mug of tea—the last tea of the day, the finale.
He said, “There was more rain today. People are very happy. And your beans are doing really well, Mma. They are growing and growing. It is all very good.”
Yes, it was all very good, she thought.
Then he said, lowering his voice, although there was no need to do so, “The neighbours—I have seen them.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, I saw them last night, over the fence. I was sitting here, on the verandah, but with no light on. I don’t think they would have been able to see me. They were on their verandah and they were playing music. They were dancing, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I see.”
“Dancing like teenagers in love, Mma. That sort of dancing.”
Mma Ramotswe’s smile broadened. “Like that? Well, well.” She paused. She was thinking. Then she said, “You know something, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? There are times when things work out well. You don’t think they will, but they do.”
He laughed. “Yes, I think you’re right, Mma.”
They lapsed into silence. A wind had arisen—and it touched them now, gently, reminding them; and it had rain on its breath, a token of that which heals the things that need to be healed.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and of a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
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