The Double Comfort Safari Club Part 7

She gathered her thoughts. "Yes, I am a bit surprised, Rra. I cannot deny that."

He sighed. "That's the trouble, isn't it? If I went to anybody and said, 'Do you realise that my wife is having an affair?' they would be very surprised. They would say, 'But she is a very respectable lady, Rra. She is that well-known midwife. And you are a part-time reverend.' And so on. That is what they would say."

Mma Ramotswe asked him why he thought Mma Mateleke was seeing somebody. Did he have any proof? She was trying to remember what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had told her. Something about a car and the Lobatse Road. The Lobatse Road was not a good place to conduct an affair; it was far too busy. Now some small, out-of-the-way road, some road that wandered away to a distant cattle post, or off into the Kalahari until it disappeared in the sand, that road would be the place for a lovers' meeting.

He shook his head. "I have no proof. I have no letters filled with kisses and things like that. But I have seen her talking to a man. I saw her outside the Botswana Book Centre one day. She was talking to a man."

Mma Ramotswe smiled. "But that is nothing, Rra! Many women talk to men. They may know a man from work, or something like that. Yes, maybe she knew him from work."

Herbert Mateleke shook his head. "She is a midwife, Mma, as you know. Men do not have babies. Yet." He hesitated. "Although there are many men these days who want to have babies, I think."

Mma Ramotswe smiled at that. There were so many different sorts of men these days, that was true, and she wondered whether she might have to change her views of men, which were based, she had to admit, on the idea of traditional men; there were plenty of men today who seemed to be interested in things like clothing and hairstyles, even here in Botswana. And there was a whole generation, she had to acknowledge-reluctantly-who knew very little about cattle, and, shockingly, were not interested in learning were not interested in learning. If there was one thing that would upset her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, were he by some miracle to come back and see Botswana today, it would be that. He could take the rudeness of the day-not that Botswana was nearly as bad as many places-and he could take the materialism of the day, but she did not think that he would understand this lack of interest in the land and in the cattle. "But this is Botswana!" he would say to these young people. "You are Batswana and you have no interest in cattle? How can that be!"

This was not the time, though, to reflect on change in the world. This was the time to try to allay Herbert Mateleke's highly unlikely suspicions about his wife. Those suspicions, of course, spoke volumes on the issue of whether he himself was having an affair. He was not. A husband who was having an affair would not have the time or the interest in his wife to work himself into a state over her fidelity or otherwise. No, the most likely explanation here was that these two people, perhaps having become a bit stale in their marriage, were imagining things-on both sides.

"Even if she does not work with men," Mma Ramotswe pointed out, "there could be many other reasons for her to talk to a man. What about the daddies-the men who have fathered the children she has delivered? Do you not think they would have good memories of her, and want to tell her how the children are doing?"

She waited for him to answer, but he merely looked glumly over the top of her head. So she continued, "I do not think for one moment-not for one moment-that you can draw such a serious conclusion just from seeing her talking to a man. In public. In the open. For heaven's sake, Rra, what if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were to see you and me sitting here having food together? Would he say to himself, that man, that Herbert Mateleke, is having an affair with my wife? Of course he would not. He would say: that is Mma Ramotswe having a snack with her friend's husband. Then he would ask himself: I wonder what they are eating. Is it good? That is what he would think, Rra. And that is what you you should think too." should think too."

Herbert Mateleke stopped staring over the top of her head, lowering his eyes to meet hers. "But there are other things. There are other things that make me think this."

"Such as? Are you sure you are not letting your imagination run away with itself?"

"I am not. We used to go for walks together. I used to go with her to the supermarket. Now she says that she is too busy. She says that I should get on with my preaching and let her get on with the things she has to do."

Wives lost interest in their husbands, Mma Ramotswe reflected. Sometimes husbands did not notice this, but it could be rather difficult if the husband was the clinging, dependent type of man. She studied Herbert Mateleke for a moment, asking herself what it would be like to be married to him. It was something she did from time to time, and for the most part she reached the conclusion that it would actually be rather hard being married to most men; not that she was fussy, of course. And she expected that most men would probably not wish to be married to her-that was only fair if she did not want to be married to them. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was perfect, as far as she was concerned-he was so understanding and considerate, compared with most men.

She would definitely not like to be married to Herbert Mateleke. It was not that he was a boorish or unpleasant man-far from it. The problem was that he was a reverend, and she imagined that he would always be preaching at his wife, telling her what to do. And if that were the case, then it would be no great surprise, perhaps, if Mma Mateleke were to feel a little bit trapped, and to try to do at least some things on her own.

How might one put that tactfully? Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. "Women need some room for themselves, Rra," she ventured. "You know how it is."

He looked at her blankly. "Some room, Mma? She has a great deal of s.p.a.ce. Our house is very big. My wife is never crowded."

"I don't mean room in that sense," said Mma Ramotswe. "I mean room to do things by herself. We all want to do that, Rra. It's natural."

He stared at her without expression. He has not understood, she thought.

"You don't like being with other people all the time, do you, Rra? Don't you sometimes feel like getting away from everybody and taking a walk by yourself? Surely you feel that?"

"But she is my wife," said Herbert Mateleke. "Why should she not want to be with me all the time?"

He had neither listened nor understood, thought Mma Ramotswe. Of course Mma Mateleke would want to get away from her husband. She simply wanted to breathe, as all women do. And men too. We all needed to breathe. She would like to point this out to Herbert Mateleke, but she was not sure that he would understand. The realisation came to her that this man, for all his success and his following, was actually not very bright. Mma Mateleke was an intelligent woman, and perhaps she had simply grown bored with this rather slow, literal man. But that did not mean she would go out and have an affair; that was surely unlikely. Apart from anything else, Mma Mateleke was simply too busy too busy delivering babies to have an affair. delivering babies to have an affair.

"Let me tell you what I think, Rra," she said. She was suddenly businesslike. He was looking for advice; well, she would give it, first to him, and then later to Mma Mateleke. She would bang their heads together and say, "Listen, you are both worrying about something that is not happening. But sort this out before you drift apart and the thing that you worry about really does happen. Listen to one another. Find out how each of you is feeling. And above all, stop worrying."

Of course, she knew that it was almost always pointless telling somebody to stop worrying. We all did it; we told friends not to worry because their worries seemed small, unimportant things to us, and we knew that such problems were never solved by brooding over them. But people never stopped worrying simply because they were told to. They listened, perhaps, and told you that they would stop, but they carried on nonetheless. That was true, Mma Ramotswe thought, of most advice we gave; people often listened, but only very rarely acted on what was said to them. "Thank you, Mma," they said. "That is very wise." And then they went on to do exactly what they had planned to do in the first place. People were very strange. Mma Ramotswe had decided that early in her career, and had seen nothing to disabuse her of that notion. People were very strange.

But this was not a time to question the whole idea of giving advice; this was a time to give it. "This is what I think, Rra," she said. "I do not think that your wife is having an affair. I think that you are worrying for no reason. And I also think that she might be worrying about you! Yes! So the two of you should sit down and talk together. Then go out to the President Hotel and have dinner together. Pretend that you're twenty-five again and out on a date. That is what you must do."

He listened to her carefully, and this time he appeared to be taking in what she was saying. Sometimes reverends did not listen to others, she had observed, because they thought that there was n.o.body else who could tell them anything. But Mma Ramotswe's plain talking had had an effect; he was listening, and he was taking it in. Good, she thought. This is a very good result. No affairs. No unhappiness. Nothing. And no fee, of course, as Mma Mateleke had not actually consulted her as a detective, but had prevailed upon her as a friend. No fee.

WHILE MMA RAMOTSWE was sitting in the cafe with Herbert Mateleke, Mma Makutsi set off out of the office for the rest of the afternoon-and why not, given that all her filing was completely up to date and all the bills, such as they were, had been sent out? What was the point of her sitting in the office waiting for five o'clock, when she could go home and wait until five o'clock, when she would go to see Phuti at his aunt's house? To pa.s.s the time she would make a cup of tea and read a copy of the magazine she had bought at Exclusive Books. This magazine was full of delights, and she could hardly wait to start turning its glossy, newly printed pages. The cover promised an article on the doings of some big stars; that always made for interesting reading, as the big stars were often up to no good. She liked to look at the pictures that accompanied such articles, and to study the clothes that these big stars wore. They dressed expensively, these people, and as for their shoes ... was sitting in the cafe with Herbert Mateleke, Mma Makutsi set off out of the office for the rest of the afternoon-and why not, given that all her filing was completely up to date and all the bills, such as they were, had been sent out? What was the point of her sitting in the office waiting for five o'clock, when she could go home and wait until five o'clock, when she would go to see Phuti at his aunt's house? To pa.s.s the time she would make a cup of tea and read a copy of the magazine she had bought at Exclusive Books. This magazine was full of delights, and she could hardly wait to start turning its glossy, newly printed pages. The cover promised an article on the doings of some big stars; that always made for interesting reading, as the big stars were often up to no good. She liked to look at the pictures that accompanied such articles, and to study the clothes that these big stars wore. They dressed expensively, these people, and as for their shoes ...

She looked down at her feet. She had decided to wear the boots she had just bought so that they would be worn in by the time she went up to the Delta. Now, making her way along Odi Drive, she felt very pleased with the comfort of her new footwear. She had read that ankle support was very important, and she had thought at the time that this was being made rather too much of. She had never had trouble with her ankles, and she did not see why it would be necessary to give that part of the leg special treatment. What about the knees? Surely they deserved support too; not that they got it, of course. There were many things in this life that deserved support and that did not get it.

Her new boots gave a great deal of ankle support. They were also much lighter than she had imagined. I could dance in these boots I could dance in these boots, she thought.

Oh, so you're thinking of dancing, Boss? You never danced in us.

She glanced into the bag in which she was carrying her old shoes. She was never sure whether her shoes really talked-she thought that it was highly unlikely-and yet they did seem to make remarks from time to time. Usually their comments were of a reproachful or critical nature; shoes, it seemed, were rather resentful, put-upon things that clearly did not accept their manifest destiny underfoot.

Don't worry about them, Boss. It was a different voice. The new shoes spoke in a firm, confident tone. She looked down at them.

That's right, Boss. You trust in us. We know where we're going.

That, she thought, was exactly what one would want to hear of boots. It did not matter so much with ordinary town shoes, but it mattered a great deal with boots. If one were going into danger-and the Okavango Delta was filled with wild animals-then it would undoubtedly be a good thing to have shoes that could look after themselves in difficult conditions.

That's us, Boss! said the boots. said the boots. That's us, all right That's us, all right.

She continued walking, coming to the end of Odi Drive and turning onto Maratadiba Road. There were deserted houses on that corner-old buildings now half eaten by termites, half covered in the bush that grows so quickly over human efforts. It was a good place for snakes, she thought; even here in the city, in these forgotten corners of wasteland, snakes might make their homes: cobras, puff adders, even mambas. She glanced at the tangle of vegetation that had been brought by the recent rains. Everything greened so quickly, transformed from thinness and brownness, thickened, ran riot. She gazed at the derelict windows, their gla.s.s broken; at the bulging walls that would surely soon collapse. Yes, there were snakes there, but she had these boots, and that was exactly what boots were for.

She stopped. She looked behind her, back in the direction of Tlokweng. The radio had spoken of rain, and the sky confirmed the forecast. A bank of purple cloud had built up to the east, and even as she had been walking from the shops it had grown in size and anger. Now it filled half the sky; to the west it was light and sunny, to the east it was storms and rain. It happened so quickly, the clouds sweeping in within minutes. And with them was that smell of rain, that half dusty smell that was like no other, overpowering in the intensity of its a.s.sociations for anyone raised in a dry country. It was synonymous with joy, with renewal, with life itself.

Pula, she muttered; a word that stood for so much, that meant joy, and money, and rain. And rain it was, with initial, fat drops falling on the dusty ground to make a tiny crater in the sand; and then another million such craters before the ground became a shimmer of water. It was so sudden, and she looked around as the water began to stream down her face. It was in her eyes; warm and welcome, but to be wiped away so that she could see through the watery curtain of white that was all about her.

The only place to shelter was one of the deserted houses, almost obscured now in the torrent of the storm. She ran, her boots making her sure-footed in the water and mud. There was a door, which stood ajar, and beyond it a room in which the ceiling boards hung down in fragments. All this work, all this human effort, all brought to this.

With the storm outside, the room was darkened further than what must have been its usual gloom. She looked about her. The concrete floor was shattered here and there, as if by small, localised earthquakes. There was a smell, and there was a person, a man sitting on his haunches at the far end of the room, staring at her. He was an old man, and his face was criss-crossed by lines. She saw his eyes, though, which caught the light, dim though it was, from what had once been the window.

She gave a start. The man smiled. "Do not be afraid, Mma. This is my house, but you are welcome to shelter from the rain."

She took in what was on the floor. A bag from which a few old clothes, rags really, spilled. A few cans, open and abandoned. A single bicycle wheel, salvaged for some reason and then forgotten.

She took a step forward, and then another. She squatted down beside him, remembering this easy, chairless way of sitting that is so natural in Africa.

"I come from up there," the old man said, pointing north.

She nodded. He spoke Setswana in the accent of an age ago.

"So this is your house," she said. "I always thought that there was n.o.body here."

"There is always somebody," he said.

Mma Makutsi looked up at the failed ceiling. The drumming of the rain on the roof was less insistent now. She would be able to continue her walk soon. She reached into the pocket of her blouse. She had a fifty-pula note in it, now damp from the rain. She gave it to the man, and he took it, examining it carefully as one might examine an important doc.u.ment.

"Thank you, Mma. You do not have to pay to visit my house, though."

"This is a present, Rra. It is not payment."

He put the note away, somewhere in the rags that were his clothes. Then they waited, in silence, for the storm to abate and for the sky to appear again. Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and went to look out of the door. There were stretches of water where once there had been red earth. These would drain quickly, as the water percolated deep down into the thirsty heart of Botswana, somewhere far below the Kalahari.

She turned to say goodbye to the man whose house she had visited. He raised a hand and smiled. She thought: This is the first time I have given anybody fifty pula. It felt very strange; very satisfactory.

On the way out, her shoes suddenly addressed her. The boots were silent, having to cope with the challenge of the wet that was all about. But this came from the shoes in the bag, who said, quite clearly, We saw that, Boss. We were proud We saw that, Boss. We were proud.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE PRIVATE CHAIR

SHORTLY BEFORE FIVE O'CLOCK, Mma Makutsi left her house in Extension 2 and walked down to the end of the road to catch a minibus. Her destination was Phuti's aunt's house. This aunt lived on a small road off Limpopo Drive, in an area known as Extension 22, on the eastern boundary of the town. Mma Makutsi knew very little about her, and indeed was not sure that she even knew her name; Phuti simply called her Aunty, although sometimes he used the term No. 1 Aunty. Mma Makutsi had seen the house before, as she had once driven past it and Phuti had said, "That place in there is the house of my No. 1 Aunty. That is her car." Mma Makutsi had not liked the look of the car, an old brown vehicle with very small windows; it was not a friendly car, she felt.

The minibus dropped her at the end of Limpopo Drive and she walked the last half a mile or so to the aunt's house. The aunt would not be expecting her, and she was worried about the reception she would get. Phuti had not telephoned, and that worried her, but she had a.s.sumed that he had been adjusting to being out of hospital and would get round to phoning in due course.

As she stood in front of the house, noting, with regret, that the unwelcoming brown car was parked prominently before the veranda, she asked herself why she should not visit her fiance. Even if he was staying with a relative who clearly did not like her, she was his fiancee and she was ent.i.tled to see him. She was not going to encourage him to leave the aunt-it was probably a good place for him to stay while he was recovering, as it would be difficult, if he moved to her place, for her to give him her full attention while working. And yet the aunt was jealous, and hostile, and this visit would not be easy.

She opened the gate and began to walk up to the front veranda. There was a mopipi tree in front of the house and a wild fig, a moumo moumo, to the side. There were aloes too, in flower: a bed of flaming red planted right up against the house, like a row of angry spears. She remembered that being used as a purgative: her own aunt knew all about the traditional uses of these plants, and would recommend aloe when purging was required. Phuti's aunt might benefit from a dose of aloes, she said to herself, and smiled at the thought.

There was a b.u.t.ton to the side of the door with RING HERE RING HERE written beside it. This was unusual: people did not bother with bells, usually, being content with an old-fashioned knock. She pressed the bell, but no sound came from within. She pressed it again, and then knocked loudly, calling out, written beside it. This was unusual: people did not bother with bells, usually, being content with an old-fashioned knock. She pressed the bell, but no sound came from within. She pressed it again, and then knocked loudly, calling out, "Ko! Ko!" "Ko! Ko!"

It took a couple of minutes for the door to be opened by the aunt. She was clearly surprised, and for a moment she did not reply to Mma Makutsi's greeting. Then, when she did, her tone was hostile. "I am sorry. You cannot see Phuti. He is sleeping now. I am very sorry that you have had a wasted journey."

Mma Makutsi tried to look over the aunt's shoulder into the room beyond. There was a radio playing somewhere in the background, Radio Botswana. Phuti listened to Radio Botswana-but so did everyone.

"I can wait until he wakes up," said Mma Makutsi.

The aunt pursed her lips. "There is not room for you to wait. I am very sorry."

Mma Makutsi glanced behind her. "I can wait on the veranda, Mma. There is a chair."

The aunt indicated that this would not do. "That is a private chair, Mma. I'm very sorry. We can't have anybody sitting in that chair."

Mma Makutsi drew in her breath. "A private chair?"

The aunt nodded. "That is what I said." She looked at her watch. "It is now time for me to do something else, Mma. I shall tell Phuti that you have called to see him, and I'm sure that he will be very happy to hear that."

Mma Makutsi struggled to control herself. The lenses of the large gla.s.ses she wore were beginning to mist up. That did not happen very often, but it was a bad sign when it did.

"But I am his fiancee, Mma," she said. "We are engaged to be married, as I think you know."

The aunt stared at her. Mma Makutsi found it difficult to read the emotion in the other woman's gaze. Was it hatred? It did not look quite like it. And then she realised: this was fear. It was just as Mma Ramotswe had said.

"So I think that I have the right to see him. I really think that, Mma. Not some time in the future, but now-now." It was a bold statement, and she felt her heart pounding within her as she spoke.

The aunt shifted slightly on her feet. "You say you are engaged, Mma. That is very interesting. I do not recall any lobola lobola being agreed, or maybe my memory is going. I do not think that this family has agreed to pay any being agreed, or maybe my memory is going. I do not think that this family has agreed to pay any lobola lobola to ..."-she paused, looking squarely at Mma Makutsi-"to any other to ..."-she paused, looking squarely at Mma Makutsi-"to any other family." family."

Mma Makutsi recoiled at the way she said family family, dwelling on the word, filling it with contempt. Mma Makutsi was not the only one being insulted here; this was an insult to her people in Bobonong, to her uncles; to the uncle with the broken nose, to the uncle who experienced difficulty in finding the right word.

The aunt now continued. "You are a secretary, I hear, Mma."

"a.s.sistant detective."

The aunt laughed. "So that is the new word for secretary. They are always inventing new words for old things. So that is what they call a secretary today-an a.s.sistant detective." She was enjoying herself, and stopped to relish her own words. "And what do they call a cook these days, I wonder? Is he also a detective, do you think? Or do they call him a pilot, or a general? What do you think, Mma?"

Mma Makutsi felt fl.u.s.tered. "I am not talking about any of that," she said. And then the response came to her. "Actually, I do not know what they call a cook, Mma. But I do know what they call an aunt who has only bitterness in her heart. They call her a cow. That is what they call her."

She turned on her heel and left the veranda. As she pa.s.sed the unfriendly brown car, with its small, mean-spirited windows, she heard the aunt shouting behind her. But she was not going to stop; she had seen enough village shouting-matches up in Bobonong to know that the thing to do was to walk away. Phuti would not get her message, she suspected, but the aunt could not detain him forever. He would run away if she tried. Or hop, she thought, bitterly; the aunt might take his new leg and hide it and he would have to hop. She did not like to think about it.

SHE WENT STRAIGHT from the aunt's house to Mma Ramotswe's house on Zebra Drive. She did not like to trouble Mma Ramotswe at home, and rarely did so, but there were times when only the company of her employer, that wise, good woman, would do. This, she felt, was such an occasion, and she knew that Mma Ramotswe would understand. from the aunt's house to Mma Ramotswe's house on Zebra Drive. She did not like to trouble Mma Ramotswe at home, and rarely did so, but there were times when only the company of her employer, that wise, good woman, would do. This, she felt, was such an occasion, and she knew that Mma Ramotswe would understand.

She found her on the veranda, as she had hoped she would, drinking a cup of red bush tea.

"I have just come back," said Mma Ramotswe. "I had a long talk with Herbert Mateleke. Now I need some tea to recover." She indicated for Mma Makutsi to sit down.

"So this chair is not a private chair," said Mma Makutsi, as she lowered herself into it.

"What?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "What is this about private chairs?"

Mma Makutsi explained that she had been to see Phuti, and had been denied the opportunity to sit on the veranda and wait. "There was a chair there," she said. "But the aunt said that it was a private chair."

Mma Ramotswe let out a hoot of laughter. "A private chair? What a silly thing to say! Can I give you some tea, Mma, in one of my private cups? Or perhaps they are not private. Perhaps they are public."

Mma Makutsi grinned. The encounter with the aunt had been traumatic, but now Mma Ramotswe was reminding her that it was really rather ridiculous. "And then I called her a cow. And I walked away."

Again Mma Ramotswe laughed. "If she is a cow, then she is a very thin cow," she said. "Perhaps she will get fatter now that the rains have arrived and there is more gra.s.s. I hope that Phuti finds good grazing for her." She was smiling, but then she stopped. "It is funny, but maybe we shouldn't laugh too much, Mma. She is a poor, unhappy woman."

"She is stopping me from seeing Phuti."

"Then phone him. He has a mobile phone, doesn't he?"

Mma Makutsi explained that she had tried to do so, but that she had not got through. "I think that the battery is flat," she said. "He was always forgetting to charge it, and I do not think he has been able to do that since he was in hospital." She thought of other possibilities. "Maybe he has lost the phone, or it was stolen in hospital. There are always thieves in those places."

Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. What Mma Makutsi said about thieves in hospitals was quite true. Recently she had heard of a thief who had become ill and had to spend a couple of weeks in hospital. He not only stole food and money from other patients in his ward, but he took the soap from the bathrooms and several bottles of aspirin from the nurses' cupboard. Finally he lifted a stethoscope from the pocket of the doctor attending him and was caught trying to sell it to another doctor.

"Whatever has happened," said Mma Ramotswe, "you know that sooner or later Phuti will be in touch. He will telephone. He will send a message. He's not going to ignore you, is he?"

Mma Makutsi knew that this was probably true, but she was worried that the aunt would try to prevent him from getting in touch. She had shown her cards, and they did not favour Mma Makutsi.

"It's very unfair, Mma. It really is. That woman has kidnapped him-that's what she's done."