Blue Shoes and Happiness (2 page)

“Dear Boy,” wrote Aunty Emang. “Teachers do not like boys like you. You should not say you are not like other boys, or people will think that you are like a girl.” And that is all that Aunty Emang seemed prepared to say on the subject—which was a bit dismissive, thought Mma Ramotswe, and now that poor, over-anxious boy would think that not only did his teacher not like him, but neither did Aunty Emang. But perhaps there was not enough space in the newspaper to go into the matter in any great depth because there was the final letter to be printed, which was not a short one.

“Dear Aunty Emang,” the letter ran. “Four years ago my wife gave birth to our first born. We had been trying for this baby for a long time and we were very happy when he arrived. When it came to choosing a name for this child, my wife suggested that we should call him after my brother, who lives in Mahalapye but who comes to see us every month. She said that this would be a good thing, as my brother does not have a wife himself and it would be good to have a name from a member of the family. I was happy with this and agreed.

“As my son has been growing up, my brother has been very kind to him. He has given him many presents and packets of sweets when he comes to see him. The boy likes his uncle very much and always listens very carefully to the stories that he tells him. My wife thinks that this is a good thing—that a boy should love his kind uncle like this.

“Then somebody said to me:
Your son looks very like his uncle. It is almost as if he is his own son.
And that made me think for the first time: Is my brother the father of my son? I looked at the two of them when they were sitting together and I thought that too. They are very alike.

“I am very fond of my brother. He is my twin, and we have done everything together all our lives. But I do not like the thought that he is the father of my son. I would like to talk to him about this, but I do not want to say anything that may cause trouble in the family. You are a wise lady, Aunty: What do you think I should do?”

Mma Ramotswe finished reading the letter and thought: surely a twin should know how funny this sounds—after all,
they are twins.
If Aunty Emang had laughed on reading this letter, then it was not apparent in her answer.

“I am very sorry that you are worrying about this,” she wrote. “Look at yourself in the mirror. Do you look like your brother?” And once again that was all she had to say on the subject.

Mma Ramotswe reflected on what she had read. It seemed to her that she and Aunty Emang had at least something in common. Both of them dealt with the problems of others and both were expected by those others to provide some solution to their difficulties. But there the similarity ended. Aunty Emang had the easier role: she merely had to give a pithy response to the facts presented to her. In Mma Ramotswe's case, important facts were often unknown and required to be coaxed out of obscurity. And once she had done that, then she had to do rather more than make a clever or dismissive suggestion. She had to see matters through to their conclusion, and these conclusions were not always as simple as somebody like Aunty Emang might imagine.

It would be tempting, she thought, to write to Aunty Emang when next she had a particularly intractable problem to deal with. She would write and ask her what she would do in the circumstances.
Here, Aunty Emang, just you solve this one!
Yes, it would be interesting to do that, she thought, but completely unprofessional. If you were a private detective, as Mma Ramotswe was, you could not reveal your client's problem to the world; indeed, Clovis Andersen had something to say on this subject. “Keep your mouth shut,” he had written in
The Principles of Private Detection
. “Keep your mouth shut at all times, but at the same time encourage others to do precisely the opposite.”

Mma Ramotswe had remembered this advice, and had to agree that even if it sounded like hypocrisy (if it was indeed hypocrisy to do one thing and encourage others to do the opposite), it was at the heart of good detection to get other people to talk. People loved to talk, especially in Botswana, and if you only gave them the chance they would tell you everything that you needed to know. Mma Ramotswe had found this to be true in so many of her cases. If you want the answer to something, then ask somebody. It always worked.

She put the paper aside and marshalled her thoughts. It was all very well sitting there on her verandah thinking about the problems of others, but it was getting late in the afternoon and there were things to do. In the kitchen at the back of the house there was a packet of green beans that needed to be washed and chopped. There was a pumpkin that was not going to cook itself. There were onions to be put in a pan of boiling water and cooked until soft. That was part of being a woman, she thought; one never reached the end. Even if one could sit down and drink a cup of bush tea, or even two cups, one always knew that at the end of the tea somebody was waiting for something. Children or men were waiting to be fed; a dirty floor cried out to be washed; a crumpled skirt called for the iron. And so it would continue. Tea was just a temporary solution to the cares of the world, although it certainly helped. Perhaps she should write and tell Aunty Emang that. Most problems could be diminished by the drinking of tea and the thinking through of things that could be done while tea was being drunk. And even if that did not solve problems, at least it could put them off for a little while, which we sometimes needed to do, we really did.

CHAPTER TWO

CORRECT AND INCORRECT WAYS OF DEALING WITH A SNAKE

T
HE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, the performance of the Zebras in the game against Zambia on Saturday afternoon was the first topic of discussion, at least among the men.

“I knew that we would win,” said Charlie, the elder apprentice. “I knew it all the time. And we did. We won.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. He was not given to triumphalism, unlike his two apprentices, who always revelled in the defeat of any opposing team. He realised that if you looked at the overall results, the occasional victory tended to be overshadowed by a line of defeats. It was difficult, being a small country—at least in terms of numbers of people—to compete with more populous lands. If the Kenyans wanted to select a football team, then they had many millions of people to choose from, and the same was true, and even more so, of the South Africans. But Botswana, even if it was a land as wide as the sky and even if it was blessed by those great sunburned spaces, had fewer than two million people from whom to select a football team. That made it difficult to stand up to the big countries, no matter how hard they tried. That applied only to sport, of course. When it came to everything else, then he knew, and was made proud by the knowledge, that Botswana could hold its own—and more. It owed no money; it broke no rules. But of course it was not perfect; every country has done some things of which its people might feel shame. But at least people knew what these things were and could talk about them openly, which made a difference.

But football was special.

“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “The Zebras played very well. I felt very proud.”

“Ow!” exclaimed the younger apprentice, reaching for the lever that would expose the engine of a car that had been brought in for service. “Ow! Did you see those people from Lusaka crying outside the stadium?”

“Anybody can lose,” cautioned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You need to remember that every time you win.” He thought of adding,
and anybody can cry, even a man
, but knew that this would be wasted on the apprentices.

“But we didn't lose, Boss,” said Charlie. “We won.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. He had been tempted to abandon the task of teaching these apprentices anything about life, but persisted nonetheless. He took the view that an apprentice-master should do more than show his apprentices how to change an oil filter and repair brakes. He should show them, preferably by example, how to behave as honourable mechanics. Anybody can be taught to fix a car—did the Japanese not have machines which could build cars without anybody being there to operate them?—but not everybody could meet the standards of an honourable mechanic. Such a person could give advice to the owner of a car; such a person would tell the truth about what was wrong with a car; such a person would think about the best interests of the owner and act accordingly. That was something which had to be passed on from generation to generation of mechanics, and it was not always easy to do that.

He looked at the apprentices. They were due to go off for another spell of training at the Automotive Trades College, but he wondered if it did them any good. He received reports from the college as to how they performed in the academic parts of their training. These reports did not make good reading; although they passed the examinations—just—their lack of seriousness, and their sloppiness, was always commented upon. What have I done to deserve apprentices like this? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni asked himself. He had friends who also took on apprentices, and they often commented on how lucky they were to get young men who very quickly developed sufficient skill to earn their pay, and more. Indeed, one of these friends, who had taken on a young man from Lobatse, had freely admitted that this young man now knew more than he did about cars and was also very good with the customers. It struck Mr J.L.B. Matekoni as very bad luck that he should get two incompetent apprentices at the same time. To get one would have been understandable bad luck; to get two seemed to be a singular misfortune.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. There was no point in wasting time thinking about how things might be if the world were otherwise. There was work to be done that day, and he had an errand which would take him away for much of the morning. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had gone off to the post office and the bank and would not be back for a while. It was the end of the month and the banks were always far too busy at such times. It would be better, he thought, if people's pay days were staggered. Some could be paid at the end of the month, as was traditional, but others could get their wages at other times. He had even thought of writing to the Chamber of Commerce about this, but had decided that there was very little point; there were some things that seemed to be so set in stone that nothing would ever change them. Pay day, he thought, was one of those.

He glanced at his watch again. He would have to go off shortly for a meeting with a man who was thinking of selling his inspection ramp. Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors already had one of these, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought that it would be useful to have a second one, particularly if he could get it at a good price. But if he went off on this errand, then the apprentices would be left in sole charge of the garage until Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi arrived. That might be all right, but it might not, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was worried about it.

He looked at the car which was being slowly raised on the ramp. It was a large white car which belonged to Trevor Mwamba, who had just been appointed Anglican Bishop of Botswana. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew the new bishop well—it was he who had married Mma Ramotswe to him under that tree at the orphan farm, with the choir singing and the sky so high and empty—and would not normally have let the apprentices loose on his car, but it seemed that there was very little choice now. The bishop wanted his car back that afternoon if at all possible, as he had a meeting to attend in Molepolole. There was nothing seriously wrong with the car, which had been brought in for a routine service, but he always liked to check the brakes of any vehicle before he returned it, and there might be some work to be done there. Brakes were the most important part of a car, in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's view. If an engine did not work at all, then admittedly that was annoying, but it was not actually dangerous. You could hardly hurt yourself if you were stationary, but you could certainly hurt yourself if you were going at fifty miles an hour and were unable to stop. And the Molepolole road, as everybody knew, had a problem with cattle straying onto it. The cattle were meant to stay on the other side of the fence—that was the rule—but cattle were a law unto themselves and always seemed to think that there was better grass to be had on the other side of the road.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni decided that he would have to leave the bishop's car to the mercies of the apprentices but that he would check up on their work when he came back just before lunchtime. He called the older apprentice over and gave him instructions.

“Be very careful now,” he said. “That is Bishop Mwamba's car. I do not want slapdash work done on it. I want everything done very carefully.”

Charlie stared down at the ground. “I am always careful, Boss,” he muttered resentfully. “When did you ever see me being careless?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. It was no use engaging with these boys, he decided. Whatever he said would be no use; they simply would not take it in. He turned away and tore off a piece of paper towel on which to wipe his hands.

“Mma Ramotswe will be here soon,” he said. “She and Mma Makutsi are off on some business or other. But until they come in, you are in charge. Is that all right? You look after everything.”

Charlie smiled. “A-one, Boss,” he said. “Trust me.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Mmm,” he began, but said no more. Running a business involved anxieties—that was inevitable. It was bad enough worrying about two feckless young employees; how much more difficult it must be to run a very large company with hundreds of people working for you. Or running a country—that must be a terribly demanding job, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wondered how it was possible for people such as prime ministers and presidents to sleep at night with all the problems of the world weighing down upon them. It could not be an easy job being President of Botswana, and if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had a choice between living in State House or being the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, he was in no doubt about which one of these options he would choose. That is not to say that it would be uncomfortable occupying State House, with its cool rooms and its shaded gardens. That would be a very pleasant existence, but how difficult it must be for the President when everybody who came to see you, or almost everybody, wanted something: please do this, sir; please do that; please allow this, that, or the next thing. Mind you, his own existence was not all that different; just about everybody he saw wanted him to fix their car, preferably that very day. Mma Potokwane was an example of that, with her constant requests to attend to bits and pieces of malfunctioning machinery out at the orphan farm. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought that if he could not resist Mma Potokwane and her demands, then he would not be a very good candidate for the presidency of Botswana. Of course, the President had probably not met Mma Potokwane, and even he might find it a bit difficult to stand up to that most forceful of ladies, with her fruit cake and her way of wheedling things out of people.

The apprentices did not have long to themselves that morning. Shortly after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had left, they had found themselves comfortable seats on two old upturned oil drums from which they were able to observe the passers-by on the road outside. Young women who walked past, aware of the eyes upon them, might look away or affect a lack of interest, but would hear the young men's appreciative comments nonetheless. This was fine sport for the apprentices, and they were disappointed by the sudden appearance of Mma Ramotswe's tiny white van only ten minutes or so after the departure of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“What were you doing sitting about like that?” shouted out Mma Makutsi, as she climbed out of the passenger seat. “Don't think we didn't see you.”

Charlie looked at her with an expression of injured innocence. “We are as entitled to a tea break as much as anybody else,” he replied. “You don't work all the time, do you? You drink tea too. I've seen you.”

“It's a little bit early for your tea break,” suggested Mma Ramotswe mildly, looking at her wrist-watch. “But no matter. I'm sure that you have lots of work to do now.”

“They're so lazy,” muttered Mma Makutsi, under her breath. “The moment Mr J.L.B. Matekoni goes anywhere, they down tools.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “They're still very young,” she said. “They still need supervision. All young men are like that.”

“Especially useless ones like these,” said Mma Makutsi, as they entered the office. “And to think that when they finish their apprenticeships—whenever that will be—they will be let loose on the public. Imagine that, Mma. Imagine Charlie with his own business. Imagine driving into a garage and finding Charlie in control!”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She had tried to persuade Mma Makutsi to be a bit more tolerant of the two young men, but it seemed that her assistant had something of a blind spot. As far as she was concerned, the apprentices could do no right, and nothing could be said to convince her otherwise.

The two went into the office. Mma Ramotswe walked over to the window behind her desk and opened it wide. It was a warm day, and already the heat had built up in the small room; the window at least allowed the movement of air, even if the air itself was the hot breath of the Kalahari. While Mma Ramotswe stood before the window, gazing up into the cloudless sky, Mma Makutsi filled the kettle for the first cup of tea of the morning. She then turned round and began to pull her chair out from where she had tucked it under her desk. And that was the point at which she screamed—a scream that cut through the air and sent a small white gecko scuttling for its life across the ceiling boards.

Mma Ramotswe spun round, to see the other woman standing quite still, her face frozen in fear.

“Sn … ,” she stuttered, and then, “Snake, Mma Ramotswe! Snake!”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe did nothing. All those years ago in Mochudi, she had been taught by her father that with snakes the important thing to do was not to make sudden movements. A sudden movement, only too natural of course, could frighten a snake into striking, which most snakes, he said, were reluctant to do.

“They do not want to waste their venom,” he had told her. “And remember that they are as frightened of us as we are of them—possibly even more so.”

But no snake could have been as terrified as was Mma Makutsi when she saw the hood of the cobra at her feet sway slowly from side to side. She knew that she should avert her eyes, as such snakes can spit their venom into the eyes of their target with uncanny accuracy; she knew that, but she still found her gaze fixed to the small black eyes of the snake, so tiny and so filled with menace.