She picked up the letter that had been usurped by the note Mma Makutsi had found.
“Oh yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “You said you’d received a letter.” She was not particularly interested, as she was still thinking of the note and the possibilities it raised.
“It’s from the husband,” said Mma Ramotswe, passing the letter to Mma Makutsi.
“What husband?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“The husband of our client—Mma Mogorosi. She is the one we’ve been talking about. The husband of that lady.”
Mma Makutsi glanced at the letter but did not bother to read it. “He’ll be saying, ‘Thank you for clearing me, Mma.’ That’s what he’ll be saying—and what man wouldn’t, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Perhaps you should read the letter, Mma.” She almost quoted Clovis Andersen, but refrained. She was sure he had said—in one of his chapters somewhere—that many people read into things the meaning they want to find; that was why it was so important to read everything twice, not just once, or not at all, as Mma Makutsi seemed to be doing.
Mma Makutsi adjusted her spectacles and began to read. Her expression changed as she went along, and ended in outrage. “He is a very shameless man,” she said. “There is no end, Mma, to the shamelessness of men—no end at all.”
Charlie asked if he might read the letter, and it was handed to him. His reaction was to laugh. As he handed the letter back to Mma Ramotswe, he said, “If you want to understand men, ladies, then you need to think like a man. Yes, you have to put yourself in a man’s shoes.”
Mma Ramotswe accepted the challenge. “All right, Charlie. That is a very good point. So I am now thinking like a man. I have heard that a private detective lady has said I am not having an affair. Why should I tell her she’s wrong?”
Mma Makutsi joined in. “Because you want her to divorce you. You want to get rid of her, but you do not think that people will approve of your divorcing her. So she must do it.”
“Why?” asked Charlie.
“Social pressure, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “Many people have odd ideas about this sort of thing. They think it’s all right for a man to have affairs as long as he continues to support his wife and family. They do not like him to throw a woman out.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. But there was something in the tone of the letter that puzzled her. She turned to Charlie and encouraged him to continue.
“I do not think this has anything to do with a divorce,” he declared. “It is quite different—if you think like a man.” He paused. They were rapt. He was pleased that they were taking him seriously. “I’ll tell you what he is thinking, Mma Ramotswe. He is thinking: this woman thinks I am no good with women. This woman is thinking that I am unable to get any girlfriends—that I am just a useless husband-type who has nobody thinking lustful thoughts about him. How dare she? She doesn’t know that I am a big Romeo-type with lots of women hanging about me all the time. She doesn’t know that, and so I had better tell her.”
It was not what they had expected, and it took a few moments for either of them to react. Then Mma Ramotswe said, “Vanity?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, Mma. Vanity. Every man thinks he is the best thing ever when it comes to women. Every man thinks that. I can tell you that—one hundred per cent for sure.”
Mma Makutsi hesitated. “Maybe, Charlie. Maybe a bit. But you are also a bit wrong. There are many men who think that about themselves—I have met many, many. But you cannot say all men think that way.”
“But they do,” Charlie insisted. “That is how men think, Mma. I can tell you because I am one—I mean I am a man. I know.”
“You are out of date, Charlie,” Mma Makutsi said. “There are plenty of men these days who do not think about women like that. Or, rather, they do not think of themselves as being the best thing with women. Champions, if you see what I mean. Number one in the attractive-to-ladies department. First prize. Not every man.”
Charlie stood his ground. “You are wrong, Mma. I told you: I know. I am a man myself. I know how men think. It’s all here.” He tapped his forehead—the seat, he imagined, of knowledge of the world and, in particular, of the ways of men.
Mma Makutsi made her point with a certain air of triumph. “What about men who like other men, Charlie? What about them? They will not think the way you’re thinking.”
There is a certain reticence in Botswana society that discourages direct reference to private matters. Now it came out, while they skirted this delicate subject.
“Mma Makutsi has a good point, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are some men who prefer the company of other men.”
Charlie stared at them. “There are not many men like that,” he said quietly. “I was not talking about those men.”
“But you can’t ignore them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti has a man working in the furniture store who is wearing lipstick. He said he saw him putting it on.”
Charlie frowned. “How could he tell it was lipstick, Mma? There are those things for sore lips—you know that balm stuff. It is for sore lips. Maybe it was that.”
“It was lipstick,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti knows the difference between lipstick and that stuff. He saw it with his own eyes.”
“That does not make him a man who likes other men,” said Charlie. “Why should men not wear something if they want to?”
“Anyway,” said Mma Ramotswe, “it doesn’t matter who you like. If you are kind and good to people, then you should be left in peace. Nobody should care—it’s not their business.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. “These days it is not important. And there are many men who like other men just a little bit, you know. Look at a group of men together—they are smiling and laughing and drinking beer and so on. All the time. They must like those other men. They must want to hug them from time to time.”
Charlie shook his head vehemently. “No, Mma. They do not. They do not like to hug other men.”
“Then that’s very sad,” said Mma Makutsi. “Perhaps they really do want to hug other men but have been told that they cannot, because it is not allowed.” She remembered something. “I have read somewhere that all men feel a bit like that at some point in their lives. Just now and then. I have read that ninety-seven per cent do. Something like that.”
She was taunting Charlie, who was unaware of it. “No, Mma,” he said. “No, that is not right.”
“Perhaps you should stop worrying about these things, Charlie. Perhaps you worry too much.”