They lapsed into silence. A bird flew past the house, a late returner to the safety of its branch. Mma Ramotswe smiled to herself, a memory triggered. As a child, she had walked one evening with her father in the bush on the edge of Mochudi, a place of thorn trees and scrub grass, criss-crossed by meandering paths. Cattle walked that way, and somewhere in the distance there was the sound of cattle bells. The sun had set, but there were a few precious minutes of light left—a time when the sky was still pale with the day’s last moments. And a pair of guinea fowl had suddenly clattered up in front of them, fussing and anxious, and had flown up into the branches of a nearby tree. Her father had said—and she remembered his words—“Night is not always a friend, my darling.” It was a strange thing for him to say, and it was equally strange that she should remember his words with such clarity after all these years. But she nurtured any memory of that great man, her father, tended it as one might tend a delicate plant; always, forever.
She wondered what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking about. She had reflected in the past on how two lives might be led as one, but only on the outside; on the inside very different thoughts might be in the minds of husband and wife. Was he thinking right now, for instance, of something somebody had said to him at the garage? Or of some mechanical problem that had not been resolved that day and would have to be dealt with the following morning? Or was he thinking of something altogether different? Money? Cattle? Or rain, perhaps, because everybody was thinking of rain now, so great was their longing.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” she said quietly. “You may be thinking of something important.”
He laughed. “I am not thinking of anything very much, Mma. Just my dinner.”
“Is that what men think about?” she asked playfully. “Mma Potokwane says it is. She says that men think of meat all the time. Steak. That is what she says.”
“Some of the time, maybe,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I was wondering when we would be having dinner tonight.” He glanced at his watch and then, becoming aware that she had noticed, he looked apologetic. “Although I am still happy to talk about this lady with her two boyfriends—and to tell you what I think you should do.”
She was pleased. She wanted his view on what was to her an uncomfortable choice.
“I would do nothing,” he said. “Calviniah is not a proper paying client, Mma. She is a lady who is unhappy because her daughter is being unkind to her.”
She nodded. Calviniah was not a client—that was true enough—and yet she was a friend, even if one with whom she had lost touch.
“Because,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni continued, drawing out the word as if to give himself time to think of what was to follow, “because, Mma, there is so much unhappiness in the world, and can the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency deal with all of it? I do not think so, Mma Ramotswe.” He shook his head sadly. Mma Ramotswe, for all her talent, for all her generosity of spirit, could not deal with all that unhappiness—just as he could not rectify all the mechanical problems that beset the world. Everywhere, all the time, there were cars making peculiar noises, cars begging for a change of oil, cars listing to one side or another because of faulty suspension—oh, it hurt the head just to think of all those unattended mechanical faults—and yet Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors could not, on its own, bring an end to all of that.
“No,” he concluded. “No, Mma. You cannot. You should think of other things now, and leave that young woman to lead her life in the way in which she wants to. Ladies who have two boyfriends will eventually trip up over one of them and learn their lesson. She will eventually call one of them by the other’s name, or do something like that, and then there will be trouble.” He paused. “And the poor mother will be there, I suppose, when the daughter comes back to her and says, ‘Oh, Mummy, I have been a foolish, foolish girl.’ And the mother will take her back, because that is what mothers always do, Mma. And that will be that.”
She looked at him. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not go in for long speeches, but this one, lengthy though it was, was firm and decisive.
“So you think I should forget about the whole thing, Rra?”
“Yes,” he said. “And are you not hungry now, Mma? It is getting late and most people—not all, of course, but most people—will have had their dinner.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right. I should forget about it. And we should have our dinner.”
He reached out to touch her lightly on the forearm. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not physically demonstrative, but this gesture spoke volubly to all the love he felt for this woman, and for so much else in the world: for the kindness of women, for the touching concern a woman could have for the unhappiness of another, for the willingness of women to make dinner, day after day, for their husbands. There were men who cooked, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reminded himself, and perhaps he should do that himself—just to show her that he valued her so much and, incidentally, that he was not one of those old-fashioned men who would never change.
On impulse, he said, “Mma Ramotswe—would you teach me how to cook?”
She was unprepared for this, but touched. “I will do that, Rra. Yes, I will do that. When would you like to start?”
He had not thought about that. There were immediate projects, and there were more general projects. There was a difference. “Next month?” he said.
She smiled. “That will be a good time to start, Rra. When the rains come.”
“Yes,” he said. “When the rains come.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
YOU SHOULD SEE HIS TEETH
WHILE MMA RAMOTSWE and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were having their conversation about Calviniah—and cooking—Charlie was standing anxiously at the front door of Queenie-Queenie’s parental home listening to the loud barking of a dog. Queenie-Queenie had told him that her parents had a dog, and that in her opinion it was too dangerous to be kept in the house.
“That dog has big-time psychological problems,” she said. “One of these days he is going to eat somebody—I mean, really eat them, Charlie. No, I’m not exaggerating: you should see his teeth.”
Charlie made a face. “They should tie him up,” he suggested. “They should tie him up in the back yard, where he cannot easily bite people who come to the house.”
“They tried that,” Queenie-Queenie retorted. “But he ate the rope. And he likes to sleep on the sofa. He is unhappy if he cannot sleep on the sofa. He growls and growls. He is a very bad dog, Charlie.”
“I do not like dogs like that,” Charlie muttered.
“Just ignore him,” Queenie-Queenie advised. “If you look into the eyes of that dog, he will bite you. Just look up at the ceiling or out of the window; then he will forget to bite you. That’s the best way of dealing with him.”