Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 (3 page)

That, of course, was if the rain came. Sometimes there were
droughts, and a whole season would go by with very little rainfall, and the
dryness would become an ache, always there, like dust in the throat. Botswana
was lucky of course; she could import grain, but there were countries which
could not, for they had no money, and in those places there was nothing to
stand between the people and starvation. That was Africa’s burden, and by
and large it was borne with dignity; but it still caused pain to Mma Potokwane
to know that her fellow Africans faced such suffering.

Now, though,
the trees were covered with green leaves, and it was easy for Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni to find a shady place for his car outside the orphan farm offices. As
he emerged from the car, a small boy came up to him and took his hand. The
child looked up at him with grave eyes, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled down on
him. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a handful of wrapped peppermints,
and slipped these into the palm of the child’s hand.

“I saw
you there, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Potokwane, as her visitor
entered her room. “I saw you give sweets to that child. That child is
cunning. He knows you are a kind man.”

“I am not a kind
man,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am an ordinary
mechanic.”

Mma Potokwane laughed. “You are not an ordinary
mechanic. You are the best mechanic in Botswana! Everybody knows
that.”

“No,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Only you
think that.”

Mma Potokwane shook her head vigorously. “Then
why does the British High Commissioner take his car to you? There are many big
garages in Botswana who would like to service a car like that. But he still
goes to you. Always.”

“I cannot say why,” said Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I think that he is a good man and likes to go to a
small garage.” He was too modest to accept her praise, and yet he was
aware of his reputation. Of course, if people knew about his apprentices, and
how bad they were, they might think differently of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors,
but the apprentices were not going to be there forever. In fact, they were due
to complete their training in a couple of months and that would be the end of
them. How peaceful it would be once they had moved on! How comfortable it would
be not to have to think of the damage that they were doing to the cars
entrusted to him. It would be a new freedom for him; a release from a worry
which hung about his shoulders each day. He had done his best to train them
properly, and they had picked up something over the years, but they were
impatient, and that was a fatal flaw in the personality of any mechanic.
Donkeys and cars required patience.

One of the older girls had made
tea, and now she brought this in, together with the rich fruit cake on a plate.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni saw the cake, and for a moment he frowned. He knew Mma
Potokwane, and the presence of a large cake, specially made for the occasion,
was an unambiguous signal that she had a request to make of him. A cake of this
size, and emitting such a strong smell of raisins, would mean a major
mechanical problem. The minivan? He had replaced the brake pads recently, but
he was concerned about the engine seals. At that age, engine seals could go and
the block could heat up and …

“I’ve made you a
cake,” said Mma Potokwane brightly.

“You are a very
generous person, Mma,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni flatly. “You always
remember that I like raisins.”

“I have many more packets of
raisins,” said Mma Potokwane, making a generous gesture, as might one
with an unlimited supply of raisins. She reached over to the plate and cut a
large portion of cake for her guest. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni watched her, and he
thought: once I eat this cake I will have to say yes. But then he went on to
think: I always say yes anyway, cake or no cake. What difference is there?

“I should think that Mma Ramotswe makes you many cakes these
days,” said Mma Potokwane as she slid a generous portion of cake onto her
own plate. “She is a good cook, I think.”

Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni nodded. “She is best at cooking pumpkin and things like
that,” he said. “But she can also make cakes. You ladies are very
clever.”

“Yes,” agreed Mma Potokwane, pouring the
tea. “We are much cleverer than you men, but unfortunately you do not
know that.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his shoes. It was
probably true, he thought. It was difficult being a man sometimes, particularly
when women reminded one of the fact that one was a man. But there were clever
men about, he thought, and these men would give ladies like Mma Potokwane a
good run for their money. The problem was that he was not one of these clever
men.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked out of the window. He thought that
perhaps he should say something, but nothing came into his mind. Outside the
window, the branch of the flamboyant tree, on which a few red flowers still
grew, moved almost imperceptibly. New seed pods were growing, while last
year’s pods, long blackened strips, clung to branches here and there.
They were good trees, flamboyants, he thought, with their shade and their red
flowers, and their delicate fronds of tiny leaves, like feathers, swaying
gently in the wind … He stopped. The thin green branch just outside the
open window seemed to be unwinding itself and extending tentatively, as if some
exaggerated process of growth were occurring.

He rose to his feet,
putting down his half-finished piece of cake.

“You’ve seen
something?” asked Mma Potokwane. “Are the children up to something
out there?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took a step closer to the window
and then stopped. “There is a snake on that branch out there, Mma. A
green snake.”

Mma Potokwane gasped and stood up to peer out of
her window. She narrowed her eyes briefly, peering into the foliage, and then
reached suddenly for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s arm.

“You are
right, Rra! There is a snake! Ow! Look at it!”

“Yes,”
said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It’s a long snake too. Look, its tail
goes all the way down there.”

“You must kill it,
Rra,” said Mma Potokwane. “I will fetch you a stick.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. He knew that people were always telling you not
to kill snakes on sight, but you could not allow snakes to come so close to all
the orphans. It might be different in the bush, where there was a place for
snakes, and they had their own roads and paths, going this way and that, but
here it was different. This was the orphan farm front yard, and at any moment
the snake could drop down on an orphan as he or she walked under that tree. Mma
Potokwane was right; he would have to kill the snake.

Armed with the
broomstick which Mma Potokwane had fetched from a cupboard, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,
followed at a discreet distance by the matron, walked round the corner of the
office building. The syringa tree seemed higher when viewed from outside, and
he wondered whether he would be able to reach the branch on which the snake had
been sitting. If he could not, then there was nothing that he could do. They
would simply have to warn the orphans to stay away from that tree for the time
being.

“Just climb up there and hit it,” whispered Mma
Potokwane. “Look! There it is. It is not moving now.”

“I cannot go up there,” protested Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “If
I get too close, it could bite me.” He shuddered as he spoke. These green
tree snakes, boomslangs they called them, were amongst the most poisonous
snakes, worse even than the mambas, some people said, because they had no serum
in Botswana to deal with their bite. They had to telephone through to South
Africa to get supplies of it if somebody was bitten.

“But you
must climb up,” urged Mma Potokwane. “Otherwise, it will get
away.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her, as if to confirm the
order. He looked for some sign that she did not really mean this, but there was
none. He could not climb up the tree, into the snake’s domain; he simply
could not.

“I cannot,” he said. “I cannot climb up
there. I shall try to reach him with my stick from here. I shall poke at the
branch.”

Mma Potokwane looked doubtful, standing back as he took
a tentative step forward. She raised a hand to watch as the broom handle moved
up into the foliage of the tree. For his part Mr J.L.B. Matekoni held his
breath; he was not a cowardly man, and indeed was braver than most. He never
shirked his duty and knew that he had to deal with this snake, but the way to
deal with snakes was to keep an advantage over them, and while it was in the
tree this snake was in its element.

What happened next was the subject
of much discussion amongst the staff of the orphan farm and amongst the small
knot of orphans which was by now watching from the security of the office
verandah. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni might have touched the snake with the broom handle
or he might not. It is possible that the snake saw the stick approaching and
decided on evasive action, for these are shy snakes, in spite of their powerful
venom, and do not seek confrontation. It moved, and moved quickly, slipping
through the leaves and branches with a fluid, undulating motion. Within a few
seconds it was sliding down the trunk of the tree, impossibly attached, and
then was upon the ground and darting, arrow-like, across the baked earth. Mma
Potokwane let out a shriek, as the snake seemed to be heading for her, but then
it swerved and shot away towards a large hibiscus bush that grew on a patch of
grass behind the office. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave a shout, and pursued it with
his broom, thumping the end of the stick upon the earth. The snake moved
faster, and reached the grass, which seemed to help it in its flight. Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni stopped; he did not wish to kill this long green stripe of life, which
would surely not linger here any longer and was no danger to anyone. He turned
to Mma Potokwane, who had raised her hand to her mouth and had uttered a brief
ululation, as was traditional, and quite proper, at moments of celebration.

“You brave man!” she shouted. “You chased that snake
away!”

“Not really,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“I think it had decided to go anyway.”

Mma Potokwane would
have none of this. Turning to the group of orphans, who were chattering
excitedly amongst themselves, she said, “You see this uncle? You see how
he has saved us all from this snake?”

“Ow!” called
out one of the orphans. “You are very brave, uncle.”

Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni looked away in embarrassment. Handing back the broom to Mma
Potokwane, he turned to go back into the office, where the rest of his cake was
awaiting him. He noticed that his hands were shaking.

“NOW,” SAID Mma Potokwane as she placed another, particularly
generous, slice of cake on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s plate. “Now we can
talk. Now I know you are a brave man, which I always suspected
anyway.”

“You must stop calling me that,” he said.
“I am no braver than any other man.”

Mma Potokwane seemed
not to hear. “A brave man,” she went on. “And I have been
looking for a brave man now for over a week. At last I have found
him.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “You have had snakes for
that long? What about the men around here? What about the husbands of all those
housemothers? Where are they?”

“Oh, not snakes,” said
Mma Potokwane. “We have seen no other snakes. This is about something
else. I have a plan which needs a brave man. And you are the obvious person. We
need a brave man who is also well-known.”

“I am not
well-known,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni quickly.

“But you are!
Everybody knows your garage. Everybody has seen you standing outside it, wiping
your hands on a cloth. Everybody who drives past says, ‘There’s Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni in front of his garage. That is him.’”

Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate. He felt a strong sense of foreboding,
but he would eat the cake nonetheless while Mma Potokwane revealed whatever it
was that she had in store for him. He would be strong this time, he thought. He
had stood up to her not all that long ago on the question of the pump, and the
need to replace it; now he would stand up to her again. He picked up the piece
of cake and bit off a large piece. The raisins tasted even better now, in the
presence of danger.

“I want you to help me raise money,”
said Mma Potokwane,“We have a boy who can sing very well. He is sixteen
now, one of the older boys, and Mr Slater at the Maitisong Festival wants to
send him to Cape Town to take part in a competition. But this costs money, and
this boy has none, because he is just an orphan. He can only go if we raise the
money for him. It will be a big thing for Botswana if he goes, and a big thing
for that boy too.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni put down the rest of the
cake. He need not have worried, he thought: this sounded like a completely
reasonable request. He would sell raffle tickets at the garage if she wanted,
or donate a free car service as a prize. Why that should require courage, he
could not understand.

And then it became clear. Mma Potokwane picked up
her tea cup, took a sip of tea, and then announced her plan.

“I’d like you to do a sponsored parachute jump, Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni,” she said.

CHAPTER THREE