Part 2 (1/2)

”And here's another thing,” said the apprentice, wiping his hands on a piece of oil rag. ”He hasn't paid the spare parts supplier for two months. They telephoned the other day, when he had gone away early, and I took the call, didn't I, Siletsi?”

The other apprentice nodded.

”Anyway,” he went on. ”Anyway, they said that unless we paid within ten days they would not provide us with any further spare parts. They said that I should tell that to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and get him to buck up his ways. That's what they said. Me tell the boss. That's what they said I should do.”

”And did you?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

”I did,” he said. ”I said: A word in your ear, Rra. Just a word. Then I told him.”

Mma Ramotswe watched his expression. It was clear that he was pleased to be cast in the role of the concerned employee, a role, she suspected, which he had not had occasion to occupy before.

”And then? What did he say to your advice?”

The apprentice sniffed, wiping his hand across his nose.

”He said that he would try to do something about it. That's what he said. But you know what I think? You know what I think is happening, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly.

He went on, ”I think that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has stopped caring about this garage. I think that he has had enough. I think he wants to hand it over to us. Then he wants to go off to his lands out there and grow melons. He is an old man now, Mma. He has had enough.”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. The sheer effrontery of the suggestion astonished her: here was this ... this useless apprentice, best known for his ability to pester the girls who walked past the garage, the very apprentice whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had once seen using a hammer on an engine, now saying that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni himself was ready to retire.

It took her the best part of a minute to compose herself sufficiently to reply.

”You are a very rude young man,” she said at last. ”Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has not lost interest in his garage. And he is not an old man. He is just in his early forties, which is not old at all, whatever you people think. And finally, he has no intention of handing the garage over to you two. That would be the end of the business. Do you understand me?”

The older of the apprentices looked for rea.s.surance from his friend, but the other was staring fixedly at the ground.

”I understand you, Mma. I am sorry.”

”As well you should be,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”And here's a bit of news for you. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has just appointed an a.s.sistant manager for this garage. This new manager will be starting here very soon, and you two had better look out.”

Her remarks had the desired effect on the older apprentice, who dropped his oily piece of cloth and looked anxiously at the other.

”When does he start?” he asked nervously.

”Next week,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”And it's a she.”

”A she? A woman?”

”Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, turning to leave. ”It is a woman called Mma Makutsi, and she is very strict with apprentices. So there will be no more sitting around playing stones. Do you understand?”

The apprentices nodded glumly.

”Then get on with trying to fix that car,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”I shall come back in a couple of hours and see how it's going.”

She walked back to the van and climbed into the driving seat. She had succeeded in sounding very determined when she gave the apprentices their instructions, but she felt far from certain inside. In fact, she felt extremely concerned. In her experience, when people began to behave out of character it was a sign that something was very wrong. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was a thoroughly conscientious man, and thoroughly conscientious men did not let their customers down unless there was a very good reason. But what was it? Was it something to do with their impending marriage? Had he changed his mind? Did he wish to escape?

MMA MAKUTSI locked the door of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had gone off to the garage to talk to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and had left her to finish the letters and get them to the post. No request made of her would have seemed excessive, so great was Mma Makutsi's joy at her promotion and the news of her increase in wages. It was a Thursday, and tomorrow was payday, even if it would be a payday at the old rate. She would treat herself to something in antic.i.p.ation, she thought-perhaps a doughnut on the way home. Her route took her past a small stall that sold doughnuts and other fried foods and the smell was tantalising. Money was the problem, though. A large, fried doughnut cost two pula, which made it an expensive treat, especially if one thought what the evening meal would cost. Living in Gaborone was expensive; everything seemed to cost twice as much as it did at home. In the country, ten pula would get one a long way; here in Gaborone ten pula notes seemed to melt in one's hand.

Mma Makutsi rented a room in the backyard of a house off the Lobatse Road. The room formed half of a small, breezeblock shack which looked out to the back fence and a meandering lane, the haunt of thin-faced dogs. The dogs were loosely attached to the people who lived in the houses, but seemed to prefer their own company and roamed about in packs of two or three. Somebody must have fed them, at irregular intervals, but their rib cages still showed and they seemed constantly to be scavenging for sc.r.a.ps from the rubbish bins. On occasion, if Mma Makutsi left her door open, one of these dogs would wander in and gaze at her with mournful, hungry eyes until she shooed it out. This was perhaps a greater indignity than that which befell her at work, when the chickens came into the office and started pecking about her feet.

She bought her doughnut at the stall and ate it there and then, licking the sugar off her fingers when she had finished. Then, her hunger a.s.suaged, she began the walk home. She could have ridden home in a minibus-it was a cheap enough form of transport-but she enjoyed the walk in the cool of the evening, and she was usually in no hurry to reach home. She wondered how he was; whether it had been a good day for her brother, or whether his coughing would have tired him out. He had been quite comfortable over the last few days, although he was very weak now, and she had enjoyed one or two nights of unbroken sleep.

He had come to live with her two months earlier, making the long journey from their home by bus. She had gone to meet him at the bus station down by the railway, and for a brief moment she had looked at him without recognising him. The last time she had seen him he had been well-built, even bulky; now he was stooped and thin and his s.h.i.+rt flapped loosely about his torso. When she realised that it was him, she had run up and taken his hand, which had shocked her, for it was hot and dry and the skin was cracked. She had lifted his suitcase for him, although he had tried to do that himself, and had carried it all the way to the minibus that plied its trade down the Lobatse Road.

After that, he had settled in, sleeping on the mat which she had set up on the other side of her room. She had strung a wire from wall to wall and hung a curtain over it, to give him privacy and some sense of having his own place, but she heard every rasping breath he drew and was often woken by his mumbling in his dreams.

”You are a kind sister to take me in,” he said. ”I am a lucky man to have a sister like you.”

She had protested that it was no trouble, and that she liked having him with her, and that he could stay with her when he was better and found a job in Gaborone, but she knew that this was not going to happen. He knew too, she was sure, but neither spoke about it or the cruel disease which was ending his life, slowly, like a drought dries up a landscape.

Now, coming home, she had good news for him. He was always very interested to hear what had happened at the agency, as he always asked her for all the details of her day. He had never met Mma Ramotswe-Mma Makutsi did not want her to know about his illness-but he had a very clear picture of her in his head and he always asked after her.

”I will meet her one day, maybe,” he said. ”And I will be able to thank her for what she has done for my sister. If it hadn't been for her, then you would never have been able to become an a.s.sistant detective.”

”She is a kind woman.”

”I know she is,” he said. ”I can see this nice woman with her smile and her fat cheeks. I can see her drinking tea with you. I am happy just to think about it.”

Mma Makutsi wished that she had thought to buy him a doughnut, but often he had no appet.i.te and it would have been wasted. His mouth was painful, he said, and the cough made it difficult for him to eat very much. So often he would take only a few spoonfuls of the soup which she prepared on her small paraffin stove, and even then he would sometimes have difficulty in keeping these down.

Somebody else was in the room when she got home. She heard a strange voice and for a moment she feared that something terrible had happened in her absence, but when she entered the room she saw that the curtain had been drawn back and that there was a woman sitting on a small folding stool beside his mat. When she heard the door open, the woman stood up and turned to face her.

”I am the nurse from the Anglican hospice,” she said. ”I have come to see our brother. My name is Sister Baleje.”

The nurse had a pleasant smile, and Mma Makutsi took to her immediately.

”You are kind to come and see him,” Mma Makutsi said. ”I wrote that letter to you just to let you know that he was not well.”

The nurse nodded. ”That was the right thing to do. We can call in to see him from time to time. We can bring food if you need it. We can do something to help, even if it's not a great deal. We have some drugs we can give him. They are not very strong, but they can help a bit.”

Mma Makutsi thanked her, and looked down at her brother.

”It is the coughing that troubles him,” she said. ”That is the worst thing, I think.”

”It is not easy,” said the nurse.

The nurse sat down on her stool again and took the brother's hand.

”You must drink more water, Richard,” she said. ”You must not let yourself get too thirsty.”

He opened his eyes and looked up at her, but said nothing. He was not sure why she was here, but thought that she was a friend of his sister, perhaps, or a neighbour.

The nurse looked at Mma Makutsi and gestured for her to sit on the floor beside them. Then, still holding his hand, she reached forward and gently touched his cheek.