Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said. “It must have been very sad.”
“But fortunately Neil did not get rid of it,” he said. “Some people just throw cars away, Mma Ramotswe. They throw them away.”
Mma Ramotswe reached for a piece of paper on her desk and began to fold it. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni often needed some time to get to the point, but she was used to waiting.
“I have a customer with a broken half-shaft,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “That is part of the rear axle. You know that, don’t you? There’s a shaft that comes down the middle until it gets to the gear mechanism in the middle of the rear axle. Then, on each side of that there’s something called the half-shaft that goes to the wheel on either side.”
The piece of paper in Mma Ramotswe’s right hand had been folded in two and then folded again at an angle. As she held it up and looked past it, it seemed to her that it was now a bird, a stout bird with a large beak. She narrowed her eyes and squinted at it, so that the paper became blurred against the background of the office walls. She thought of the customer with a broken half-shaft—she understood exactly what Mr J.L.B. Matekoni meant, but she smiled at his way of expressing it. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni regarded cars and their owners as interchangeable, or as being virtually one and the same, with the result that he would talk of people who were losing oil or who were in need of bodywork. It had always amused Mma Ramotswe, and in her mind’s eye she had seen people walking with a dribble of oil stretching out behind them or with dents in their bodies or limbs. So, too, did she picture this client with the broken half-shaft; poor man, perhaps limping, perhaps patched up in some way.
“So,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “So, could you go and fetch this for me, Mma Ramotswe? You won’t have to lift anything—he’ll get one of his men to do that. All you have to do is to drive down there and drive back. That’s all.”
Mma Ramotswe rather liked the idea of a run down to Mokolodi. Although she lived in Gaborone, she was not a town person at heart—very few Batswana were—and she was never happier than when she was out in the bush, with the air of the country, dry and scented with the tang of acacia, in her lungs. On the drive to Mokolodi she would travel with the windows down, and the sun and air would flood the cabin of her tiny white van; and she would see, opening up before her, the vista of hills around Otse and beyond, green in the foreground and blue beyond. She would take the turning off to the right, and a few minutes later she would be at the stone gates of the camp and explaining to the attendant the nature of her business. Perhaps she would have a cup of tea on the verandah of the circular main building, with its thatch and its surrounding trees, and its outlook of hills. She tried to remember whether they served bush tea there; she thought they did, but just in case, she would take a sachet of her own tea which she could ask them to boil up for her.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her anxiously. “That’s all,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s fine. I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“About the hills down there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And about tea. That sort of thing.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “You often think about tea, don’t you? I don’t. I think about cars and engines and things like that. Grease. Oil. Suspension. Those are my thoughts.”
Mma Ramotswe put down the piece of paper she had been folding. “Is it not strange, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?” she said. “Is it not strange that men and women think about such very different things? There you are thinking about mechanical matters, and I am sitting here thinking about tea.”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is strange.” He paused. There was a car needing attention outside and he had to see to it. The owner wanted it back that afternoon or he would be obliged to walk home. “I must get on, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. Nodding to Mma Makutsi, he left the office and returned to the garage.
Mma Ramotswe pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Would you care to come with me, Mma Makutsi?” she asked. “It’s a nice day for a run.”
Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “But who will look after the business?” she asked. “Who will answer the telephone?”
Mma Ramotswe looked at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the filing cabinet. The mirror was intended for the use of Mma Makutsi and herself, but was used most frequently by the apprentices, who liked to preen themselves in front of it. “Should I braid my hair?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think, Mma Makutsi?”
“Your hair is very nice as it is, Mma,” said her assistant, but added, “Of course, it would be even nicer if you were to braid it.”
Mma Ramotswe looked round. “And you?” she asked. “Would you braid your hair too, if I had mine done?”
“I’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti Radiphuti is an old-fashioned man. I’m not sure what his views on braiding would be.”
“An old-fashioned man?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “That’s interesting. Does he know that you’re a modern lady?”
Mma Makutsi considered the question for a moment. “I think he does,” she said. “The other night he asked me if I was a feminist.”
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. “He asked you that, did he? And what did you reply, Mma?”
“I said that most ladies were feminists these days,” said Mma Makutsi. “So I told him, yes, I am.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m not sure that that’s the best answer to give in such circumstances. Men are very frightened of feminists.”
“But I cannot lie,” protested Mma Makutsi. “Surely men don’t expect us to lie? And anyway, Phuti is a kind man. He is not one of those men who are hostile to feminists because they are insecure underneath.”
She’s right about that, thought Mma Ramotswe. Men who put women down usually did so because they were afraid of women and wanted to build themselves up. But one had to be circumspect about these things. The termfeminist could upset men needlessly because some feminists were so unpleasant to men. Neither she nor Mma Makutsi was that sort of person. They liked men, even if they knew that there were some types of men who bullied women. They would never stand for that, of course, but at the same time they would not wish to be seen as hostile to men like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni or Phuti Radiphuti—or Mr Polopetsi, for that matter; Mr Polopetsi, who was so mild and considerate and badly done by.
“I’m not saying that you should lie,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “All I’m saying is that it’s unwise to talk to men about feminism. It makes them run away. I have seen it many times before.” She hoped that the engagement would not be threatened by this. Mma Makutsi deserved to find a good husband, especially as she had not had much luck before. Although Mma Makutsi never talked about it, Mma Ramotswe knew that there had been somebody else in Mma Makutsi’s life—for a very brief time—and that she had actually married him. But he had died, very suddenly, and she had been left alone again.
Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Phuti Radiphuti had seemed unnaturally quiet that evening after their conversation. If what Mma Ramotswe said was right, then her ill-considered remarks might prompt him to run away from her, to end their engagement. The thought brought a cold hand to her chest. She would never get another man; she would never find another fiancé like Phuti Radiphuti. She would be destined to spend the rest of her days as an assistant detective, scraping a living while other women found comfortably-off husbands to marry. She had been given a golden chance and she had squandered it through her own stupidity and thoughtlessness.
She looked down at her shoes—her green shoes with the sky-blue linings. And the shoes looked back up at her.You’ve done it, Boss , said the shoes.Don’t expect us to carry you all around town looking for another man. You had one and now you don’t. Bad luck, Boss. Bad luck.