Herbert Mateleke shook his head. “She is a midwife, Mma, as you know. Men do not have babies. Yet.” He hesitated. “Although there are many men these days who want to have babies, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled at that. There were so many different sorts of men these days, that was true, and she wondered whether she might have to change her views of men, which were based, she had to admit, on the idea of traditional men; there were plenty of men today who seemed to be interested in things like clothing and hairstyles, even here in Botswana. And there was a whole generation, she had to acknowledge-reluctantly-who knew very little about cattle, and, shockingly, were not interested in learning. If there was one thing that would upset her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, were he by some miracle to come back and see Botswana today, it would be that. He could take the rudeness of the day-not that Botswana was nearly as bad as many places-and he could take the materialism of the day, but she did not think that he would understand this lack of interest in the land and in the cattle. “But this is Botswana!” he would say to these young people. “You are Batswana and you have no interest in cattle? How can that be!”
This was not the time, though, to reflect on change in the world. This was the time to try to allay Herbert Mateleke’s highly unlikely suspicions about his wife. Those suspicions, of course, spoke volumes on the issue of whether he himself was having an affair. He was not. A husband who was having an affair would not have the time or the interest in his wife to work himself into a state over her fidelity or otherwise. No, the most likely explanation here was that these two people, perhaps having become a bit stale in their marriage, were imagining things-on both sides.
“Even if she does not work with men,” Mma Ramotswe pointed out, “there could be many other reasons for her to talk to a man. What about the daddies-the men who have fathered the children she has delivered? Do you not think they would have good memories of her, and want to tell her how the children are doing?”
She waited for him to answer, but he merely looked glumly over the top of her head. So she continued, “I do not think for one moment-not for one moment-that you can draw such a serious conclusion just from seeing her talking to a man. In public. In the open. For heaven’s sake, Rra, what if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were to see you and me sitting here having food together? Would he say to himself, that man, that Herbert Mateleke, is having an affair with my wife? Of course he would not. He would say: that is Mma Ramotswe having a snack with her friend’s husband. Then he would ask himself: I wonder what they are eating. Is it good? That is what he would think, Rra. And that is what you should think too.”
Herbert Mateleke stopped staring over the top of her head, lowering his eyes to meet hers. “But there are other things. There are other things that make me think this.”
“Such as? Are you sure you are not letting your imagination run away with itself?”
“I am not. We used to go for walks together. I used to go with her to the supermarket. Now she says that she is too busy. She says that I should get on with my preaching and let her get on with the things she has to do.”
Wives lost interest in their husbands, Mma Ramotswe reflected. Sometimes husbands did not notice this, but it could be rather difficult if the husband was the clinging, dependent type of man. She studied Herbert Mateleke for a moment, asking herself what it would be like to be married to him. It was something she did from time to time, and for the most part she reached the conclusion that it would actually be rather hard being married to most men; not that she was fussy, of course. And she expected that most men would probably not wish to be married to her-that was only fair if she did not want to be married to them. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was perfect, as far as she was concerned-he was so understanding and considerate, compared with most men.
She would definitely not like to be married to Herbert Mateleke. It was not that he was a boorish or unpleasant man-far from it. The problem was that he was a reverend, and she imagined that he would always be preaching at his wife, telling her what to do. And if that were the case, then it would be no great surprise, perhaps, if Mma Mateleke were to feel a little bit trapped, and to try to do at least some things on her own.
How might one put that tactfully? Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. “Women need some room for themselves, Rra,” she ventured. “You know how it is.”
He looked at her blankly. “Some room, Mma? She has a great deal of space. Our house is very big. My wife is never crowded.”
“I don’t mean room in that sense,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I mean room to do things by herself. We all want to do that, Rra. It’s natural.”
He stared at her without expression. He has not understood, she thought.
“You don’t like being with other people all the time, do you, Rra? Don’t you sometimes feel like getting away from everybody and taking a walk by yourself? Surely you feel that?”
“But she is my wife,” said Herbert Mateleke. “Why should she not want to be with me all the time?”
He had neither listened nor understood, thought Mma Ramotswe. Of course Mma Mateleke would want to get away from her husband. She simply wanted to breathe, as all women do. And men too. We all needed to breathe. She would like to point this out to Herbert Mateleke, but she was not sure that he would understand. The realisation came to her that this man, for all his success and his following, was actually not very bright. Mma Mateleke was an intelligent woman, and perhaps she had simply grown bored with this rather slow, literal man. But that did not mean she would go out and have an affair; that was surely unlikely. Apart from anything else, Mma Mateleke was simply too busy delivering babies to have an affair.
“Let me tell you what I think, Rra,” she said. She was suddenly businesslike. He was looking for advice; well, she would give it, first to him, and then later to Mma Mateleke. She would bang their heads together and say, “Listen, you are both worrying about something that is not happening. But sort this out before you drift apart and the thing that you worry about really does happen. Listen to one another. Find out how each of you is feeling. And above all, stop worrying.”
Of course, she knew that it was almost always pointless telling somebody to stop worrying. We all did it; we told friends not to worry because their worries seemed small, unimportant things to us, and we knew that such problems were never solved by brooding over them. But people never stopped worrying simply because they were told to. They listened, perhaps, and told you that they would stop, but they carried on nonetheless. That was true, Mma Ramotswe thought, of most advice we gave; people often listened, but only very rarely acted on what was said to them. “Thank you, Mma,” they said. “That is very wise.” And then they went on to do exactly what they had planned to do in the first place. People were very strange. Mma Ramotswe had decided that early in her career, and had seen nothing to disabuse her of that notion. People were very strange.
But this was not a time to question the whole idea of giving advice; this was a time to give it. “This is what I think, Rra,” she said. “I do not think that your wife is having an affair. I think that you are worrying for no reason. And I also think that she might be worrying about you! Yes! So the two of you should sit down and talk together. Then go out to the President Hotel and have dinner together. Pretend that you’re twenty-five again and out on a date. That is what you must do.”
He listened to her carefully, and this time he appeared to be taking in what she was saying. Sometimes reverends did not listen to others, she had observed, because they thought that there was nobody else who could tell them anything. But Mma Ramotswe’s plain talking had had an effect; he was listening, and he was taking it in. Good, she thought. This is a very good result. No affairs. No unhappiness. Nothing. And no fee, of course, as Mma Mateleke had not actually consulted her as a detective, but had prevailed upon her as a friend. No fee.