In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (15 page)

“So you would not want any dirt or water to get in there,” said Mr Polopetsi.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded appreciatively. This showed that Mr Polopetsi intuitively understood how engines felt. Charlie would never have said anything so perceptive.

Now Mma Makutsi asked Mr Polopetsi whether everything was all right.

“Oh yes,” he replied enthusiastically. “Everything is all right. I just thought that I would tell you that I have finished all my work in the garage this afternoon and I wondered if you had anything

for me to do.”

Mma Makutsi was most impressed. Most people would not ask for more work, but if they had nothing to do would merely pretend to work until five o’clock came and they could go home. In asking for something to do, Mr Polopetsi was proving that Mma Ramotswe had been right in her positive judgement of him.

She looked about the office. It was difficult to see what there was for him to do. She could hardly ask him to do any filing, which had been done anyway, and it would be too much to expect him to be able to type, even if he had been a pharmacy assistant and was therefore an indoor sort of man. So she could not ask him to do any letters; or could she?

Mma Makutsi looked sideways at Mr Polopetsi. “You can’t type, can you, Rra?” she asked hesitantly.

Mr Polopetsi was matter of fact in his reply; there was no hint of boasting. “I can type very quickly, Mma. My sister went to the Botswana Secretarial College and she taught me.”

Mma Makutsi stared at him. Not only was he a hard and resourceful worker, but he had a sister who was a graduate of the

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Botswana Secretarial College! She thought of the name— Polopetsi. Had she known anybody of that name at the College?

“She has a different name,” Mr Polopetsi explained. “She is my sister by a different father. Her name is Difele. Agnes Difele.”

Mma Makutsi clapped her hands together. “She was my friend,” she exclaimed. “She was just before me at the College. She did very well … too.”

“Yes,” said Mr Polopetsi. “She got eighty per cent in the final examinations.”

Mma Makutsi nodded gravely. That was a good mark, well above the average. Of course it was not ninety-seven per cent, but it was perfectly creditable.

“Where is she now?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“She is a secretary in the Standard Bank,” said Mr Polopetsi. “But I do not see her much these days. She was very ashamed when I was sent to prison and she has not spoken to me since then. She said that I disgraced her.”

Mma Makutsi was silent. It was difficult to imagine somebody

disowning her own brother like that. She herself would never have done that; one’s family was one’s family whatever happened;

surely that was the point of having a family in the first place. One’s family gave one unconditional support, whatever happened.

“I am sorry to hear that, Rra,” she said.

Mr Polopetsi looked away for a moment. “I am not cross with her. I hope that she will change her mind some day. Then we will talk again.”

Mma Makutsi looked at her desk. There were several letters which had to be typed, and she had intended to type them the following day. But here was Mr Polopetsi, with his ability to type, and it occurred to her that she had never once been in a position to dictate a letter and have somebody else type it. Now

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here she was with letters to be typed and a good typist at her disposal.

“I have some letters to dictate,” she said. “You could type them as I dictate. That will save time.”

Mr Polopetsi lost no time in setting himself up behind the typewriter at Mma Makutsi’s desk, while she installed herself in Mma Ramotswe’s chair, several sheets of paper in her hand. This is delicious, she thought. After all these years, I am now sitting in an office chair and dictating to a man. This was a very long way from those early days in Bobonong.

MMA MAKUTSI was late in arriving at the dancing class that evening and as she walked along the corridor at the President Hotel she could hear the band in full flow and the sound of numerous feet on the wooden floor. She appeared at the entrance and made her way to a seat at the side, only to be intercepted by Phuti Radiphuti, who had been waiting for her. Her heart sank. She did not wish to be unkind, but she had hoped that perhaps he would not be there and that she might have the chance to dance with somebody else. Now she was trapped, and there would be more stumbling and tripping while everybody

else made progress and moved with greater and greater ease.

Phuti Radiphuti beamed with pleasure as he led her onto the floor. The band, which had been augmented by another guitarist, was playing more loudly than the last time, with the result that it was difficult for her to hear what anybody was saying, let alone to understand those with a speech impediment. So Mma Makutsi had to strain to make out her partner’s words, and even when she thought she could do so, she was puzzled by their apparent lack of sense.

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“This is a waltz,” he tried to say, as they started to dance. But Mma Makutsi heard: This is all false. She wondered why he would say such a thing. Did he sense that she was only dancing with him out of pity, or a sense of duty? Or did he mean something

quite different?

So she decided to seek clarification. “Why?” she asked.

Phuti Radiphuti looked puzzled. Waltzes were waltzes, of course; that was just what they were. He could not answer her question, and instead concentrated on doing the steps correctly, which was difficult for him. One, two, together is what Mr Fanope had said; or had he said that they should count three before they did the side-step?

Sensing her partner’s confusion, Mma Makutsi took control. Drawing him to the side of the floor, she showed him how the steps were to be executed and made him repeat them himself while she watched. From the corner of her eye she noticed that the woman she had seen at the first lesson, the one whose name she had forgotten, was watching her in a bemused fashion from the other side of the room. That woman was dancing with the same elegant man who had partnered her before, and she waved at Mma Makutsi over her shoulder as she spun round in his expert arms.

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. She was determined not to feel put down by this woman with her showy dress and her condescending

manner. She knew what she would think of her, that she would be thinking: there’s poor Grace Makutsi, who never managed to get any man to pay attention to her, and look what she’s landed herself with now! Life has passed her by, of course, in spite of the fact that she graduated top of our class. It’s no good getting ninety-whatever per cent if you end up like that.

It did not help to imagine what that woman would be thinking;

it would be far better to ignore her, or, better still, to remind

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herself that it was the other woman who deserved the pity. After all, what did she have in life? She would have no career, that woman, only a life of running around with men. And the problem with that is that as you get older it becomes harder and harder to interest men. There would be a new generation of young women then, women with young faces and flashing teeth, while all the time one’s own face sagged with age and one’s teeth seemed to get a little less white.

Over the next half hour, they danced in almost complete silence. Mma Makutsi had to acknowledge that Phuti Radiphuti was making an effort and seemed to be improving slightly. He trod on her toes less frequently now, and he seemed to be making some progress with keeping in time. She complimented him on this, and he smiled appreciatively.

“I think I’m getting better,” he stuttered.

“We must take a break,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m very thirsty after all this dancing.”

They left the dance room and made their way down the corridor

and onto the hotel verandah. A waiter appeared and took their orders: a cold beer for Phuti Radiphuti and a large glass of orange juice for Mma Makutsi.

The conversation was slow to begin with, but Mma Makutsi noticed that as he began to relax in her company, Phuti Radiphuti’s speech became more confident and clearer. She was now able to understand most of what he had to say, although every now and then he seemed to stumble over a word, and when this happened it could be some time before something intelligible emerged.

There seemed to be a lot to talk about. He explained where he was from (the South) and what he was doing in Gaborone (he had a job in a furniture store in Broadhurst, where he sold chairs and tables). He asked about her; about the school she had gone

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to in Bobonong, about the Botswana Secretarial College, and about her job at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. He confessed

that he had no idea of what a private detective agency would do and he was interested to find out.

“It’s very straightforward,” said Mma Makutsi. “Most people think that it is very exciting. But it isn’t, it really isn’t.”

“There are very few exciting jobs,” observed Phuti Radiphuti. “Most of us have very dull work to do. I just sell tables and chairs. There is nothing exciting in that.”

“But it is important work,” Mma Makutsi countered. “Where would we be if we had no chairs and tables?”

“We would be on the floor,” said Phuti Radiphuti solemnly.

They thought about this for a moment, and then Mma Makutsi laughed. He had answered her with such gravity, as if the question had been an important one, rather than a mere reflection. She looked at him, and saw him smile in response. Yes, he understood that what he had said was funny. That was important

in itself. It was good to be able to share such things with somebody else; the little jokes of life, the little absurdities.

They sat together for a few more minutes, finishing their drinks. Then Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and announced that she was going to the ladies’ room and would meet him back in the dance hall for the rest of the class.

She found a door labelled Powder Room which bore an outline

picture of a woman in a long, flowing skirt. She went in, and immediately regretted it.

“So! There you are, Grace Makutsi!” said the woman standing

at the basin.

Mma Makutsi stopped, but the door had closed behind her, and she could hardly pretend that she had come into the wrong room.

She looked at the woman at the basin, and the name came back to her. This was the woman she had seen in the dance class,

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and her name was Violet Sephotho. She was one of the worst of the glamorous, empty-headed set at the Botswana Secretarial College, and here she was applying powder to her face in the aptly named Powder Room of the President Hotel.

“Violet,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is good to see you again.”

Violet smiled, closed her powder compact, and leant back against the edge of the basin. She had the air of one who was settling

in for a long chat.

“Yes, sure,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Ages. Not since we finished the course.” She paused, looking Mma Makutsi up and down, as if appraising her dress. “You did well, didn’t you? At that college, I mean.”

The thrust of the comment was unambiguous. One might do well at college, but this was very different from the real world. And then there was the disdainful reference to that college, as if there were better secretarial colleges to be attended.

Mma Makutsi ignored the barb. “And you, Violet? What have you been doing? Did you manage to find a job?”

The implication in this remark was that those who got barely fifty per cent in the final examinations might be expected to experience

some difficulty in finding a job. This was not lost on Violet,

whose eyes narrowed.

“Find a job?” she retorted. “Mma, I had them lining up to give me a job! I had so many offers that I could think of no way of choosing

between them. So you know what I did? You want to know?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. She wanted to be out of this room, and away from this person, but she realised that she had to remain. She would have to stand up for herself if she were not to feel completely belittled by the encounter.

“I looked at the men who were offering the jobs and I chose the best-looking one,” she announced. “I knew that that was how they would choose their secretary, so I applied the same rule to them! Hah!”

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Mma Makutsi said nothing. She could comment on the stupidity

of this, but then that would enable Violet to say something like, “Well that may be stupid in your eyes, but look at the jobs I got.” So she said nothing, and held the other woman’s challenging

glance.

Violet lowered her eyes and inspected her brightly polished nails. “Nice shoes,” she said. “Those green shoes of yours. I’ve never seen anybody wear green shoes before. It’s brave of you. I would be frightened that people would laugh at me if I wore shoes like that.”

Mma Makutsi bit her lip. What was wrong with green shoes? And how dare this woman, this empty-headed woman, pass comment

on her taste in shoes? She looked at Violet’s shoes, sleek black shoes with pointed toes and quite unsuitable for dancing. They looked expensive—much more expensive than these shoes which Mma Makutsi had treated herself to and of which she felt so proud.

“But let’s not talk about funny shoes,” Violet went on breezily. “Let’s talk about men. Don’t you love talking about men? That man through there. Is that your uncle or something?”

Mma Makutsi closed her eyes and imagined for a moment that Mma Ramotswe was by her side. What would Mma Ramotswe advise in such circumstances? Could Mma Ramotswe provide the words to deal with this woman, or would she say, “No, do not allow yourself to be belittled by her. Do not stoop to her level. You are worth more than that silly girl.” And Mma Makutsi saw Mma Ramotswe in her mind’s eye, and heard her too, and that is exactly what she said.

“The man you are dancing with is very handsome,” said Mma Makutsi. “You are lucky to have such a handsome man to dance with. But then you are a very pretty lady, Mma, and you deserve these handsome men. It is quite right that way.”

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