Precious and Grace (3 page)

Charlie shrugged. “Fanwell doesn't know who that is, do you, Fanwell?”

Fanwell scowled at Charlie. “I'm not quite sure. That's why I'm looking after it.”

“At your place?” asked Mma Makutsi. Fanwell lived with an uncle and his family in a small house in Old Naledi—a couple of rooms, Mma Makutsi believed. There would be barely enough room for the people in that house, let alone a dog.

“I'm not sure,” said Fanwell. “I haven't thought about it.”

Mma Makutsi returned to her desk. She placed her teacup in front of her, contemplated it for a few moments, and then fixed Fanwell with a firm stare.

“Fanwell,” she said, “when you picked up that dog, did you think about what's involved in looking after a dog? Did you think about what you were going to do with it?”

Fanwell looked sheepish. “I was worried about him, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe came to his rescue. “He had run the dog over, Mma Makutsi. He had some responsibility.”

Mma Makutsi's large round glasses caught the light. This was always a danger sign. “All he had to do was to check that it wasn't too badly injured,” she said.

“Or that it was not late,” offered Charlie.

“Precisely,” said Mma Makutsi. “Once he had done that, then the dog was not his responsibility.”

“But I couldn't leave him where he was,” pleaded Fanwell. “He was looking very confused, Mma Makutsi. His head went round and round like this. And he had a sore leg. I couldn't leave him.”

“Well, it's much better now,” said Mma Makutsi. “You've done what you needed to do. Now you can take it somewhere and let it loose. It'll find its way back to its home, wherever that is.”

Mma Ramotswe was more sympathetic, although she had always been slightly wary of dogs and could be nervous in their presence. This came from an incident she had witnessed during her childhood in Mochudi. A rabid dog had wandered into the village and created panic with its looping gait and strange, whooping howls. It was a Saturday morning and the young Precious had been making her way to the informal vegetable market set up by small farmers from the surrounding districts. The soil was dry and would yield some crops only where irrigation was available—for the rest, offerings were slight: pumpkins and melons, maize cobs, and sorghum that could be made into a staple porridge.

She had seen the dog at a distance, and had pointed it out to her father's cousin, who helped look after her. The cousin had looked anxious.

“But it's only a dog,” said Precious. “It's not dangerous—it's not a hyena.”

The cousin had taken her hand and began to shepherd her to safety. “There are some dogs that are many times more dangerous than a hyena—or even a lion,” she said. “Look at the way it is walking—it's going sideways, Precious, and that means only one thing. That dog is a very bad dog—very bad.”

Word had got out, and within a few minutes a police truck came bumping its way down the road. It slowed down when it was opposite the cousin, and a window was wound down.

“Over there,” said the cousin, pointing to where the dog had lurched off into the scrub bush a few minutes earlier.

They watched as the truck drove on to the point where, its brake lights suddenly glowing red, it stopped. They saw a barrel point out of the window, swing about for a moment, and then slowly rise. They saw the puff of smoke first—a tiny cloud of white issue from the barrel, and then they heard the report. It was like the cracking of a whip above the heads of a team of oxen—a sharp, decisive sound.

A short while later the two policemen had climbed out of the truck and made their way into the bush. After a few minutes they emerged, dragging the body of the dog by its front paw.

Precious had gasped. “They have shot that poor dog!”

The cousin sighed. “It was very ill. It would have died.”

She turned away and cried. “It was not biting anybody,” she sobbed.

“It would have,” said the cousin. “That poor dog would have bitten somebody, or even some cattle.”

They heard later that it had already bitten cattle, and the cattle themselves had had to be shot.

“Rabies,” said the cousin. “You see. That is what rabies does.”

Mma Ramotswe put the memory out of her mind. Turning to their present dilemma, she said, “I think Mma Makutsi's got a point. We can't have that dog here and you don't really have room at your uncle's place for a dog. I think it best to see if the dog will find its way home. Somebody must be that dog's people. Most dogs have people somewhere.”

Now she offered to help. “Is that place far?” she asked. “The place where you ran over this dog?”

Fanwell explained that it was only a couple of miles away.

“I'll take you in the van,” said Mma Ramotswe. “After tea, you and I will take the dog and set it free.”

Fanwell looked at the dog, who stared back up at him intently with wide, rheumy eyes. For a brief moment its tail began to move in a gesture of friendliness, but caution—the attribute that had enabled it to survive thus far—took over, and it rolled over in submission, as if waiting for a blow or kick.

“I think this dog likes me,” Charlie said. “Even though Fanwell ran over him.”

“He thinks you're going to give him something to eat,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Dogs think with their stomachs.”

“Like some young men,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not that I'm thinking of any young men in particular.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “I will have another very quick cup of tea and then we shall go. There's somebody coming in at…”

Mma Makutsi looked at her diary. “At twelve o'clock,” she said. “There is a lady from Canada.”

“We shall go very soon,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Then I shall be back in time for the client.”

“What does this lady want?” asked Charlie.

Mma Makutsi had taken the call. “She is looking for something,” she said. “That's all I know.”

“We're all looking for something,” said Charlie.

“Girls, in your case,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Did you hear that, Mma Ramotswe?” complained Charlie. “Why should I have to put up with that sort of remark?”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Because it's true, Charlie. That's why.”

Mma Ramotswe brought the tea break to an end. “Let's not argue,” she said. “Let's get this poor creature back to its home and its people.” She stood up. The dog watched her, trying to work out what was happening; which was what all dogs seem to do, thought Mma Ramotswe. They try to make sense of a world that is full of things they cannot understand; just as we humans do—if not constantly, then for much of the time.

THE DOG WAS RELEGATED
to the back of the van, where it tried valiantly to keep its footing, but from time to time fell over on its side. In the cab at the front, Fanwell directed Mma Ramotswe along a narrow road that fingered its way into Old Naledi, the crowded poorer suburb that was home to newcomers to the city and to those who, although no longer newcomers, had remained at the bottom of the heap. At a point where this road intersected with another, Fanwell told her to stop.

“It was here,” he said. “I was driving along here and the dog came running out from over there.”

He pointed to a scruffy hedge, behind which there were several small lean-to shacks.

“Maybe that is where he lives,” said Mma Ramotswe, nodding in the direction of the shacks.

Fanwell shook his head. “I asked those people,” he said. “They saw what happened and when they came out I asked them. They said they had never seen the dog before.”

Mma Ramotswe found herself wondering what Clovis Andersen might recommend in a case such as this. Was there any alternative to allowing the dog to find its own way home? Would even Clovis Andersen be able to do anything more constructive than that?

“We should put the dog out,” she said to Fanwell. “It will probably run straight home, you know. Dogs are like that. They don't forget where they live.”

She parked the van at the side of the road and emerged from the driver's side, leaving the engine running. Fanwell got out of his side, went to the back of the van, and lifted the dog out, putting him gently down on the verge. Bending down, he stroked the dog's head, allowing the confused creature to lick his hand.

“We must say goodbye,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“He will be very sad when we leave him,” said Fanwell.

“It is always sad to say goodbye,” said Mma Ramotswe.

She waited for Fanwell, who gave the dog another pat on the head before turning round to get back into the van. The dog followed him, and as he opened the door of the van it tried to leap up onto the seat inside.

“You must stay,” said Fanwell. “You cannot come with me.”

The dog looked up at him, its eyes wide, its mouth open to allow its large pink tongue to extrude.

Mma Ramotswe slammed the door behind her. Pushing the dog away with his foot, Fanwell closed the passenger door behind him. “We can go now, Mma,” he muttered.

Mma Ramotswe drove the van slowly back onto the road. As she did so, she heard barking. Glancing in her rear-view mirror she saw the dog beginning to chase after her.

“He doesn't want to leave us,” said Fanwell. “He's not going to go to his place, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe pressed down on the accelerator. “He'll give up, Fanwell. Once we get onto the main road, he'll be unable to keep up with us.”

Fanwell turned in his seat. “He is just behind us, Mma. He is running very fast.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “We can't stop, Fanwell. We can't let him catch up.”

Fanwell's voice became strained. “He is very sad, that dog,” he said. “He has nobody to love him. You can tell when somebody has nobody to love him.”

“They'll love him in his own place,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He will have people there.”

She looked again in her mirror. The dog was still to be seen, although he was a good distance behind them now, his ears flapping in the breeze created by his headlong lurch in their direction. She lowered her head, looking again at the road ahead. The dog had entered her life little more than an hour ago, but this seemed to her to be a real abandonment, a cutting loose of a creature who had nobody else to turn to. The world was like that, of course, and sometimes it seemed particularly so in Africa, where there were so many who needed the support of others and had no others to give it. She sighed. They could not take on every ownerless dog—that was obviously impossible; Fanwell was a kind young man, and it was much to his credit that he had bothered to do something about the dog, but he was in no position to see that gesture through and had to be protected from the unsustainable consequences of kindness, as did others who allowed their hearts to prompt them. She thought it strange, though, that she, a woman, should be the one to tell a young man that he could not do what his heart wanted him to; were women not the ones who listened to their hearts, while young men thought only of…of the things that young men thought of? Or was that part of the unfair prejudice that men had to struggle against? Was it not the case that men could weep as readily as women? Was it not the case that men could be as gentle and as caring as any woman, if only they were given the chance to show these qualities? She thought of Fanwell, and she thought of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Both of these were kind, sensitive men who were as understanding of the feelings of others as any woman she knew; and who were every bit as gentle.

But then Charlie came to mind, and that made her think again. Charlie was not aware of the feelings of others, or very rarely showed such awareness. It was possible, of course, that he felt more than he let on, but even if that were true, he could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as a new man. She had seen that term used in a magazine article she had read recently, and she had been intrigued. There were certainly new men around, but there were plenty of men who were not new men. You only had to go into any bar in town to see these men by the score, by the hundred, whereas if you went out in search of new men, it was difficult to know where to look. Were they the ones who were doing the shopping for their wives? Were they the ones who were collecting the children from school? Possibly; but when you went to the supermarket or the school, there were often rather few men to be seen—new or otherwise.

They finished their journey in silence. When they came to a halt under the acacia tree at the back of the office, Fanwell pointed to a small blue car parked near the agency door. “That car must belong to your client, Mma,” he said. “She has already arrived.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. They had returned well in time. “She is early,” she said.

“That means she will be very worried, Mma,” said Fanwell. “If somebody brings a car into the garage before the time you've agreed with them, that means they are very anxious about their car.” He looked at her intently, as if to ascertain that she had understood. “Same thing with people, Mma. Same thing…I think.”

Once out of the van, he went over to the blue car and started to examine it. Mma Ramotswe watched him; she was puzzled.

“Something wrong, Fanwell?” she asked.

He touched the side of the car gently, as if to answer some unspoken question.

“This car has been resprayed on this side, but not on the other.”

Mma Ramotswe could not see any difference, but then cars never meant a great deal to her. She loved her own van, but beyond that cars were an alien tribe—important and necessary, but not to become too exercised over.

“I think this car has had an accident on this side,” Fanwell continued. “I'd take a very careful look at the steering if I were driving it. Sometimes they don't balance the wheels properly, you see—after an accident, that is. There are many bad mechanics, Mma. Every day, more bad mechanics arrive.” He paused, while he peered through the driver's window. “And this car has many drivers, Mma.”