Tears Of The Giraffe (5 page)

Now, confronted with the evidence of diesel mortality, he retrieved his tool box, extracted an adjustable spanner, and began to remove the engine casing. Soon he was completely absorbed in his task, like a surgeon above the anaesthetised patient, stripping the engine to its solid, metallic heart. It had been a fine engine in its day, the product of a factory somewhere unimaginably far away—a loyal engine, an engine of character. Every engine seemed to be Japanese these days, and made by robots. Of course these were reliable, because the parts were so finely turned and so obedient, but for a man like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni those engines were as bland as sliced white bread. There was nothing in them, no roughage, no idiosyncracies. And as a result, there was no challenge in fixing a Japanese engine.

He had often thought how sad it was that the next generation of mechanics might never have to fix one of these old engines. They were all trained to fix the modern engines which needed computers to find out their troubles. When somebody came in to the garage with a new Mercedes-Benz, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s heart sank. He could no longer deal with such cars as he had none of these new diagnostic machines that one needed. Without such a machine, how could he tell if a tiny silicon chip in some inaccessible part of the engine was sending out the wrong signal? He felt tempted to say that such drivers should get a computer to fix their car, not a live mechanic, but of course he did not, and he would do his best with the gleaming expanse of steel which nestled under the bonnets of such cars. But his heart was never in it.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had now removed the pump engine’s cylinder heads and was peering into the cylinders themselves. It was exactly what he had imagined; they were both coked up and would need a rebore before too long. And when the pistons themselves were removed he saw that the rings were pitted and worn, as if affected by arthritis. This would affect the engine’s efficiency drastically, which meant wasted fuel and less water for the orphans’ vegetables. He would have to do what he could. He would replace some of the engine seals to staunch the oil loss and he would arrange for the engine to be brought in some time for a rebore. But there would come a time when none of this would help, and he thought they would then simply have to buy a new engine.

There was a sound behind him, and he was startled. The pump-house was a quiet place, and all that he had heard so far was the call of birds in the acacia trees. This was a human noise. He looked round, but there was nothing. Then it came again, drifting through the bush, a squeaking noise as if from an unoiled wheel. Perhaps one of the orphans was wheeling a wheelbarrow or pushing one of those toy cars which children liked to fashion out of bits of old wire and tin.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wiped his hands on a piece of rag and stuffed the rag back into his pocket. The noise seemed to be coming closer now, and then he saw it, emerging from the scrub bush that obscured the twists of the path: a wheelchair, in which a girl was sitting, propelling the chair herself. When she looked up from the path ahead of her and saw Mr J.L.B. Matekoni she stopped, her hands gripping the rims of the wheels. For a moment they stared at one another, and then she smiled and began to make her way over the last few yards of pathway.

She greeted him politely, as a well-brought-up child would do.

“I hope that you are well, Rra,” she said, offering her right hand while her left hand laid across the forearm in a gesture of respect.

They shook hands.

“I hope that my hands are not too oily,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have been working on the pump.”

The girl nodded. “I have brought you some water, Rra. Mma Potokwane said that you had come out here without anything to drink and you might be thirsty.”

She reached into a bag that was slung under the seat of the chair and extracted a bottle.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took the water gratefully. He had just begun to feel thirsty and was regretting his failure to bring water with him. He took a swig from the bottle, watching the girl as he drank. She was still very young—about eleven or twelve, he thought—and she had a pleasant, open face. Her hair had been braided, and there were beads worked into the knots. She wore a faded blue dress, almost bleached to white by repeated washings, and a pair of scruffy
tackies
on her feet.

“Do you live here?” he asked. “On the farm?”

She nodded. “I have been here nearly one year,” she answered. “I am here with my young brother. He is only five.”

“Where did you come from?”

She lowered her gaze. “We came from up near Francistown. My mother is late. She died three years ago, when I was nine. We lived with a woman, in her yard. Then she told us we had to go.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. Mma Potokwane had told him the stories of some of the orphans, and each time he found that it made his heart smart with pain. In traditional society there was no such thing as an unwanted child; everybody would be looked after by somebody. But things were changing, and now there were orphans. This was particularly so now that there was this disease which was stalking through Africa. There were many more children now without parents and the orphan farm might be the only place for some of them to go. Is this what had happened to this girl? And why was she in a wheelchair?

He stopped his line of thought. There was no point in speculating about things which one could do little to help. There were more immediate questions to be answered, such as why was the wheelchair making such an odd noise.

“Your chair is squeaking,” he said. “Does it always do that?”

She shook her head. “It started a few weeks ago. I think there is something wrong with it.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni went down on his haunches and examined the wheels. He had never fixed a wheelchair before, but it was obvious to him what the problem was. The bearings were dry and dusty—a little oil would work wonders there—and the brake was catching. That would explain the noise.

“I shall lift you out,” he said. “You can sit under the tree while I fix this chair for you.”

He lifted the girl and placed her gently on the ground. Then, turning the chair upside down, he freed the brake block and readjusted the lever which operated it. Oil was applied to the bearings and the wheels were spun experimentally. There was no obstruction, and no noise. He righted the chair and pushed it over to where the girl was sitting.

“You have been very kind, Rra,” she said. “I must get back now, or the housemother will think I’m lost.”

She made her way down the path, leaving Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to his work on the pump. He continued with the repair and after an hour it was ready. He was pleased when it started the first time and appeared to run reasonably sweetly. The repair, however, would not last for long, and he knew that he would have to return to dismantle it completely. And how would the vegetables get water then? This was the trouble with living in a dry country. Everything, whether it was human life, or pumpkins, was on such a tiny margin.

CHAPTER FIVE

JUDGMENT-DAY JEWELLERS

M
MA POTOKWANE was right: Mma Ramotswe was, as she had predicted, interested in diamonds.

The subject came up a few days after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had fixed the pump at the orphan farm.

“I think that people know about our engagement,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat drinking tea in the office of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. “My maid said that she had heard people talking about it in the town. She said that everybody knows.”

“That is what this place is like,” sighed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am always hearing about other people’s secrets.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. He was right: there were no secrets in Gaborone. Everybody knew everybody else’s business.

“For example,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, warming to the theme, “when Mma Sonqkwena ruined the gearbox of her son’s new car by trying to change into reverse at thirty miles an hour, everybody seemed to hear about that. I told nobody, but they seemed to find out all the same.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. She knew Mma Sonqkwena, who was possibly the oldest driver in town. Her son, who had a profitable store in the Broadhurst Mall, had tried to persuade his mother to employ a driver or to give up driving altogether, but had been defeated by her indomitable sense of independence.

“She was heading out to Molepolole,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, “and she remembered that she had not fed the chickens back in Gaborone. So she decided that she would go straight back by changing into reverse. You can imagine what that did to the gearbox. And suddenly everybody was talking about it. They assumed that I had told people, but I hadn’t. A mechanic should be like a priest. He should not talk about what he sees.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed. She appreciated the value of confidentiality, and she admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni for understanding this too. There were far too many loose-tongued people about. But these were general observations, and there were more pressing matters still to be discussed, and so she brought the conversation round to the subject which had started the whole debate.

“So they are talking about our engagement,” she said. “Some of them even asked to see the ring you had bought me.” She glanced at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni before continuing. “So I told them that you hadn’t bought it yet but that I’m sure that you would be buying it soon.”

She held her breath. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was looking at the ground, as he often did when he felt uncertain.

“A ring?” he said at last, his voice strained. “What kind of ring?”

Mma Ramotswe watched him carefully. One had to he circumspect with men, when discussing such matters. They had very little understanding of them, of course, but one had to be careful not to alarm them. There was no point in doing that. She decided to be direct. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would spot subterfuge and it would not help.

“A diamond ring,” she said. “That is what engaged ladies are wearing these days. It is the modern thing to do.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni continued to look glumly at the ground.

“Diamonds?” he said weakly. “Are you sure this is the most modern thing?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “All engaged ladies in modern circles receive diamond rings these days. It is a sign that they are appreciated.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up sharply. If this was true—and it very much accorded with what Mma Potokwane had told him—then he would have no alternative but to buy a diamond ring. He would not wish Mma Ramotswe to imagine that she was not appreciated. He appreciated her greatly; he was immensely, humbly grateful to her for agreeing to marry him, and if a diamond were necessary to announce that to the world, then that was a small price to pay. He halted as the word “price” crossed his mind, recalling the alarming figures which had been quoted over tea at the orphan farm.

“These diamonds are very expensive,” he ventured. “I hope that I shall have enough money.”

“But of course you will,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They have some very inexpensive ones. Or you can get terms …”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni perked up. “I thought that they cost thousands and thousands of pula,” he said. “Maybe fifty thousand pula.”

“Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They have expensive ones, of course, but they also have very good ones that do not cost too much. We can go and take a look. Judgment-day Jewellers, for example. They have a good selection.”

The decision was made. The next morning, after Mma Ramotswe had dealt with the mail at the detective agency, they would go to Judgment-day Jewellers and choose a ring. It was an exciting prospect, and even Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, feeling greatly relieved at the prospect of an affordable ring, found himself looking forward to the outing. Now that he had thought about it, there was something very appealing about diamonds, something that even a man could understand, if only he were to think hard enough about it. What was more important to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was the thought that this gift, which was possibly the most expensive gift he would ever give in his life, was a gift from the very soil of Botswana. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was a patriot. He loved his country, just as he knew Mma Ramotswe did. The thought that the diamond which he eventually chose could well have come from one of Botswana’s own three diamond mines added to the significance of the gift. He was giving, to the woman whom he loved and admired more than any other, a tiny speck of the very land on which they walked. It was a special speck of course: a fragment of rock which had been burned to a fine point of brightness all those years ago. Then somebody had dug it out of the earth up at Orapa, polished it, brought it down to Gaborone, and set it in gold. And all of this to allow Mma Ramotswe to wear it on the second finger of her left hand and announce to the world that he, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, was to be her husband.

THE PREMISES of Judgment-day Jewellers were tucked away at the end of a dusty street, alongside the Salvation Bookshop, which sold Bibles and other religious texts, and Mothobani Bookkeeping Services:
Tell the Taxman to go away.
It was a rather unprepossessing shop, with a sloping verandah roof supported by whitewashed brick pillars. The sign, which had been painted by an amateur sign-writer of modest talent, showed the head and shoulders of a glamorous woman wearing an elaborate necklace and large pendant earrings. The woman was smiling in a lopsided way, in spite of the weight of the earrings and the evident discomfort of the necklace.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe parked on the opposite side of the road, under the shade of an acacia tree. They were later than they had anticipated, and the heat of the day was already beginning to build up. By midday any vehicle left out in the sun would be almost impossible to touch, the seats too hot for exposed flesh, the steering wheel a rim of fire. Shade would prevent this, and under every tree there were nests of cars, nosed up against the trunks, like piglets to a sow, in order to enjoy the maximum protection afforded by the incomplete panoply of grey-green foliage.

The door was locked, but clicked open obligingly when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sounded the electric bell. Inside the shop, standing behind the counter, was a thin man clad in khaki. He had a narrow head, and both his slightly slanted eyes and the golden tinge to his skin suggested some San blood—the blood of the Kalahari bushmen. But if this were so, then what would he be doing working in a jewellery shop? There was no real reason why he should not, of course, but it seemed inappropriate. Jewellery shops attracted Indian people, or Kenyans, who liked work of that sort; Basarwa were happier working with livestock—they made great cattlemen or ostrich hands.

The jeweller smiled at them. “I saw you outside,” he said. “You parked your car under that tree.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew that he was right. The man spoke correct Setswana, but his accent confirmed the visible signs. Underneath the vowels, there were clicks and whistles struggling to get out. It was a peculiar language, the San language, more like the sound of birds in the trees than people talking.

He introduced himself, as was polite, and then he turned to Mma Ramotswe.

“This lady is now engaged to me,” he said. “She is Mma Ramotswe, and I wish to buy her a ring for this engagement.” He paused. “A diamond ring.”

The jeweller looked at him through his hooded eyes, and then shifted his gaze sideways to Mma Ramotswe. She looked back at him, and thought:
There is intelligence here. This is a clever man who cannot be trusted.

“You are a fortunate man,” said the jeweller. “Not every man can find such a cheerful, fat woman to marry. There are many thin, hectoring women around today. This one will make you very happy.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni acknowledged the compliment. “Yes,” he said. “I am a lucky man.”

“And now you must buy her a very big ring,” went on the jeweller. “A fat woman cannot wear a tiny ring.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes.

“I was thinking of a medium-sized ring,” he said. “I am not a rich man.”

“I know who you are,” said the jeweller. “You are the man who owns Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. You can afford a good ring.”

Mma Ramotswe decided to intervene. “I do not want a big ring,” she said firmly. “I am not a lady to wear a big ring. I was hoping for a small ring.”

The jeweller threw her a glance. He seemed almost annoyed by her presence—as if this were a transaction between men, like a transaction over cattle, and she was interfering.

“I’ll show you some rings,” he said, bending down to slide a drawer out of the counter below him. “Here are some good diamond rings.”

He placed the drawer on the top of the counter and pointed to a row of rings nestling in velvet slots. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni caught his breath. The diamonds were set in the rings in clusters: a large stone in the middle surrounded by smaller ones. Several rings had other stones too—emeralds and rubies—and beneath each of them a small tag disclosed the price.

“Don’t pay any attention to what the label says,” said the jeweller, lowering his voice. “I can offer very big discounts.”

Mma Ramotswe peered at the tray. Then she looked up and shook her head.

“These are too big,” she said. “I told you that I wanted a smaller ring. Perhaps we shall have to go to some other shop.”

The jeweller sighed. “I have some others,” he said. “I have small rings as well.”

He slipped the tray back into its place and extracted another. The rings on this one were considerably smaller. Mma Ramotswe pointed to a ring in the middle of the tray.

“I like that one,” she said. “Let us see that one.”

“It is not very big,” said the jeweller. “A diamond like that may easily be missed. People may not notice it.”

“I don’t care,” said Mma Ramotswe. “This diamond is going to be for me. It is nothing to do with other people.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt a surge of pride as she spoke. This was the woman he admired, the woman who believed in the old Botswana values and who had no time for showiness.

“I like that ring too,” he said. “Please let Mma Ramotswe try it on.”

The ring was passed to Mma Ramotswe, who slipped it on her finger and held out her hand for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to examine.

“It suits you perfectly,” he said.

She smiled. “If this is the ring you would like to buy me, then I would be very happy.”

The jeweller picked up the price tag and passed it to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “There can be no further discount on this one,” he said. “It is already very cheap.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was pleasantly surprised by the price. He had just replaced the coolant unit on a customer’s van and this, he noticed, was the same price, down to the last pula. It was not expensive. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the wad of notes which he had drawn from the bank earlier that morning and paid the jeweller.

“One thing I must ask you,” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said to the jeweller. “Is this diamond a Botswana diamond?”

The jeweller looked at him curiously.

“Why are you interested in that?” he asked. “A diamond is a diamond wherever it comes from.”

“I know that,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “But I would like to think that my wife will be wearing one of our own stones.”

The jeweller smiled. “In that case, yes, it is. All these stones are stones from our own mines.”

“Thank you,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am happy to hear that.”

THEY DROVE back from the jeweller’s shop, past the Anglican Cathedral and the Princess Marina Hospital. As they passed the Cathedral, Mma Ramotswe said: “I think that perhaps we should get married there. Perhaps we can get Bishop Makhulu himself to marry us.”

“I would like that,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “He is a good man, the Bishop.”

“Then a good man will be conducting the wedding of a good man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are a kind man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. It was not easy to respond to a compliment, particularly when one felt that the compliment was undeserved. He did not think that he was a particularly good man. There were many faults in his character, he thought, and if anyone was good, it was Mma Ramotswe. She was far better than he was. He was just a mechanic who tried his best; she was far more than that.