He did not see what she had to do with it, and so she explained. She had previously told him about her financial arrangement with Mma Potokwane—he had been tight-lipped about it, but pleased that something had been done for Charlie—and she had also told Mma Makutsi, who had disapproved of it strongly. “Well, it was Mma Makutsi who came up with a plan. She said that the profits from the café, if there were any, would be shared by the two of them, but she—Mma Makutsi, that is—would use her share to pay off the loan that I took from Mma Potokwane.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gave a whistle of surprise. “Her own share? Mma Makutsi’s own share? That’s very generous of her, Mma.”
“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She told me that she feels that Charlie’s pay should come from her, since he is helping her with the secretarial side of things.”
“I suppose I can see that,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But still …”
“Yes. But then Mma Makutsi does have a softer side, you know. She’s really quite fond of Charlie—underneath it all.”
“So everybody’s happy?”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. “I think so.”
“Well, that’s good.”
She picked up her glass. “It gets better.”
“What?”
She let her gaze rest on her garden. The evening sun, weak now in its final moments, had crowned the large acacia tree in the front garden with its golden, buttery light. Individual branches of the acacia were outlined against the sky. It was a thorn tree and only moderately hospitable to birds, but a Cape dove had settled on it and was looking anxiously about, surveying the world that birds see—the world of leaves and twigs and air. I hope you find your wife, she inwardly wished the bird. I hope you find her.
She turned to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I decided on a way of sorting out the Sengupta affair,” she said. “You remember Billy Pilane?”
He did. He had liked Billy Pilane and had often thought that it would be good to see him again.
“I was going to see if I could persuade Billy to get that woman off their list.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s expression clouded over. “You don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing. You don’t want to go about asking people in the police for favours.”
“Even if there has been an injustice?”
He shook his head. “Where would it end?”
“I don’t have to do it, anyway,” she announced. “It’s done.”
He sounded displeased. “You got in touch with him?”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Potokwane got in touch with his wife—of her own accord. They talked and now, well, Lakshmi is no longer on that list. She shouldn’t have been on it in the first place, of course, but now she’s off it.”
“Mma Potokwane did all that?” He thought it quite possible; nobody argued with Mma Potokwane, and that included senior police officers, and their wives.
“She’s a matron,” said Mma Ramotswe. It was sufficient explanation, she felt.
“And so?”
“Well, since she’s not wanted by the police, she can make a regular application to be allowed to stay in Botswana. They can tell the truth and explain to the authorities that she has been abused by that man back there. It will be a strong case, and if Mr. Sengupta sponsors her, they’re likely to give her a residence permit.” She paused, and thought: There are so many people who would love to be able to live in peace, but there are so many others who do not want to let them.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stood up. “Let’s go for a walk in the garden,” he said. “While there’s still light.”
They left the verandah. The light was fading quickly now, but there was enough to see the things they wanted to see—the progress of the next crop of beans, the state of the Namaqualand daisies that Mma Ramotswe had recently planted along the side of the house, the new shrubs put in by the mopipi tree.
There was also enough light, Mma Ramotswe reflected, to see that the world was not always a place of pain and loss, but a place where our simple human affairs—those matters that for all their pettiness still sometimes confounded us—were not insoluble, were not without the possibility of resolution.
She held her husband’s hand. No further words were exchanged, or needed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, the 44 Scotland Street series, and the Corduroy Mansions series. He is a professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh and has served with many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
Alexander McCall Smith, The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café
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