At this, Mr. Selelipeng made an attempt to glower at her, but she met his gaze and held it, and he wilted.
“Please do not tell my wife about this, Mma,” he said, his voice thin and pleading. “I am sorry that I have inconvenienced Mma Makutsi. I do not want to hurt her.”
“Perhaps you should have thought about that earlier, Rra. Perhaps you should have …” She stopped herself. She was a kind woman, and the sight of this man, so wretched and fearful, made it difficult for her to say anything to exacerbate his discomfort. I could never be a judge, she thought; I could not sit there and punish people after they have begun to feel sorry for what they have done.
“We could try to sort this out,” she said. “We could try to make sure that Mma Makutsi is not too badly upset. In particular, Rra, I do not want her to think that she has been thrown over … thrown over by somebody who no longer loves her. And I do not want her to find out that she has been seeing a married man. That would make her feel bad about herself, which is what I definitely do not want to happen. Do you understand me?”
Mr. Selelipeng nodded eagerly. “I will do what you tell me to do, Mma.”
“I thought, Rra, that it might be better if you were to move back to Mochudi for a while. You could tell Mma Makutsi that you have to go away and that you are not giving her up because you do not love her. Then you must tell her that you do not think that you are worthy of her, even if you are still in love with her. Then you will buy her a very fine present and some flowers. You will know what to do. But you must make sure that she is not being thrown away. That would be very bad, and I would find it difficult then not to talk to your wife about all this. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you very well,” said Mr. Selelipeng. “You can be sure that I will try to make it easy for her.”
“That is what you must do, Rra.”
She rose to her feet, preparing to leave.
“And another thing, Rra,” she said. “I would like you to remember that in the future these things may not work out quite so easily for you. Bear that in mind.”
“There is not going to be a next time,” said Mr. Bernard Selelipeng.
BUT AS she made her way back to the tiny white van, he was watching from his window, and he thought: I have no happiness now. I am just a man who provides for that woman and her children. She does not love me, but she will not let me find somebody who does love me. And I am too much of a coward to walk away and tell her that I have my own life, which will soon be gone anyway, because I am getting older. And now I no longer have that lady, who was so good to me. One day I will put a stop to all this. One day.
And Mma Ramotswe, glancing up, saw him at his window before he retreated, and she thought: Poor man! It could have been different for him, if he had not lied to Mma Makutsi. Why is it that there are always these problems and misunderstandings between men and women? Surely it would have been better if God had made only one sort of person, and the children had come by some other means, with the rain, perhaps.
She thought about this as she started the van and began to drive away. But if there were only one sort of person, would this person be more like a man than a woman? The answer was obvious, thought Mma Ramotswe. One hardly even had to think about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
TWO AWKWARD MEN SATISFACTORILY DISPOSED OF
IT SEEMED to Mma Ramotswe that the run of misfortune that had begun with the illness of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and which had continued through events such as the foreshortened affair of Mma Makutsi with Mr. Bernard Selelipeng and the establishing of the rival agency, was now coming to an end. She had still been concerned about the Selelipeng matter, but she need not have been. Shortly after Mma Ramotswe’s visit to No. 42 Limpopo Court, Mma Makutsi explained to her, quite spontaneously, that Mr. Selelipeng had unfortunately been called back to look after aged relatives in Mochudi. As a result of this, he was, most regrettably of course, not in a position to see her as regularly as he might have wished.
“A bit of a relief,” she said. “I liked him to begin with, but then, you know how it is, Mma, I rather went off him.”
For a moment Mma Ramotswe’s composure deserted her.
“You went off … you …”
“I was bored with him,” said Mma Makutsi airily. “He was a very nice man in many ways, but he was a bit too concerned about his appearance. He also just sat there and smiled at me all the time. He was definitely in love with me, which is nice, but you can get a bit bored with that sort of thing, can’t you?”
“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly.
“He would just sit there and look into my eyes,” went on Mma Makutsi. “After a while, it made me go cross-eyed.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Some girls would like a man like that.”
“Perhaps,” said Mma Makutsi. “But then, I’m looking for somebody with a bit more …”
“Intelligence?”
“Yes.”
“You are very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi threw a hand in the air, as might one who could have her pick of men. “When he said that he was going off to Mochudi, I was very pleased. I said immediately that it would not be easy for us to see one another anymore and that perhaps it was best to say good-bye. He seemed surprised, but I tried to make it easy for him. So we agreed on that. He gave me a very nice present, too. A necklace with a very small diamond in it. He said that he could get them at a special price from the company.”
She took a silver chain out of a small packet and showed it to Mma Ramotswe. Suspended on the chain was a small chip of diamond, almost invisible. He could have been more generous, thought Mma Ramotswe, but at least he did it, which was the important thing.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. She wondered whether she was putting a brave face on it, or whether she really had been intending to get rid of Mr. Bernard Selelipeng. No, there was only one possibility. Mma Makutsi was a scrupulously truthful person, and she would not—she could not—sit there and tell Mma Ramotswe a skein of lies. So she had made the first move after all. It was astonishing how life had a way of working out, even when everything looked so complicated and unpromising.
EVEN MORE astonishing, though, was the arrival later that day of Mr. Buthelezi, who knocked on the door, entered uninvited, and cheerfully extended a greeting to both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi.
“So this is your place,” he said, looking about the office with a rather condescending air. “I wondered what sort of office you ladies would have. I thought there might be more feminine things. Curtains, you know, things like that.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. If there was a limit to this man’s nerve, then they had yet to plumb it.
“You people are very busy, I hear,” he said. “Lots of cases. This and that.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding: “Some clients even came from—”
“Oh, I know about that,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “That woman! I told her the truth, I told—”
Mma Ramotswe coughed loudly. She had inadvertently mentioned Mma Selelipeng, forgetting for a moment the careful steps she had taken to prevent Mma Makutsi from hearing anything about it. “Yes, yes, Rra. Let’s forget all about that. It was nothing. Now, what can we do for you today? Do you need a detective?”
At this Mma Makutsi burst out laughing but was silenced by a look from Mr. Buthelezi.
“Very funny, Mma,” he said. “The truth of the matter is that you can keep the detective business. I have had enough of it. I do not think it is the right business for me.”
For a moment Mma Ramotswe was speechless. It was true: the natural order was indeed restoring itself after all these setbacks.
“It’s a very boring business, I’ve decided,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “This is a small town. People in this place lead very boring lives. They have no problems to sort out. It is not like Johannesburg.”
“Or New York?” interjected Mma Makutsi.
“Yes,” said Mr. Buthelez
i. “It is not like New York, either.”
“So what are you going to do, Rra?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Are you going to find another business?”
“I’ll try to think of something,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “Something will turn up.”
“What about a driving school?” asked Mma Makutsi. “You would be good at that.”
Mr. Buthelezi spun round to face Mma Makutsi’s desk. “That is a very good idea, Mma. It is a very good idea. My, my! You are a clever lady. Not just beautiful but clever, too.”
“You could call it Learn to Drive with Jesus,” Mma Makutsi suggested. “You would get many safe, religious people coming to you.”
“Hah!” said Mr. Buthelezi, his voice raised. And then, “Hah!” again.
They have such loud voices, these people, thought Mma Ramotswe; they are all like that. They just are.
THE FOLLOWING week, because life now seemed to be more ordered and satisfactory, Mma Ramotswe, Mma Makutsi, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni organised a gathering by the side of the dam. Not only did they invite the two apprentices, but they also asked Mma Potokwani and her husband, Mma Boko, who was fetched from Molepolole by one of the apprentices, and Mr. Molefelo and his family. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi worked hard at preparing fried chicken and sausages, together with ample quantities of rice and maize pap. At the picnic itself, the apprentices made a small fire on which thick slices of beef were grilled.
There were other groups picnicking there at the same time, including several families with teenage girls. The apprentices soon started talking to these girls and sat on a rock away from the others, exchanging jokes and conversation of a sort which Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could only imagine.
“What do these young people talk about?” he said to Mma Ramotswe. “Just look at them. Even the religious one is talking to those girls and trying to touch them on the arm.”
“He has gone back to girls,” said Mma Makutsi, picking up a tempting bit of chicken and popping it into her mouth. “I have noticed that. He will not be religious for long.”
“I thought that might happen,” said Mma Ramotswe. “People do not change all that much.”
She looked at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was poking at a piece of meat on the fire. It was good that people did not change, except, she supposed, where there was room for improvement. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was perfect as he was, she thought; a good man, with a profound feeling for machinery and possessed of a nature made up of utter kindness. There were so few men like that around; how satisfactory it was, then, that she had one of them.
Mma Potokwani filled a plate with chicken and rice and passed it to her husband.
“How fortunate we are,” she said. “How fortunate that we have been given these kind friends, and that we are living in this place, which is so good to us. We are lucky people.”
“We are,” echoed her husband, who agreed with everything his wife said, without exception.
“Mma Potokwani,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “is that new pump of yours working well?”
“Very well,” said Mma Potokwani. “But one of the housemothers says that the hot-water system in her house is making a gurgling noise. I was wondering—”
“I will come and fix it,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I will come tomorrow.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled, but only to herself.
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Alexander McCall Smith
THE KALAHARI TYPING SCHOOL FOR MEN
Alexander McCall Smith is a professor of medical law at Edinburgh University. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He is the author of more than fifty books: novels, stories, children’s books, and specialized titles such as Forensic Aspects of Sleep. He lives in Scotland.
THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY
BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, MARCH 2004
Copyright © 2002 by Alexander McCall Smith
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Polygon, Edinburgh, in 2002.
Anchor Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Pantheon edition as follows:
McCall Smith, R. A.
The Kalahari typing school for men / Alexander McCall Smith.
p. cm.
1. Ramotswe, Precious (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. Women private investigators—Botswana—Fiction.
3. Botswana—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.C326 K35 2003
823'.914—dc21 2002030709
www.anchorbooks.com
eISBN: 978-1-4000-7941-4
v3.0
Alexander McCall Smith, The Kalahari Typing School for Men
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