Blue Shoes and Happiness Read online

  One of the pleasures of having Mr Polopetsi in the garage was that he would often come through to the office to have his tea break with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was frequently too busy to take a tea break, and the apprentices liked to have their tea sitting on upturned oil drums and watching girls walk past along the road outside. But Mr Polopetsi would come through with his mug and ask Mma Makutsi if there might be enough tea for him. He would always receive the answer that there certainly would be and that he should take a seat on the client’s chair and they would fill his mug for him. And Mr Polopetsi would always say the same thing in reply, as if it were a mantra: “You are very kind, Mma Makutsi. There are not many ladies as kind as you and Mma Ramotswe. That’s the truth.” He did not seem to notice that he said the same thing every time, and the ladies never pointed out to him that they had heard the remark before. “We say the same things all the time, you know,” Mma Ramotswe had once observed to Mma Makutsi, and Mma Makutsi had replied, “You’re right about that, Mma Ramotswe”—which is something that she always said.

  Mr Polopetsi came into the office that morning wiping his brow from the heat. “I think that it’s tea-time,” he said, placing his mug on the top of the metal filing cabinet. “It’s very hot through there. Do you know why drinking a hot liquid like tea can cool you down, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Ramotswe had, in fact, thought about this but had reached no conclusion. All she knew was that a cup of bush tea always refreshed her in a way in which a glass of cold water would not. “You tell me, Rra,” she said. “And Mma Makutsi will turn on the kettle at the same time.”

  “It’s because hot liquids make you sweat,” explained Mr Polopetsi. “Then as the sweat dries off the skin it gives a feeling of coolness. That is how it works.”

  Mma Makutsi flicked the switch of the kettle. “Very unlikely,” she said curtly.

  Mr Polopetsi turned to her indignantly. “But it’s true,” he said. “I learned that on my pharmacy course at the hospital. Dr Moffat gave us lectures on how the body works.”

  This did not impress Mma Makutsi. “I don’t sweat when I drink tea,” she said. “But it still cools me off.”

  “Well, you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to,” he said. “I just thought that I would tell you—that’s all.”

  “I believe you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe soothingly. “I’m sure that you’re right.” She glanced at Mma Makutsi. There was definitely something worrying her assistant; it was unlike her to snap at Mr Polopetsi, whom she liked. She had decided that it was something to do with that conversation which she had had with Phuti Radiphuti—the conversation in which she had confessed to feminism. Had he taken that to heart? She very much hoped he had not; Mma Ramotswe was appalled at the thought of something going wrong with Mma Makutsi’s engagement. After all those years of waiting and hoping, Mma Makutsi had eventually found a man, only to ruin everything by frightening him off. Oh, careless, careless Mma Makutsi! thought Mma Ramotswe. And foolish, foolish man to take a casual remark so seriously!

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at Mr Polopetsi. “I know Dr Moffat’s wife,” she said. “I can go and ask her myself. She can speak to the doctor. We can settle this matter quite easily.”

  “It is already settled,” said Mr Polopetsi. “There is no doubt in my mind, at least.”

  “Well, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You need not worry about it any more.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” said Mr Polopetsi, as he sat down in the client’s chair. “I have bigger things to worry about. Unlike some people.” The last few words were said softly, but Mma Ramotswe heard them. Mma Makutsi, for whom they were half-intended, did not. She was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil, looking up at the tiny white gecko suspended by its minute suction pads on the ceiling.

  Mma Ramotswe saw this as an opportunity to change the subject. When Mma Makutsi was in that sort of mood, then she had found that the best tactic was to steer away from controversy. “Oh?” she said. “Bigger worries? What are they, Rra?”

  Mr Polopetsi glanced over his shoulder at Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and made a discreet signal with her hand. It was a “don’t you worry about her” signal, and he understood immediately.

  “I am very tired, Mma,” he said. “That is my problem. It is all this bicycle-riding in this heat. It is not easy.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. The sun that day was relentless; you felt it on the top of your head, pressing down. Even in the early mornings, shortly after breakfast, a time when one might choose to walk about the yard and inspect the trees—even then, it was hot and uncomfortable. And it would stay like this, she knew—or get even worse until the rains came, cooling and refreshing, like a cup of tea for the land itself, she found herself thinking.

  She looked back at Mr Polopetsi. Yes, he looked exhausted, poor man, sitting there in the client’s chair, crumpled, hot.

  “Couldn’t you come in by minibus?” she said. “Most other people do.”

  Mr Polopetsi seemed to crumple even more. “You have been to my house, Mma Ramotswe. You know where it is. It is no good for minibuses. There is a long walk to the nearest place that a minibus stops. Then they are often late.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded sympathetically. It was not easy for people who lived out of town. The cost of housing in Gaborone itself was going up and up, and for most people a house in town would be an impossible dream. That left places like Tlokweng, or even further afield, and a long journey into work. It was all right, she supposed, if one were young and robust, but Mr Polopetsi, although he was only somewhere in his forties, did not look strong: he was a slight man, and with that crumpled look of his … If a powerful gust of wind should come sweeping in from the Kalahari, he could easily be lifted up and blown away. In her mind’s eye, she saw Mr Polopetsi in his khaki trousers and khaki shirt, arms flailing, being picked up by the wind and cartwheeled through the sky, off towards Namibia somewhere, and dropped down suddenly on the ground, confused, in another land. And then she saw Herero horsemen galloping towards him and shouting and Mr Polopetsi, dusting himself off, trying hard to explain, pointing to the sky and gesturing.

  “Why are you smiling, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr Polopetsi.

  She corrected herself quickly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of something else.”

  Mr Polopetsi shifted in his chair. “It must have been funny,” he muttered.

  Mma Ramotswe looked away. “Funny things come to mind,” she said. “You can be thinking of something serious, and then something very funny comes to mind. But look, Rra, what about a car? Would it not be possible now to buy a car—now that you’re earning here; and your wife has a job, doesn’t she? Could you not afford a cheap car, an old one, which is still going? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to find something for you.”

  Mr Polopetsi shook his head vehemently. “I cannot afford a car,” he said. “I would love one, and it would solve all my troubles. I could give people a ride in with me and pay for the petrol that way. My neighbour works not far away—he could come in with me, and he has a friend too. They would love to come by car. My brother has a car. He is lucky.”

  The tea was now ready, and Mma Makutsi brought over Mr Polopetsi’s mug and placed it on the edge of Mma Ramotswe’s desk in front of him.

  “You are very kind, Mma Makutsi,” said Mr Polopetsi. “There are not many ladies as kind as you and Mma Ramotswe. That’s the truth.”

  Mma Ramotswe lowered her head briefly to acknowledge the compliment. “This brother of yours, Mr Polopetsi,” she said. “Is he a wealthy man?”

  Mr Polopetsi took a sip of his tea. “No,” he answered. “He is not a rich man. He has a good job, though. He works in a bank. But that is not how he managed to get the car. He was given a loan by my uncle. It was one of those loans that you can pay off in such small installments that you never notice the cost. My uncle is a generous man. He has a lot of money in the bank.”

 
“A rich uncle?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could this rich uncle not lend you money too? Why should he prefer your brother? Surely an uncle …” She tailed off. It occurred to her that there was a very obvious reason why this uncle would prefer one brother to another, and she saw, from the embarrassment in his demeanour, that she was right.

  “He has not forgiven me,” said Mr Polopetsi simply. “He has not forgiven me for … for being sent to prison. He said that it brought shame on the whole family when I was sent to that place.”

  Mma Makutsi, who had poured her own tea now and had taken it to her desk, looked up indignantly. “He should not think that,” she expostulated. “What happened was not your fault. It was an accident.”

  “I tried to tell him that,” said Mr Polopetsi, turning to address Mma Makutsi, “but he would not listen to me. He refused. He just shouted.” He hesitated. “He is an old man, you know. Old men sometimes do not want to listen.”

  There was silence as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi digested this information. Mma Ramotswe understood. There were some older people in Botswana—men in particular—who had very strong ideas of what was what and who were notoriously stubborn in their attitudes. Her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had not been like that at all—he had always had an open mind—but she remembered some of his friends being very difficult to persuade. He had even spoken of one of them who had been hostile to independence, who had wanted the Protectorate to continue. This man had said that it would be better to have somebody to protect the country against the Boers, and had continued to say this even when Obed had asked him: “Where are these troops you say will protect us? Where are they?” And, of course, there were none. He could understand, though, loyalty to Queen Elizabeth. She was a friend of Africa, Obed said; she had always been, for she understood all about loyalty and duty, and about how, during the war, there had been many men from the Protectorate who had gone to fight. They had been brave men, who had seen terrible things in Italy and North Africa, and now most people had forgotten about them. We should not forget these things, he had said; we should not forget.

  “I understand,” she said to Mr Polopetsi. “Sometimes when somebody makes up his mind, it is difficult to shift him. The elders are sometimes like that.” She paused. “What is the name of this uncle of yours, Mr Polopetsi? Where does he live?”

  Mr Polopetsi told her. He drained the rest of the tea from his mug and rose to his feet; he did not see Mma Ramotswe reaching for a pencil and writing a note on a scrap of paper. And then this scrap of paper she tucked in her bodice, the safest place to keep anything. She never forgot to do anything filed in that particular place, and so she would not forget the details on that piece of paper: Mr Kagiso Polopetsi, Plot 2487, Limpopo Drive. After which she had scrawled—mean old uncle.

  MMA MAKUTSI WENT BACK to the house early that afternoon. She had told Mma Ramotswe that she would be cooking a meal for Phuti Radiphuti that evening and wanted to make it a special one. Mma Ramotswe had told her that this was a very good idea and that it would also be a good idea to talk to him about feminism.

  “Set his mind at rest,” she said. “Tell him that you are not going to be one of those women who will give him no peace. Tell him that you are really quite traditional at heart.”

  “I will do that,” agreed Mma Makutsi. “I will show him that he need not fear that I will always be criticising him.” She stopped and looked at Mma Ramotswe. There was misery in her expression, and Mma Ramotswe felt an immediate rush of sympathy for her. It was different for her. She was married to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and felt quite secure; if Mma Makutsi lost Phuti Radiphuti she would have nothing—just the prospect of hard work for the rest of her life, making do with the small salary she earned and the little extra she made from the Kalahari Typing School for Men. The typing school was a valuable source of extra funds, but she had to work so hard keeping that going that she had very little time to herself.

  Back at her house, Mma Makutsi made the evening meal with care. She boiled a large pot of potatoes and simmered a thick beef stew into which she had put carrots and onions. The stew smelled rich and delicious, and she dipped a finger into the pot to taste it. It needed a little bit more salt, but after that it was perfect. She sat down to wait for Phuti Radiphuti, who normally arrived at seven o’clock. It was now six thirty, and she flicked through a magazine, only half-concentrating, for the remaining half hour.

  At seven thirty she looked out of the window, and at eight o’clock she went out to stand at her gate and peer down the road to see if he was coming. It was a warm evening and the air was heavy with the smell of cooking and dust. From her neighbour’s house she heard the sound of a radio, and laughter. Somebody coughed; she felt the brush of insect wings against her leg.

  She walked back up the path to her front door and into her house. She sat down on her sofa and stared up at the ceiling. I am a girl from Bobonong, she said to herself. I am a girl from Bobonong, with glasses. There was a man who was going to marry me, a kind man, but I frightened him away through my foolish talk. Now I am alone again. That is the story of my life; that is the story of Grace Makutsi.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A MEETING IN THE TINY WHITE VAN

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Mma Ramotswe went to see Mma Tsau, the cook for whom Poppy worked, the wife of the man who had grown prosperous-looking on government food. It was an auspicious day—a Friday at the end of the month. For most people, that was pay day, and for many it was the end of the period of want that always seemed to occur over the last few days of the month, no matter how careful one was with money for the other twenty-five days or so. The apprentices were a good example of this. When they had first started to work at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had warned them that they should husband their resources carefully. It was tempting, he pointed out, to view money as something to be spent the moment it came into one’s hands. “That is very dangerous,” he said. “There are many people whose bellies are full for the first fifteen days of the month who then have hungry stomachs for the last two weeks.”

  Charlie, the older apprentice, exchanged a knowing glance with his younger colleague. “That makes twenty-nine days,” he said. “What about the other two days, Boss?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “That is not the point,” he said, his tone level. It would be easy to lose his temper with these boys, he realised, but that was not what he intended to do. He was their apprentice-master, and that meant that he should be patient. One got nowhere if one shouted at young people. Shouting at a young person was like shouting at a wild animal—both would run away in their confusion.

  “What you should do,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, “is work out how much money you need for each week. Then put all your money in the post office or somewhere safe like that and draw it out weekly.”

  Charlie smiled. “There is always credit,” he said. “You can buy things on credit. It is cheaper that way.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the young man. Where does one start? he thought. How does one make up for all the things that young people do not know? There was so much ignorance in the world—great swathes of ignorance like areas of darkness on a map. That was the job of teachers, to put this ignorance to flight, and that was why teachers were respected in Botswana—or used to be. He had noticed how people these days, even young people, treated teachers as if they were the same as anybody else. But how would people learn if they did not respect a teacher? Respect meant that they would be prepared to listen, and to learn. Young men like Charlie, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, imagined that they knew everything already. Well, he would simply have to try to teach them in spite of their arrogance.

  Grace Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe knew all about the end of the month. Mma Ramotswe’s financial position had always been considerably easier than most people’s, thanks to the late Obed Ramotswe’s talent for the spotting of good cattle, but she was well aware of the enforced penny-pinching that was the daily lot of those about her. Rose, the woman who cleaned h
er house in Zebra Drive, was an example. She had a number of children—Mma Ramotswe had never been sure just how many—and these children had all known what it was to go to bed hungry, in spite of their mother’s best efforts. And one of the children, a small boy, had difficulties with his breathing and needed inhalers, which were expensive to buy, even with the help of the government clinic. And then there was Mma Makutsi herself, who had supported herself at the Botswana Secretarial College by doing cleaning work in a hotel in the early mornings before she went to her classes at the college. That could not have been easy, getting up at four in the morning, even in the winter, when the skies were sharp-empty (as Mma Makutsi put it) with cold and the ground hard below the feet. But she had been careful, husbanding every spare thebe, and now, at long last, had achieved some measure of comfort with her new house (or half house, to be precise), her new green shoes with sky-blue linings, and, of course, her new fiancé …

  The end of the month, pay day; and now Mma Ramotswe parked her tiny white van near the kitchen building of the college and waited. She looked at her watch. It was three o’clock, and she imagined that Mma Tsau would have finished supervising the clean-up after lunch. She was not sure where the cook had her office, but it was likely to be in the same building as the kitchens, and there was no doubt which building that was; one only had to wind down the window and sniff the air to know where the kitchens were. What a lovely smell it was, the smell of food. That was one of the great pleasures of life, in Mma Ramotswe’s view—the smell of cooking drifting on the wind; the smell of maize cobs roasting on the open fire, of beef sizzling in its fat, of large chunks of pumpkin boiling in the pot. All these smells were good smells, part of the smells of Botswana, of home, that warmed the heart and made the mouth water in anticipation.