Tears of the Giraffe

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN AT TLOKWENG ROAD SPEEDY MOTORS

WHILE MMA Ramotswe indulged in the pleasures of blackmail-for that is what it was, even if in a good cause, and therein lay another moral problem which she and Mma Makutsi might chew over in due course-Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, garagiste to His Excellency, the British High Commissioner to Botswana, took his two foster children to the garage for the afternoon. The girl, Motholeli, had begged him to take them so that she could watch him work, and he, bemused, had agreed. A garage workshop was no place for children, with all those heavy tools and pneumatic hoses, but he could detail one of the apprentices to watch over them while he worked. Besides, it might be an idea to expose the boy to the garage at this stage so that he could get a taste for mechanics at an early age. An understanding of cars and engines had to be instilled early; it was not something that could be picked up later. One might become a mechanic at any age, of course, but not everybody could have a feeling for engines. That was something that had to be acquired by osmosis, slowly, over the years.

He parked in front of his office door so that Motholeli could get into the wheelchair in the shade. The boy dashed off immediately to investigate a tap at the side of the building and had to be called back.

"This place is dangerous," cautioned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "You must stay with one of these boys over there."

He called over the younger apprentice, the one who constantly tapped him on the shoulder with his greasy finger and ruined his clean overalls.

"You must stop what you are doing," he said. "You watch over these two while I am working. Make sure that they don't get hurt."

The apprentice seemed to be relieved by his new duties and beamed broadly at the children. He's the lazy one, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He would make a better nanny than a mechanic.

The garage was busy. There was a football team's minibus in for an overhaul and the work was challenging. The engine had been strained from constant overloading, but that was the case with every minibus in the country. They were always overloaded as the proprietors attempted to cram in every possible fare. This one, which needed new rings, had been belching acrid black smoke to the extent that the players were complaining about shortness of breath.

The engine was exposed and the transmission had been detached. With the help of the other apprentice, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni attached lifting tackle to the engine block and began to winch it out of the vehicle. Motholeli, watching intently from her wheelchair, pointed something out to her brother. He glanced briefly in the direction of the engine, but then looked away again. He was tracing a pattern in a patch of oil at his feet.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni exposed the pistons and the cylinders. Then, pausing, he looked over at the children.

"What is happening now, Rra?" called the girl. "Are you going to replace those rings there? What do they do? Are they important?"

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the boy. "You see, Puso? You see what I am doing?"

The boy smiled weakly.

"He is a drawing a picture in the oil," said the apprentice. "He is drawing a house."

The girl said: "May I come closer, Rra?" she said. "I will not get in the way."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded and, after she had wheeled herself across, he pointed out to her where the trouble lay.

"You hold this for me," he said. "There."

She took the spanner, and held it firmly.

"Good," he said. "Now you turn this one here. You see? Not too far. That's right."

He took the spanner from her and replaced it in his tray. Then he turned and looked at her. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes bright with interest. He knew that look; the expression of one who loves engines. It could not be faked; that younger apprentice, for example, did not have it, and that is why he would never be more than a mediocre mechanic. But this girl, this strange, serious child who had come into his life, had the makings of a mechanic. She had the art. He had never before seen it in a girl, but it was there. And why not? Mma Ramotswe had taught him that there is no reason why women should not do anything they wanted. She was undoubtedly right. People had assumed that private detectives would be men, but look at how well Mma Ramotswe had done. She had been able to use a woman's powers of observation and a woman's intuition to find out things that could well escape a man. So if a girl might aspire to becoming a detective, then why should she not aspire to entering the predominantly male world of cars and engines?

Motholeli raised her eyes, meeting his gaze, but still respectfully.

"You are not cross with me, Rra?" she said. "You do not think I am a nuisance?"

He reached forward and laid a hand gently on her arm. "Of course I am not cross," he said. "I am proud. I am proud that now I have a daughter who will be a great mechanic. Is that what you want? Am I right?"

She nodded modestly. "I have always loved engines," she said. "I have always liked to look at them. I have loved to work with screwdrivers and spanners. But I have never had the chance to do anything,"

"Well," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "That changes now. You can come with me on Saturday mornings and help here. Would you like that? We can make a special workbench for you-a low one-so that it is the right height for your chair." "You are very kind, Rra."

For the rest of the day, she remained at his side, watching each procedure, asking the occasional question, but taking care not to intrude. He tinkered and coaxed, until eventually the minibus engine, reinvigorated, was secured back in place and, when tested, produced no acrid black smoke.

"You see," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni proudly, pointing to the clear exhaust. "Oil won't burn off like that if it's kept in the right place. Tight seals. Good piston rings. Everything in its proper place."

Motholeli clapped her hands. "That van is happier now," she said.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. 'Yes," he agreed. "It is happier now."

He knew now, beyond all doubt, that she had the talent. Only those who really understood machinery could conceive of happiness in an engine; it was an insight which the non-mechanically minded simply lacked. This girl had it, while the younger apprentice did not. He would kick an engine, rather than talk to it, and he had often seen him forcing metal. You cannot force metal, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had told him time after time. If you force metal, it fights back. Remember that if you remember nothing else I have tried to teach you. Yet the apprentice would still strip bolts by turning the nut the wrong way and would bend flanges if they seemed reluctant to fall into proper alignment. No machinery could be treated that way.

This girl was different. She understood the feelings of engines, and would be a great mechanic one day-that was clear.

He looked at her proudly, as he wiped his hands on cotton lint. The future of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors seemed assured.