The Good Husband of Zebra Drive

CHAPTER EIGHT AN ACCOUNT OF A PUZZLING CONVERSATION

THAT EVENING, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni made his way to the address which Mma Botumile had given him as they had sat on the verandah of the President Hotel; sat tealess, in his case, because she had so selfishly dismissed the waitress. It was a modest office block, three storeys high, on Kudumatse Drive, flanked on either side by equally undistinguished buildings, a furniture warehouse and a workshop that repaired electric fans. He parked his truck on the opposite side of the road, in a position where he could see the front entrance to the offices, but sufficiently far away so as not to look suspicious to anybody who should emerge from the building. He was just a man in a truck; the sort of man, and the sort of truck, one saw all the time on the roads of Gaborone; quite unexceptional. Most of those men, and trucks, were busy going somewhere, but occasionally they stopped, as this man had done, and waited for something or other to happen. It was not an unusual sight.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. It was now almost five o’clock, the time when, according to Mma Botumile, her husband invariably left the office. He was a creature of habit, she said, even if some of these habits had become bad ones. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were to wait outside the office, he would see him coming out and getting into his large red car, which would be parked by the side of the building. There was no need to give a detailed description of him, she said, as he could be identified by his car.

“What make of car is it?” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had asked politely. He would never describe a car simply by its colour, and it astonished him that people did this. He had noticed Mma Makutsi doing it, and even Mma Ramotswe, who should have known better, described cars in terms of their colour, without making any reference to make or engine capacity.

Mma Botumile had looked at him almost with pity. “How do you expect me to know that?” she said. “You’re the mechanic.”

He had bitten his lip at the rudeness of the response. It was unusual in Botswana, a polite country, to come across such behaviour, and when one did encounter it, it appeared all the more surprising, and unpleasant. He was at a loss as to why she should be so curt in her manner. In his experience bad behaviour came from those who were unsure of themselves, those who had some obscure point to make. Mma Botumile was a woman of position, a successful woman who had nothing to prove to anybody; certainly she had no reason to belittle Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who could hardly have been any threat to her. So why should she be so rude? Did she dislike all men, or just him; and if it was just him, then what was there about him that so offended her?

Now, sitting in the cab of his truck, he looked over the road towards the side of the building where, he suddenly noticed, two large red cars were parked. For a moment he felt despair—this whole thing had been a mistake from the very outset—but then he thought: the odds were surely against there being two drivers of red cars who would leave the building at exactly five o’clock. Of course not: the first man to come out after five o’clock would be Mma Botumile’s husband.

He consulted his watch again. It was one minute to five now, and at any moment Rra Botumile might walk out of the front door. He looked up from his watch, and at that moment two men emerged from the office building, deep in conversation with one another; two men in white shirtsleeves and ties, jackets slung over their shoulders, the very picture of the office-worker at the end of the day. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni watched them as they turned the corner of the building and approached the cars, lingered for a moment to conclude their conversation, and then each got into a red car.

For a few moments, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat quite still. He had no way of telling which of the two men was Mma Botumile’s husband, which meant that either he would have to give up and go home, or he would have to make a very quick decision and follow one of them. It would be easy enough to drive off and abandon the enquiry, but that would involve going back to Mma Ramotswe and telling her that he had failed at his attempt at doing what he understood to be the simplest and most basic of the procedures of her profession. He had not read Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection, of course, and he wondered whether Mma Ramotswe’s trusted vade mecum would give any instruction on what to do in circumstances like this. Presumably he would point out that you must at least have a description of the person you are interested in at the outset, which of course he had not obtained.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni made a snap decision. He would follow the first car as it came out. There were no grounds for thinking that this was Mr Botumile, but he had to choose, and he might as well…Or should he go for the second? There was something about the second which looked suspicious. The driver of the first car was obviously acting confidently and decisively in leaving first. That showed a clear conscience, whereas the second driver, contemplating the dissemblance and the tryst that lay ahead, showed the hesitation of one with a guilty conscience. It was a slender straw of surmise, but one which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grasped at in the absence of anything better. That would impress Clovis Andersen—and Mma Ramotswe—he thought: a decision based on a sound understanding of human psychology—and from a garage mechanic too!

The snap decision, so confident and decisive, was reversed, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni waited while the first of the two red cars swung out into the main road and drove off. At five o’clock on this road there was a fair bit of traffic to contend with, as people, anxious to return home, drove off to Gaborone West and onto the Lobatse Road, and to other places they lived; all of them going about their legitimate business, of course, unlike the second driver, who seemed to be hesitating. He had started his engine—a mechanic could tell that at a glance, even from that distance—but he was not moving for some reason. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wondered why he should be waiting, and decided that this was a yet further indication of guilt: he was waiting until the driver of the other red car was well on his way, as he did not want that first driver to see him, the second driver, setting off in the wrong direction. That was clearly what was happening. Again, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was astonished at the way in which these conclusions came to mind. It seemed to him that once one started to think about a problem like this, everything all fitted into place surprisingly neatly, like one of those puzzles one saw in the papers where all the numbers added up or the missing letters made sense. He had not tried his hand at those, but perhaps he should. He had read somewhere that if you used your mind like that, then you kept it in good order for a longer period of time, and you put off the day when you would be sitting in the sun, like some of the very old people, not exactly sure which day of the week it was and wondering why the world no longer made the sense that it once did. Yet such people were often happy, he reminded himself, possibly because it did not really matter what day of the week it was anyway. And if they remembered nothing of the recent past but still held on to memories of twenty years ago, then that too might not be as bad as people might think. For many of us, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, twenty years ago was a rather nice time. The world slipped away from us as we got older—of course it did—but perhaps we should not hold on too tightly.

The red car ahead of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni went up Kudumatse Drive and continued on the road that led out to Kanye. The buildings became smaller—offices and small warehouses became houses; dirt roads went off on both sides to newly built dwellings, two-bedroomed embodiments of somebody’s ambitions, dreams, hard work, carved out of what had not all that long ago been thorn bush, grazing for cattle. He saw a car he thought he recognised, parked outside one of these; a car that he had worked on only a few weeks ago. It belonged to a teacher at Gaborone Secondary School, a man who everybody said would one day be a headmaster. His wife went to the Anglican Cathedral on Sunday mornings, Mma Ramotswe reported, and sang all the hymns lustily, although quite out of tune. “But she is doing her best,” added Mma Ramotswe.

Suddenly the red car slowed down. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been keeping his truck three vehicles behind it, as he did not want to be spotted by Mr Botumile, and now he was faced with a decision as to whether he should pull in—which surely would look suspicious—or overtake. Two cars ahead of him started to overtake, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni did not follow them. Steering over to the side of the road, he watched what was happening ahead. The red car started to move more quickly, and then, with very little warning, swung round onto the other side of the road and headed back in the direction from which it had come. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni continued on his course. He had a glimpse of the driver of the red car—just a face, staring fixedly ahead, not enough to remember, or to judge—and then all he saw was the rear of the car heading back towards town. He looked in his driving mirror—the road was clear, and he turned, going some way off the edge of the tar, as his truck had a wide turning circle.

Fortunately the traffic returning to town was lighter, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni soon found himself closing on Mr Botumile’s car. He slowed down, but not too much, as this was an unpredictable quarry, like a wild animal in the bush that will suddenly turn and dart off in an unexpected direction to elude capture. Ahead of him the rays of the sinking sun had caught the windows of the Government buildings off Khama Crescent and were flashing signals. Red. Stop, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Stop. Go back to what you understand.

Mr Botumile drove through the centre of town, past the Princess Marina Hospital, and on towards the Gaborone Sun Hotel. Then he stopped, parking in front of the hotel just as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned his truck into a different section of the hotel parking lot and turned off the engine. Then both men left their vehicles and entered the hotel, Mr Botumile going first, alone—he thought—and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni following him a discreet distance behind, his heart beating hard within him at the sheer excitement of what he was doing. This is better, he thought, infinitely better than adjusting brake pads and replacing oil filters.

“MR GOTSO?” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe. “Mr Charlie Gotso? Him?”

“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I recognised him immediately—who wouldn’t? Charlie Gotso was sitting there, and when I saw him I had to look away quickly. Not that he would know who I am. He’d know who you are, Mma Ramotswe. You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you? All those years ago when…”

“That was a long time ago,” Mma Ramotswe said. “And I was just a small person to him. Men like that don’t remember small people.”

“You are not small, Mma,” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni found himself protesting, but stopped. Mma Ramotswe was not small.

She looked at him with amusement. “No, I am not small, Rra. You are right. But I was thinking of how I would mean nothing to a man like that.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was quick to assent. “Of course that’s what you meant. I know men like that. They are very arrogant.”

“He is a rich man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Rich men sometimes forget that they are people, just like the rest of us.” She paused. “So there was Charlie Gotso, no less! And Mr Botumile went straight up to him and sat down?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. He and Mma Ramotswe were sitting at the kitchen table in their house on Zebra Drive. Behind them, on the stove, a pan of chopped pumpkin was on the boil, filling the air with that familiar chalky smell of the yellow pumpkin flesh. Inside the oven, a small leg of lamb was slowly roasting; it would be a good meal, when it was eventually served in half an hour or so. There was time enough, then, to talk, and for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to give Mma Ramotswe an account of the enquiry from which he had just returned.

“This was outside,” he said. “You know that bar at the back? That place. And since there were quite a few people there, and most of the tables were occupied, I was able to sit down at the table next to theirs without it appearing odd.”

“You did the right thing,” said Mma Ramotswe. Clovis Andersen, in The Principles of Private Detection, advised that it could look just as odd to distance oneself unnaturally from the object of one’s attention as to come too close. Neither too near nor too far, he wrote. That’s what the Ancients called the golden mean, and they were right—as always! She had wondered who these ancients were; whether they were the same people whom one called the elders in Botswana, or whether they were somebody else altogether. But the important thing was that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had never read The Principles of Private Detection, should have done just the right thing without any specialist knowledge. This only went to show, she decided, that much of what was written in The Principles of Private Detection was simply common sense, leading to decisions at which one could have anyway arrived unaided.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni accepted the compliment graciously. “Thank you, Mma. Well, there I was sitting at the table, so close to Charlie Gotso that I could see the place on his neck where he has a barber’s rash—rough skin, Mma, like a little ploughed field. And there were flecks on his collar from the blood.”

Mma Ramotswe made a face. “Poor man.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her in surprise. “He is no good, that man.”

“Of course not,” Mma Ramotswe corrected herself. “But I would not wish anybody to be uncomfortable, would you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?”

He thought for a moment, and then agreed. He did not wish misfortune on anybody, he decided, even if they deserved it. Mma Ramotswe was undoubtedly right about that, even if she was inclined to be a little bit too generous in her judgements.

“They started to talk, and I pretended to be very interested in reading the menu which the waiter had brought me.” He laughed. “I read about the price of a Castle lager and about the various sorts of sandwich fillings. Then I read it all again.

“In the meantime, I was listening as closely as I could to what they were saying. It was a bit hard, as there was somebody sitting nearby who was laughing like a donkey. But I did hear something.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Excuse me, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “But why were you listening to them? Where was the woman?”

“What woman?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“The woman with whom Mr Botumile is having an affair,” Mma Ramotswe replied. “That woman.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the ceiling. He had expected to see Mr Botumile meeting a woman, and when he had sat down next to Charlie Gotso he thought that perhaps the woman would arrive a bit later; that they both knew Mr Gotso. But then, even when it became apparent that no woman would be joining them, he found himself engrossed in the encounter that was taking place at the neighbouring table. This was more interesting than mere adultery; this was the edge of something much more important than that. He imagined now that he would be able to reveal to Mma Botumile that her husband was up to something far worse than that which she had imagined; he was consorting with no less a person than Charlie Gotso, the least salubrious of Gaborone’s businessmen, a man who used intimidation and fear as instruments of persuasion; a bad man, in fact, to put it simply. And Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had no reluctance to use unadorned, direct language, whether about cars, or people. Just as there were some bad cars—cars that were consistently slow to start or that invariably had inexplicable, incorrigible rattles—so too there were bad people. Fortunately there were not too many of these in Botswana, but there were some, and Mr Charlie Gotso was certainly one of them.

“There was no sign of that woman,” he conceded. “Maybe it was not his evening for seeing her. There will be time enough to find her.”

“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “All right. But what did they talk about anyway?”

“Mining,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Mr Botumile said something about bad results. He said that the cores had come in and that the results were not good.”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Prospecting,” she said. “People do that all the time.”

“Then he said: the share price will come down in two weeks, in Johannesburg. And Mr Gotso asked him if he was sure about that. And he replied yes he was.”

“And then?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

“Then Mr Gotso said that he was very pleased.”

Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. “Pleased? Why would he be pleased about bad news?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought for a moment. “Perhaps it’s because he is such an unpleasant man,” he said. “Perhaps he likes to hear of the misfortune of others. There are people like that.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. There were such people, but she did not think that Charlie Gotso was like that. He was the sort of person who would be unmoved by the misfortune of others; completely uninterested. All that he would be pleased about would be those things that were in his interests, that made him richer, and this raised a very difficult question: Why should the failure of prospectors to find minerals be good news for a bad man?

They finished their conversation on that note. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had nothing further to report, and the pumpkin and the lamb, judging from the smell from the pot and from the oven, were both ready, or just about. It was time for dinner.