The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party (18 page)

They drove across town to Old Naledi, where Fanwell lived with his grandmother. It was a poor neighbourhood—the poorest in town—and the lighting was non-existent. At one point they took a wrong turning and drove up an unfamiliar road. Charlie thought that they would be able to get back to where they wanted to be if they took the next road on the right, and told Mma Ramotswe to continue.

“You could get really lost in here,” she said. “Even in daytime.”

“There are too many houses,” said Charlie. “They shouldn’t let people put these things up.” He peered into the night. “Turn here, Mma. This road goes round the back there.”

Mma Ramotswe swung the wheel of the van. The beam of the headlights moved across a makeshift fence and the walls of a house behind it, then back to illuminate the surface of a road that was not much more than an urban track, unpaved and bumpy. A struggling tree beside it and then a gate, another house, a bit larger this one and painted an indeterminate colour—in that light it was difficult to make out just what—and on the edge of the road a bit further along, half on the track, half off, parked carelessly as every vehicle seemed to be in this ramshackle place, a small van, and in this case there was no mistaking its colour, which was white.

She saw it a few seconds before Charlie did, and put her foot firmly on the brake.

“No,” he said. “This is the right way. Carry on.”

“Charlie,” she stuttered.

And then he saw it too. “Oh,” he said. “That looks like your old van, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe engaged gear and drove forward slowly, stopping just short of the other van. In the glare of the headlights, the white was bright, almost shiny. She switched off the engine, but left the lights on.

“It’s my van, Charlie. I know it.”

“There are many such vans, Mma. White is a popular colour.”

“This one is mine,” she said. “I’m going to check. There is a place where a post hit me.”

She got out of the van and was followed by Charlie. Bending down, floodlit in the darkness, she examined the place on the bodywork where she had encountered the errant post. It was there, in exactly the right place. She straightened up and moved towards the front, peering in the window on the driver’s side. Yes. It was there—the large scratch on the metal dashboard that Puso as a small boy had made with a knitting needle.

She turned to Charlie. The lights were shining directly into her eyes, two great suns in the darkness, and she could not make out his face. “It is definitely my van, Charlie. There is that dent, and the scratch that Puso made. This is my tiny white van.”

He had been persuaded. “Well,” he said, touching the bodywork affectionately. “So here it is, Mma. Our old friend. Still going.”

She looked about her. The house outside which the van was parked was slightly better than many around it—there was a well-kept yard with a small chicken coop, a lean-to latrine with a tap on the outer wall, a path on the side of which small stones had been lined. The house itself was in darkness, although lights were on in neighbouring homes.

“So, Mma,” said Charlie. “It is good to see this van still going. It must have cost a bit to fix up. Or maybe it was done by somebody with a lot of time on his hands.”

“Like me.”

They both spun round. The voice had come from behind them, from the roadside rather than the yard. A man was standing in the middle of the road, a shape in the darkness.

“That is my van,” he said, addressing himself to Charlie. “What are you doing, Rra? Why are you looking at my van?”

Mma Ramotswe answered. “We are not doing anything wrong, Rra,” she said. “I used to own this van. We were driving past and I saw it. That is all.”

The man came closer; now they could see him properly in the headlights. He was of stocky build, somewhere in his thirties, wearing neat khaki trousers and a white shirt. As he looked at them, they saw him relax.

“I put some work into it,” he said. “But most of it was done by the man up north who bought it before me. He didn’t have the time to finish, and so I did the rest.”

“You are a mechanic, Rra?” asked Charlie.

“No,” said the man. “I am not a mechanic. Not a proper one.”

“I am,” said Charlie. “Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.”

“I know the place,” said the man. “That woman detective place.”

“And that is me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am that woman.”

The man nodded at her. “You drove the van, Mma?”

She reached out to touch it. “For many years, Rra. Many years.”

“And now? Now this nice new vehicle here?” He gestured towards the blue van. “Lucky you.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that the new van was comfortable, indeed smart. But she still loved the old van, she confessed. It had been a friend.

“I know what you mean,” said the man. “You get used to a car, I think. It is like an old pair of shoes.”

“It grows to fit you,” said Mma Ramotswe.

The man nodded. “Well …”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. There were moments in life when something had to be said, or be left unsaid forever. It was ridiculous—she knew it was—but she had to speak.

“Tell me, Rra, would you consider selling this van if you were given a good price—and I mean a
really
good price?”

Charlie glanced at her and frowned. She touched him on the wrist—a gesture to tell him to leave it to her.

“A really good price?”

“Yes, Rra. What if somebody paid you enough for you to buy a newer van? Not a really new one, of course, but one that had much less mileage. Much less.”

The man did not hesitate. “I would say yes,” he said. “Anybody with any sense would say yes if such a person came along.”

“I am that person,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly.

Charlie tried to intervene. “Mma, what would Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni say?”

Mma Ramotswe answered curtly. “It is my money, Charlie. Mine. And if I wish to spend it on a van, then—”

“All right,” said Charlie. “But let me ask what has been done to the van.”

Mma Ramotswe turned to the man. “You have already answered that, Rra, haven’t you?”

The man now appeared to scent an opportunity. “Everything has been done, Mma! Everything. New this, new that, new the other thing. Yes, everything.”

“There,” said Mma Ramotswe to Charlie. “You heard him.”

Charlie shook his head. “What is a
this
? What is a
that
? Those are not mechanical terms, Mma.”

The man defended himself. “She is a lady, Rra. You do not want to burden ladies with talk about big-ends and rebores. You should know that—as a mechanic.”

“That is right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is no point in making ladies unhappy with mechanical details.” She touched the car again. “Can we talk tomorrow, Rra?”

The man nodded eagerly. “I work at that electrical store at Riverwalk. You know the one?”

“I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Can I come to see you some time soon to discuss the price?”

“Yes,” agreed the man. “When you get there, you ask for Daniel. That is me. I am not always in the front, and they may have to fetch me from the back office. I am assistant manager, you see.”

“Then that is what I shall do, Daniel,” said Mma Ramotswe.

They said goodnight and returned to the blue van. As they drove away, Daniel waved cheerfully before opening his gate and disappearing up the path lined with stones.

“I do not think this is a good idea, Mma,” said Charlie. “This van is very good. It was very expensive. What are you going to do?”

“I am going to sell it, Charlie.”

He whistled. “You can’t. You can’t sell this good van and buy back your old van. You can’t do that sort of thing, Mma.”

“Can’t I?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Why not? Can you tell me why not?”

SHE DROPPED CHARLIE
at Fanwell’s house, which was in darkness. He had become silent again, but she did not have the impression that he had changed his mind about returning. She took his hand briefly before he got out of the car and squeezed it. “You can sleep well tonight, Charlie,” she said. “No need to worry.”

On the way back home, she thought about what she had done. She had acted impulsively—she recognised that—but there were times when that was what you had to do. And did it matter, did it really matter that she would probably lose money in the sale of this blue van? Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had bought it for her, but he had used the money in their joint bank account to do so, and she had put that money there from the profits of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shared everything and normally did not even think about who earned what, but if he were to call her to account for the sale of the blue van, she could always point out that she had effectively paid for it.

Would he understand why she felt she had to have her tiny white van back? She did not think that he would: men didn’t love things in the same way as women did. They were fond of some things, of course, but she did not think that they
loved
things in that way. The heart of a man was different—every woman knew that.

That was what she thought, but then, as she drove round the roundabout near the Anglican cathedral she thought of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, and of how he had loved his battered old hat. That was where it came from, perhaps—her love of the white van was love of exactly the same sort that her father had had for his hat. So maybe she was wrong about men; maybe they did love things in the same way as women; maybe they had just as many tears to shed for the things they had lost.

She arrived back at the house to find Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni waiting anxiously in the kitchen.

“Where have you been, Mma? I was worried.”

She put the van key down on the table. “Charlie,” she said. “He came to see me.”

He looked incredulous. “Charlie?”

She told him of her encounter with the young man, and about his promise to return to work. “Just pretend that nothing has happened,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Just carry on as normal.”

“But it has happened,” he said.

“Yes, but there are times when something that has happened has to be treated as if it hasn’t. This is one of those times, I think.”

He shrugged. “I do not always understand you, Mma Ramotswe.”

She laughed. “And another thing, Rra. What would you do if I did something that you thought was a very bad idea, but that I really wanted to do? What if that thing was a thing that made me very happy, but looked ridiculous to you?”

He frowned. “Something your heart was set on?”

“Yes,” she said. “Something that my heart said I just had to do.”

“In that case, I would say to myself: It is an odd thing that Mma Ramotswe has done, but if that is what makes her happy, then I am happy too.”

She looked at him fondly; that he had been sent to her, when there were so many other, lesser men who might have been sent, was a source of constant gratitude. That we have the people we have in this life, rather than others, is miraculous, she thought; a miraculous gift.

 
CHAPTER TWELVE
 
 CARBOLIC SOAP AND LIES

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS
were marked by the fact that virtually nothing happened. Such spells in otherwise busy lives are like breaks in bad weather: we know that they will not last, and our knowledge of their impermanence makes them seem all the more precious. But although throughout this time scarcely a soul crossed the threshold of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, both Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe had more than enough to occupy their thoughts. For Mma Makutsi, the main concern was her impending wedding; the date was fast approaching, and the invitations had already been posted. Her long list of preparations was now marked by rows of ticks as task after task was completed with all the efficiency one would expect of one who, after all, had achieved a hitherto unheard-of ninety-seven per cent in her final examinations. But there were still things to do, and things to worry about, or to worry that Phuti was not worrying about enough.

An example of the latter was the cattle that would be used for the wedding feast. A very large cow and three well-fed goats had been identified for this purpose, and Phuti was meant to have arranged for them to be brought in from his family’s cattle post.
Had this been done? And what about the cow he had promised her people for their feast up in Bobonong? Was this going to be purchased up there, or would it be taken up from the Radiphuti cattle post? These were important questions, and Mma Makutsi was not entirely satisfied that Phuti was on top of them. It was all very well for men; they assumed that weddings
happened,
and they often enjoyed themselves conspicuously at such events, but did they know
how
these things went off smoothly? Did men make lists, she wondered; and concluded that they did not. She had never seen a man with a list—not once—although she often saw men in the supermarket struggling to read the lists made for them by their wives. Mma Makutsi had, in fact, once helped such a man to interpret his wife’s instructions and had ended up doing his entire shopping for him, consequently making herself late for an appointment at the hair-braiding salon.