Alexander McCall Smith: Tears of the Giraffe

The door was locked, but clicked open obligingly when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sounded the electric bell. Inside the shop, standing behind the counter, was a thin man clad in khaki. He had a narrow head, and both his slightly slanted eyes and the golden tinge to his skin suggested some San blood-the blood of the Kalahari bushmen. But if this were so, then what would he be doing working in a jewellery shop? There was no real reason why he should not, of course, but it seemed inappropriate. Jewellery shops attracted Indian people, or Kenyans, who liked work of that sort; Basarwa were happier working with livestock-they made great cattlemen or ostrich hands.

The jeweller smiled at them. "I saw you outside," he said. "You parked your car under that tree."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew that he was right. The man spoke correct Setswana, but his accent confirmed the visible signs. Underneath the vowels, there were clicks and whistles struggling to get out. It was a peculiar language, the San language, more like the sound of birds in the trees than people talking.

He introduced himself, as was polite, and then he turned to Mma Ramotswe.

"This lady is now engaged to me," he said. "She is Mma Ramotswe, and I wish to buy her a ring for this engagement." He paused. "A diamond ring."

The jeweller looked at him through his hooded eyes, and then shifted his gaze sideways to Mma Ramotswe. She looked back at him, and thought: There is intelligence here. This is a clever man who cannot be trusted.

"You are a fortunate man," said the jeweller. "Not every man can find such a cheerful, fat woman to marry. There are many thin, hectoring women around today. This one will make you very happy."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni acknowledged the compliment. "Yes," he said. "I am a lucky man."

"And now you must buy her a very big ring," went on the jeweller. "A fat woman cannot wear a tiny ring."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his shoes.

"I was thinking of a medium-sized ring," he said. "I am not a rich man."

"I know who you are," said the jeweller. "You are the man who owns Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. You can afford a good ring."

Mma Ramotswe decided to intervene. "I do not want a big ring," she said firmly. "I am not a lady to wear a big ring. I was hoping for a small ring."

The jeweller threw her a glance. He seemed almost annoyed by her presence-as if this were a transaction between men, like a transaction over cattle, and she was interfering.

"I'll show you some rings," he said, bending down to slide a drawer out of the counter below him. "Here are some good diamond rings."

He placed the drawer on the top of the counter and pointed to a row of rings nestling in velvet slots. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni caught his breath. The diamonds were set in the rings in clusters: a large stone in the middle surrounded by smaller ones. Several rings had other stones too-emeralds and rubies-and beneath each of them a small tag disclosed the price.

"Don't pay any attention to what the label says," said the jeweller, lowering his voice. "I can offer very big discounts."

Mma Ramotswe peered at the tray. Then she looked up and shook her head.

"These are too big," she said. "I told you that I wanted a smaller ring. Perhaps we shall have to go to some other shop."

The jeweller sighed. "I have some others," he said. "I have small rings as well."

He slipped the tray back into its place and extracted another. The rings on this one were considerably smaller. Mma Ramotswe pointed to a ring in the middle of the tray.

"I like that one," she said. "Let us see that one."

"It is not very big," said the jeweller. "A diamond like that may easily be missed. People may not notice it."

"I don't care," said Mma Ramotswe. "This diamond is going to be for me. It is nothing to do with other people."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt a surge of pride as she spoke. This was the woman he admired, the woman who believed in the old Botswana values and who had no time for showiness.

"I like that ring too," he said. "Please let Mma Ramotswe try it on."

The ring was passed to Mma Ramotswe, who slipped it on her finger and held out her hand for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to examine.

"It suits you perfectly," he said.

She smiled. "If this is the ring you would like to buy me, then I would be very happy."

The jeweller picked up the price tag and passed it to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "There can be no further discount on this one," he said. "It is already very cheap."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was pleasantly surprised by the price. He had just replaced the coolant unit on a customer's van and this, he noticed, was the same price, down to the last pula. It was not expensive. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the wad of notes which he had drawn from the bank earlier that morning and paid the jeweller.

"One thing I must ask you," Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said to the jeweller. "Is this diamond a Botswana diamond?"

The jeweller looked at him curiously.

"Why are you interested in that?" he asked. "A diamond is a diamond wherever it comes from."

"I know that," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "But I would like to think that my wife will be wearing one of our own stones."

The jeweller smiled. "In that case, yes, it is. All these stones are stones from our own mines."

"Thank you," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "I am happy to hear that."

THEY DROVE back from the jeweller's shop, past the Anglican Cathedral and the Princess Marina Hospital. As they passed the Cathedral, Mma Ramotswe said: "I think that perhaps we should get married there. Perhaps we can get Bishop Makhulu himself to marry us."

"I would like that," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "He is a good man, the Bishop."

"Then a good man will be conducting the wedding of a good man," said Mma Ramotswe. "You are a kind man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said nothing. It was not easy to respond to a compliment, particularly when one felt that the compliment was undeserved. He did not think that he was a particularly good man. There were many faults in his character, he thought, and if anyone was good, it was Mma Ramotswe. She was far better than he was. He was just a mechanic who tried his best; she was far more than that.

They turned down Zebra Drive and drove into the short drive in front of Mma Ramotswe's house, bringing the car to a halt under the shade-netting at the side of her verandah. Rose, Mma Ramotswe's maid, looked out of the kitchen window and waved to them. She had done the day's laundry and it was hanging out on the line, white against the red-brown earth and blue sky.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took Mma Ramotswe's hand, touching, for a moment, the glittering ring. He looked at her, and saw that there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should not be crying, but I cannot help it."

"Why are you sad?" he asked. "You must not be sad."

She wiped away a tear and then shook her head.

"I'm not sad," she said. "It's just that nobody has ever given me anything like this ring before. When I married Note he gave me nothing. I had hoped that there would be a ring, but there was not. Now I have a ring."

"I will try to make up for Note," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "I will try to be a good husband for you."

Mma Ramotswe nodded. "You will be," she said. "And I shall try to be a good wife for you."

They sat for a moment, saying nothing, each with the thoughts that the moment demanded. Then Mr J.L.B. Matekoni got out, walked round the front of the car, and opened her door for her. They would go inside for bush tea and she would show Rose the ring and the diamond that had made her so happy and so sad at the same time.

SITTING IN her office at the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Mma Ramotswe reflected on how easy it was to find oneself committed to a course of action simply because one lacked the courage to say no. She did not really want to take on the search for a solution to what happened to Mrs Curtin's son; Clovis Andersen, the author of her professional bible, The Principles of Private Detection, would have described the enquiry as stale. "A stale enquiry," he wrote, "is unrewarding to all concerned. The client is given false hopes because a detective is working on the case, and the agent himself feels committed to coming up with something because of the client's expectations. This means that the agent will probably spend more time on the case than the circumstances should warrant. At the end of the day, nothing is likely to be achieved and one is left wondering whether there is not a case for allowing the past to be buried with decency. Let the past alone is sometimes the best advice that can be given."