Alexander McCall Smith - Tears of the Giraffe

MR J.L.B. Matekoni fetched the old green truck from the garage, which had plenty of room in the back for the wheelchair. The children were sitting on the verandah when he arrived home; the boy had found a stick which he was tying up in string for some reason, and the girl was crocheting a cover for a milk jug. They taught them crochet at the orphan farm, and some of them had won prizes for their designs. She is a talented girl, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; this girl will be able to do anything, once she is given the chance.

They greeted him politely, and nodded when he asked whether the maid had given them their breakfast. He had asked her to come in early so as to be able to attend to the children while he went off to the garage, and he was slightly surprised that she had complied. But there were sounds from the kitchen-the hangings and scrapings that she seemed to make whenever she was in a bad mood-and these confirmed her presence.

Watched by the maid, who sourly followed their progress until they were out of sight near the old Botswana Defence Force Club, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the two children bumped their way into town in the old truck. The springs were gone, and could only be replaced with difficulty, as the manufacturers had passed into mechanical history, but the engine still worked and the bumpy ride was a thrill for the girl and boy. Rather to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's surprise, the girl showed an interest in its history, asking him how old it was and whether it used a lot of oil.

"I have heard that old engines need more oil," she said. "Is this true, Rra?"

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni explained about worn engine parts and their heavy demands, and she listened attentively. The boy, by contrast, did not appear to be interested. Still, there was time. He would take him to the garage and get the apprentices to show him how to take off wheel nuts. That was a task that a boy could perform, even when he was as young as this one. It was best to start early as a mechanic. It was an art which, ideally, one should learn at one's father's side. Did not the Lord himself learn to be a carpenter in his father's workshop? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. If the Lord came back today, he would probably be a mechanic, he reflected. That would be a great honour for mechanics everywhere. And there is no doubt but that he would choose Africa: Israel was far too dangerous these days. In fact, the more one thought about it, the more likely it was that he would choose Botswana, and Gaborone in particular. Now that would be a wonderful honour for the people of Botswana; but it would not happen, and there was no point in thinking about it any further. The Lord was not going to come back; we had had our chance and we had not made very much of it, unfortunately.

He parked the car beside the British High Commission, noting that His Excellency's white Range Rover was in front of the door. Most of the diplomatic cars went to the big garages, with their advanced diagnostic equipment and their exotic bills, but His Excellency insisted on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

"You see that car over there?" said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to the boy. "That is a very important vehicle. I know that car very well."

The boy looked down at the ground and said nothing.

"It is a beautiful white car," said the girl, from behind him. "It is like a cloud with wheels."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned round and looked at her.

"That is a very good way of talking about that car," he said. "I shall remember that."

"How many cylinders does a car like that have?" the girl went on. "Is it six?"

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled, and turned back to the boy. "Well," he said. "How many cylinders do you think that car has in its engine?"

"One?" said the boy quietly, still looking firmly at the ground.

"One!" mocked his sister. "It is not a two-stroke!"

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's eyes opened wide. "A two-stroke? Where did you hear about two-strokes?"

The girl shrugged. "I have always known about two-strokes," she said. "They make a loud noise and you mix the oil in with the petrol. They are mostly on small motorbikes. Nobody likes a two-stroke engine."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. "No, a two-stroke engine is often very troublesome." He paused. "But we must not stand here and talk about engines. We must go to the shops and buy you clothes and other things that you need."

THE SHOP assistants were sympathetic to the girl, and went with her into the changing room to help her try the dresses which she had selected from the rack. She had modest tastes, and consistently chose the cheapest available, but these, she said, were the ones she wanted. The boy appeared more interested; he chose the brightest shirts he could find and set his heart on a pair of white shoes which his sister vetoed on the grounds of impracticality.

"We cannot let him have those, Rra," she said to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "They would get very dirty in no time and then he will just throw them to one side. This is a very vain boy."

"I see," mused Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thoughtfully. The boy was respectful, and presentable, but that earlier delightful image he had entertained of his son standing outside Tlok-weng Road Speedy Motors seemed to have faded. Another image had appeared, of the boy in a smart white shirt and a suit... But that could not be right.

They finished their shopping and were making their way back across the broad public square outside the post office when the photographer summoned them.

"I can do a photograph for you," he said. "Right here. You stand under this tree and I can take your photograph. Instant. Just like that. A handsome family group."

"Would you like that?" asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "A photograph to remind us of our shopping trip." The children beamed up at him.

"Yes, please," said the girl, adding, "I have never had a photograph."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood quite still. This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: "That is me." And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.

He caught his breath, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of pity for these two children; and pity mixed with love. He would give them these things. He would make it up to them. They would have everything that other children had been given, which other children took for granted; all that love, each year of lost love, would be replaced, bit by bit, until the scales were righted.

He wheeled the wheelchair into position in front of the tree where the photographer had established his outdoor studio. Then, his rickety tripod perched in the dust, the photographer crouched behind his camera and waved a hand to attract his subject's attention. There was a clicking sound, followed by a whirring, and with the air of a magician completing a trick, the photographer peeled off the protective paper and blew across the photograph to dry it.

The girl took it, and smiled. Then the photographer positioned the boy, who stood, hands clasped behind him, mouth wide open in a smile; again the theatrical performance with the print and the pleasure on the child's face.

"There," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "Now you can put those in your rooms. And one day we will have more photographs."

He turned round and prepared to take control of the wheelchair, but he stopped, and his arms fell to his sides, useless, paralysed.

There was Mma Ramotswe, standing before him, a basket laden with letters in her right hand. She had been making her way to the post office when she saw him and she had stopped. What was going on? What was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doing, and who were these children?