Alexander McCall Smith - Tears of the Giraffe

"I have been meaning to give you time off to study," he said. "Well, you can have some study time this afternoon. Put up a sign and say that we shall reopen at eight tomorrow."

To Mma Ramotswe he said: "They won't study. They'll go off chasing girls. There is nothing in those young men's heads. Nothing."

"Many young people are like that," she said. "They think only of dances and clothes, and loud music. That is their life. We were like that too, remember?"

Her own telephone call to the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency had brought a confident Mma Makutsi to the line, who had explained to her that she had completed the investigation of the Badule matter and that all that required to be done was to determine what to do with the information she had gathered. They would have to talk about that, said Mma Ramotswe. She had feared that the investigation would produce a truth that would be far from simple in its moral implications. There were times when ignorance was more comfortable than knowledge.

The pumpkin, though, was ready, and it was time to sit down at the table, as a family for the first time.

Mma Ramotswe said grace.

"We are grateful for this pumpkin and this meat," she said. "There are brothers and sisters who do not have good food on their table, and we think of them, and wish pumpkin and meat for them in the future. And we thank the Lord who has brought these children into our lives so that we might be happy and they might have a home with us. And we think of what a happy day this is for the late mother and the late daddy of these children, who are watching this from above."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could add nothing to this grace, which he thought was perfect in every respect. It expressed his own feelings entirely, and his heart was too full of emotion to allow him to speak. So he was silent.

THE MORNING is the best time to address a problem, thought Mma Ramotswe. One is at one's freshest in the first hours of the working day, when the sun is still low and the air is sharp. That is the time to ask oneself the major questions; a time of clarity and reason, unencumbered by the heaviness of the day.

"I have read your report," said Mma Ramotswe, when Mma Makutsi arrived for work. "It is a very full one, and very well written. Well done."

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment graciously.

"I was happy that my first case was not a difficult one," she said. "At least it was not difficult to find out what needed to be found out. But those questions which I put at the end-they are the difficult bit."

"Yes," said Mma Ramotswe, glancing down at the piece of paper. "The moral questions."

"I don't know how to solve them," said Mma Makutsi. "If I think that one answer is correct, then I see all the difficulties with that. Then I consider the other answer, and I see another set of difficulties."

She looked expectantly at Mma Ramotswe, who grimaced. "It is not easy for me either," the older woman said. "Just because I am a bit older than you does not mean that I have the answer to every dilemma that comes along. As you get older, in fact, you see more sides to a situation. Things are more clear-cut at your age." She paused, then added: "Mind you, remember that I am not quite forty. I am not all that old." "No," said Mma Makutsi. "That is just about the right age for a person to be. But this problem we have; it is all very troubling. If we tell Badule about this man and he puts a stop to the whole thing, then the boy's school fees will not be paid. That will be the end of this very good chance that he is getting. That would not be best for the boy."

Mma Ramotswe nodded. "I see that," she said. "On the other hand we can't lie to Mr Badule. It is unethical for a detective to lie to the client. You can't do it."

"I can understand that," said Mma Makutsi. "But there are times, surely, when a lie is a good thing. What if a murderer came to your house and asked you where a certain person was? And what if you knew where that person was, would it be wrong to say. 'I do not know anything about that person. I do not know where he is.' Would that not be a lie?"

"Yes. But then you have no duty to tell the truth to that murderer. So you can lie to him. But you do have a duty to tell the truth to your client, or to your spouse, or to the police. That is all different."

"Why? Surely if it is wrong to lie, then it is always wrong to lie. If people could lie when they thought it was the right thing to do, then we could never tell when they meant it." Mma Makutsi, stopped, and pondered for a few moments before continuing. "One person's idea of what is right may be quite different from another's. If each person can make up his own rule..." She shrugged, leaving the consequences unspoken.

"Yes," said Mma Ramotswe. "You are right about that. That's the trouble with the world these days. Everyone thinks that they can make their own decisions about what is right and wrong. Everybody thinks that they can forget the old Botswana morality. But they can't."

"But the real problem here," said Mma Makutsi, "is whether we should tell him everything. What if we say: 'You are right; your wife is unfaithful,' and leave it at that? Have we done our duty? We are not lying, are we? We are just not telling all the truth."

Mma Ramotswe stared at Mma Makutsi. She had always valued her secretary's comments, but she had never expected that she would make such a moral mountain out of the sort of little problem that detectives encountered every day. It was messy work. You helped other people with their problems; you did not have to come up with a complete solution. What they did with the information was their own affair. It was their life, and they had to lead it.

But as she thought about this, she realised that she had done far more than that in the past. In a number of her successful cases, she had gone beyond the finding of information. She had made decisions about the outcome, and these decisions had often proved to be momentous ones. For example, in the case of the woman whose husband had a stolen Mercedes-Benz, she had arranged for the return of the car to its owner. In the case of the fraudulent insurance claims by the man with thirteen fingers, she had made the decision not to report him to the police. That was a decision which had changed a life. He may have become honest after she had given him this chance, but he may not. She could not tell. But what she had done was to offer him a chance, and that may have made a difference. So she did interfere in other people's lives, and it was not true that all that she did was provide information.

In this case, she realised that the real issue was the fate of the boy. The adults could look after themselves; Mr Badule could cope with a discovery of adultery (in his heart of hearts he already knew that his wife was unfaithful); the other man could go back to his wife on his bended knees and take his punishment (perhaps be hauled back to live in that remote village with his Catholic wife), and as for the fashionable lady, well, she could spend a bit more time in the butchery, rather than resting on that big bed on Nyerere Drive. The boy, though, could not be left to the mercy of events. She would have to ensure that whatever happened, he did not suffer for the bad behaviour of his mother.

Perhaps there was a solution which would mean that the boy could stay at school. If one looked at the situation as it stood, was there anybody who was really unhappy? The fashionable wife was very happy; she had a rich lover and a big bed to lie about in. The rich lover bought her fashionable clothes and other things which fashionable ladies tend to enjoy. The rich lover was happy, because he had a fashionable lady and he did not have to spend too much time with his devout wife. The devout wife was happy because she was living where she wanted to live, presumably doing what she liked doing, and had a husband who came home regularly, but not so regularly as to be a nuisance to her. The boy was happy, because he had two fathers, and was getting a good education at an expensive school.