Alexander Smith - The Double Comfort Safari Club

After her conversation with Hansi, Mma Ramotswe returned to the office. There she found Mr. Polopetsi sitting in Mma Makutsi’s chair. “Just trying it, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “And it is important to have somebody here to answer the telephone.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at the explanation. She understood: Mr. Polopetsi would never get promotion as long as Mma Makutsi was there; it was understandable, then, that he might wish to enjoy the thought of being in her position.

“The lady whose chair that is,” she said, “is a very determined lady. You know that, don’t you, Rra?”

Mr. Polopetsi nodded ruefully. “She is a very strong lady.”

“And I’m afraid that she is showing no signs of giving up her job,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Which means…”

Mr. Polopetsi interrupted her. “I know, Mma. There is no chance for me.” He paused and looked up, hoping to read encouragement in Mma Ramotswe’s expression. “I just wondered whether poor Radiphuti’s accident will make any difference. I thought that maybe with him being crippled now, she would need to stay at home.”

“I don’t think that he would like you to say that he is crippled,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has lost a leg-or a bit of a leg-but they will fix him up with something and he will be able to walk. Maybe more or less the same as before.”

Mr. Polopetsi said that he was pleased to hear this, and Mma Ramotswe thought that he meant it, even if the implication of this news was that Mma Makutsi would stay at her post. She wished she could do more for this mild and inoffensive man, who was always so willing to take on new tasks and who never complained. A great wrong had been done him, she felt, in his imprisonment for the consequences of an error that was not of his making, and in the past she had entertained thoughts of clearing his name. But no longer; it was too long ago and it would be an impossible task. Now he should concentrate on forgetting that nightmare, which she thought was exactly what he was doing. But it would still be a help to give him some scrap of status to hang on to…

“I’ve been thinking, Rra.” She had not-not strictly so-as the thought had just popped into her mind a few seconds ago. “I’ve been thinking about your position.”

He looked at her with that long, hopeful stare that he often used-rather like the mute gaze of a dog that wants his master to feed him.

“Yes,” she went on, now thinking quickly. “You know that this is a small business. We do not make much money, and the share we put in of the wage that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni pays you is very small. You know that?”

He inclined his head slightly. “I know that, Mma. And I am very grateful.”

It was typical of him, she thought. Others would resent this arrangement, but he accepted it.

“So we cannot really give you more money. We would like to, but we cannot.”

“I know that, Mma. And you must not worry. My wife is helping in a shop now, and she is getting some money too. We are luckier than many. I am not complaining.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “You do not complain, Rra. You are very good that way. But what I’ve been thinking about is this. We could give you a new title. I thought that we might call you…” She hesitated. She had thought of Operations Manager, but she knew that Mma Makutsi would object to that. So it would have to be Consultant. That was the word people used to describe the jobs of those who really had no fixed role, and sometimes nothing at all to do. “How about Consultant Detective?” she asked.

Mr. Polopetsi said nothing.

“It is a very good title,” Mma Ramotswe encouraged him.

He shook his head. “It is kind of you, Mma. But I am happy as I am. You do not have to find a name for me just to make me feel better.”

“But…”

“No, Mma. I do not need that. I am happy to do the work I do. Maybe one day things will change for me, but I do not fret too much about that. I am happy right now. I like fixing cars, you see, and I like doing some work for you too. So what do I lack? I have enough food now. My children are not hungry. They are learning well at school. This is a good country, our Botswana. So why do I need to be a consultant?”

She could not answer, and so she simply looked at him, and he looked back at her. Everything was perfectly understood.

Then he said, “While you were out, there was a telephone call for you. I took it. It was that lady who is your friend, that Mma Mateleke. She said, Could Mma Ramotswe meet me for tea tomorrow morning at ten o’clock? Riverwalk. That café she goes to. I said that I would ask you and that I would phone her and let her know.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered if her friend was in trouble. She had looked ill at ease in church on Sunday, and the thought had crossed her mind that something was troubling Mma Mateleke. Domestic disputes, perhaps? She remembered the story that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had told her-about rescuing Mma Mateleke’s car from the Lobatse Road. He had said something about strange behaviour from some man who drove past, but he had not said much more than that, and she had been cooking at the time rather than listening. Was something going on in the Mateleke household? She would find out, no doubt, at the Riverwalk Café tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

She stopped. Why was it called Riverwalk? Where was the river? The Notwane was nowhere in sight. And the walk?

IT WAS VERY FORTUNATE that when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the Riverwalk Café the next morning she was able to get the table that she wanted. This was in the middle, but also on the edge. This was the best place to be, she thought, because it afforded a good view of the car park as well as of the small market that sprang up each morning to sell brightly coloured garments, necklaces, and a seemingly endless supply of carved wooden hippos. Mma Ramotswe had wondered who bought these carvings, as the stalls never seemed to do any business when she was there; the occasional visitor, perhaps, who felt the need for a hippo; the traveller buying a last-minute present for those left at home-unnecessary purchases, perhaps, but tokens of love that were never unnecessary, never pointless. She had bought a wooden hippo herself one day, only a small one, on impulse, when she had walked past a stall and seen the look of resignation on the stallholder’s face. It had not been expensive, and she had not attempted to bargain as the seller expected her to do, but had paid the price asked without demur. The stallholder had cheered up, and Mma Ramotswe had remarked that perhaps business might improve. “There is always somebody to buy something,” she said. Yes, she thought, including a somebody who bought a wooden hippo for which she had no real use just because she was soft-hearted.

The hippo had lain in a drawer of her desk for several days. Each time she opened it, he had looked out at her through the tiny indentations that were his eyes, as if to reproach her for his waterless exile, and she had wondered what to do with him. She had shown it to Mma Makutsi one morning, and her assistant had looked at her in puzzlement.

“That is a hippo, Mma Ramotswe. You have a hippo.”

It had been difficult to contradict. “Yes, it is a small hippo.”

Mma Makutsi waited expectantly, but said nothing. Mma Ramotswe had hoped that an admiring remark would have been made; then she would have presented it to her. But no such remark was forthcoming.

“It’s very skilfully carved,” she said at last. “You can even see his eyes. See? Those little marks there-they are the hippo’s eyes.”

“They are made by machines,” said Mma Makutsi.

“I do not think so, Mma. This is a work of art. There is a sculptor somewhere who makes these animals.”