Alexander Smith - The Double Comfort Safari Club

He seized the opportunity. “But I am hungry too, Mma, and there is that place round the corner, near the bottle store.”

“I am told their food is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I would like to take you to lunch, Mma Ramotswe, if you will let me.”

The offer was accepted, and the two walked the short distance to the café. Nothing was said on this walk-or nothing significant-and it was not until they had sat down at their table and were examining the menu that Herbert Mateleke unburdened himself.

“You know something, Mma Ramotswe?” he began. “I am not a happy man.”

“But…”

He held up a hand. “Let me explain, Mma. I am a person who is always telling other people that they must rejoice and love the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia! That is what I am always saying. And when I see people who are happy, I say, ‘Alleluia! You are living in goodness and light!’ But all the time, Mma, inside me there is just an unhappiness and…”-he paused, staring straight into Mma Ramotswe’s eyes-“… and doubt.”

For a moment she said nothing. She knew that reverends sometimes had doubts about what they professed to believe, and that this could not be easy for them. It would be like telling somebody all the time to do something that one would not do oneself. But was she the person to address his doubts? Surely he should go and speak to somebody who knew something about these matters-another reverend, perhaps, or a teacher of theology. Of course, there were all sorts of other doubts… doubts about marriage? Was saying that one had doubts a way of saying that one was thinking of leaving one’s spouse? Mma Ramotswe was not sure; these days there were so many ways of describing unpleasant things and making them sound quite pleasant. Nobody ran away from their responsibilities any more-they were said to have gone off to find themselves. Nobody dismissed anybody from their job any more-they let them go. What if they said, “But I do not want to go!” The only reply would be, “But I’m still going to let you!” It showed what nonsense these silly expressions were-at least Setswana did not have them: words in Setswana meant exactly what they said.

“I am worried about my wife,” Herbert Mateleke blurted out. “I have started to doubt her.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at the tablecloth. He was doubting her? But he was the one who was meant to be having the affair! Or was this a part of the modern business of turning everything on its head, of making bad sound good and good sound bad, or at least very dull?

At last she asked, “Why is this, Rra? Why are you doubting her?”

Her question was clear enough, but he appeared to need some time to answer it. When the answer came, however, it was unambiguous. “I think that she is seeing another man.”

Mma Ramotswe could not conceal her surprise. This was not the way she had thought the encounter would go. She should be trying to find out whether he was having an affair, and now here was he about to ask her-and she was sure the request would not be long in coming-to find out whether Mma Mateleke was seeing somebody.

He was staring at her. “You look surprised, Mma. I suppose I can understand.”

She gathered her thoughts. “Yes, I am a bit surprised, Rra. I cannot deny that.”

He sighed. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? If I went to anybody and said, ‘Do you realise that my wife is having an affair?’ they would be very surprised. They would say, ‘But she is a very respectable lady, Rra. She is that well-known midwife. And you are a part-time reverend.’ And so on. That is what they would say.”

Mma Ramotswe asked him why he thought Mma Mateleke was seeing somebody. Did he have any proof? She was trying to remember what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had told her. Something about a car and the Lobatse Road. The Lobatse Road was not a good place to conduct an affair; it was far too busy. Now some small, out-of-the-way road, some road that wandered away to a distant cattle post, or off into the Kalahari until it disappeared in the sand, that road would be the place for a lovers’ meeting.

He shook his head. “I have no proof. I have no letters filled with kisses and things like that. But I have seen her talking to a man. I saw her outside the Botswana Book Centre one day. She was talking to a man.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “But that is nothing, Rra! Many women talk to men. They may know a man from work, or something like that. Yes, maybe she knew him from work.”

Herbert Mateleke shook his head. “She is a midwife, Mma, as you know. Men do not have babies. Yet.” He hesitated. “Although there are many men these days who want to have babies, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at that. There were so many different sorts of men these days, that was true, and she wondered whether she might have to change her views of men, which were based, she had to admit, on the idea of traditional men; there were plenty of men today who seemed to be interested in things like clothing and hairstyles, even here in Botswana. And there was a whole generation, she had to acknowledge-reluctantly-who knew very little about cattle, and, shockingly, were not interested in learning. If there was one thing that would upset her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, were he by some miracle to come back and see Botswana today, it would be that. He could take the rudeness of the day-not that Botswana was nearly as bad as many places-and he could take the materialism of the day, but she did not think that he would understand this lack of interest in the land and in the cattle. “But this is Botswana!” he would say to these young people. “You are Batswana and you have no interest in cattle? How can that be!”

This was not the time, though, to reflect on change in the world. This was the time to try to allay Herbert Mateleke’s highly unlikely suspicions about his wife. Those suspicions, of course, spoke volumes on the issue of whether he himself was having an affair. He was not. A husband who was having an affair would not have the time or the interest in his wife to work himself into a state over her fidelity or otherwise. No, the most likely explanation here was that these two people, perhaps having become a bit stale in their marriage, were imagining things-on both sides.

“Even if she does not work with men,” Mma Ramotswe pointed out, “there could be many other reasons for her to talk to a man. What about the daddies-the men who have fathered the children she has delivered? Do you not think they would have good memories of her, and want to tell her how the children are doing?”

She waited for him to answer, but he merely looked glumly over the top of her head. So she continued, “I do not think for one moment-not for one moment-that you can draw such a serious conclusion just from seeing her talking to a man. In public. In the open. For heaven’s sake, Rra, what if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were to see you and me sitting here having food together? Would he say to himself, that man, that Herbert Mateleke, is having an affair with my wife? Of course he would not. He would say: that is Mma Ramotswe having a snack with her friend’s husband. Then he would ask himself: I wonder what they are eating. Is it good? That is what he would think, Rra. And that is what you should think too.”

Herbert Mateleke stopped staring over the top of her head, lowering his eyes to meet hers. “But there are other things. There are other things that make me think this.”

“Such as? Are you sure you are not letting your imagination run away with itself?”

“I am not. We used to go for walks together. I used to go with her to the supermarket. Now she says that she is too busy. She says that I should get on with my preaching and let her get on with the things she has to do.”

Wives lost interest in their husbands, Mma Ramotswe reflected. Sometimes husbands did not notice this, but it could be rather difficult if the husband was the clinging, dependent type of man. She studied Herbert Mateleke for a moment, asking herself what it would be like to be married to him. It was something she did from time to time, and for the most part she reached the conclusion that it would actually be rather hard being married to most men; not that she was fussy, of course. And she expected that most men would probably not wish to be married to her-that was only fair if she did not want to be married to them. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was perfect, as far as she was concerned-he was so understanding and considerate, compared with most men.