Alexander Smith - The Kalahari Typing School For Men

“I would like that very much,” said Mma Makutsi.

She watched him drive down the road, the rear red lights of his car disappearing in the darkness. She sighed; he was so kind, so gentlemanly, rather like a glamorous version of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. What a coincidence it was that she and Mma Ramotswe should both have found such good men, when there were so many charlatans and deceivers about.

WITH SUCH a profusion of positive developments, they had given little thought to the rival agency, and perhaps they would have forgotten about it completely had it not been for two developments which reminded them of Mr. Buthelezi. The first of these was an interview published in the Botswana Gazette, an interview which took up the entire features page and was headed by a picture of Mr. Buthelezi sitting at his desk, a cigarette in one hand and the telephone hand-piece in the other. The article was spotted by Mma Ramotswe, who read it out to Mma Makutsi while the latter sipped thoughtfully, but with increasing astonishment, at a mug of bush tea.

“From New York to Gaborone, via Johannesburg,” ran the caption at the top of the page. “A detective from different worlds: we spoke to the charming Mr. Buthelezi in his well-appointed office, and asked him what it was like to be a private detective in Gaborone.

“‘It is quite hard being the first proper detective,’ he said. ‘There are, as people know, one or two ladies who have been dabbling in this for a little while, but they have no background in detection. I am not saying that there is not a job for them to do. There will always be jobs relating to children and the like. I am sure that they will do those very well. But for the real work, you need a proper detective.

“‘I was trained with the CID in Johannesburg. That was a very tough training, with all those gangsters and all those murders, but I soon learned to be tough. You have to be tough in this business. That’s why men are best at it. They’re tougher than women.

“‘I had many cases in the CID. Well-known murders. Jewel thefts. Ow! Millions of rands gone, just like that! Kidnappings, too. All of that was my daily bread, and I soon found that I understood the criminal mind very well. That’s experience for you.

“‘I have been very busy since I opened up. There are obviously many problems here in this city, and so if any readers have something that needs looking into, I am their man. I repeat, I am their man.

“‘You ask what are the best qualities for a private detective? I would say that an understanding of how human psychology works is one of the best. Then a good eye for detail. We have to notice things-often very little things-in order to find out the truth for our clients. So a private detective is like a camera, always taking photographs in his mind and always trying to understand what is going on. That is the secret.

“‘You ask how you become a private detective? The answer is that you have to be trained, preferably in the CID. You cannot just set up your sign and say that you are a private detective. Some people have tried that, even here in Gaborone, but that will never work. You have to have been trained.

“‘It’s also helpful if you’ve been to London or New York, or to some of those places. If you’ve done that, then you know the world, and nobody will be able to pull the wool over your eyes. I have been in New York, and I know all about the private detection side of things there. I know many of the men working in this area. They are very clever men, these New York detectives, and we were close friends.

“‘But at the end of the day, I always say, East West, Home’s Best! That is why I am back here in Gaborone, which was my mother’s place and which was where I went to school. I am a Motswana detective with a strange name. I know a lot, and what I don’t know, I’ll soon find out. Give me a call. Anytime!’”

Mma Ramotswe finished reading and then tossed the newspaper down with disgust. She was used to bragging men, and was tolerant of them, but these words from Mr. Buthelezi went too far. All those references to the superiority of men over women in detection were unambiguously aimed at her and her agency, and while it was obvious that an attack of this sort could only be the result of insecurity on his part, it could hardly be left unanswered. And yet an answer was probably what he wanted, as it would merely draw further attention to his business. Moreover-and this was worrying-what he said would probably strike a chord with many of the newspaper’s readers. She suspected that there were plenty of people who did believe that the work which she did was better done by a man. They believed this of driving and flying aeroplanes, in spite of the fact that she had read-and others surely had read, too-of the evidence that women are simply safer drivers and pilots than men. The reason for this, apparently, is that they are more cautious and less given to flamboyant risk-taking. That is why women, on the whole, drive more slowly than men. Yet many men refused to acknowledge this fact and made belittling remarks about women’s driving.

“I’m going to do a little bit of research,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “Could you go and fetch Charlie, Mma. I want him to read this.”

Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “Why?” she asked. “You know that he’s only interested in girls. He won’t be interested in this.”

“An experiment,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You wait and see.”

Mma Makutsi left the office and came back a few minutes later with the older apprentice, who was wiping his hands on the cotton lint that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni provided in his battle against grease.

“Yes, Mma,” said the apprentice. “Mma Makutsi says you need my advice. I am always happy to give advice. Ha!”

Mma Ramotswe ignored the comment.

“You read this, please,” she said. “I would like to get your opinion on it.”

She handed him the newspaper, pointing to the article, and the apprentice sat down on the chair in front of her desk. As he read, his lips moved, and Mma Ramotswe watched the look of concentration on his face. He never reads a newspaper, she thought. There really is nothing in that head but thoughts of girls and cars.

When he had finished, the apprentice looked up at Mma Ramotswe.

“I have read it now, Mma,” he said, handing the paper back to her. She saw the greasy fingerprints on the edges and delicately avoided touching them.

“What do you think of it, Charlie?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am sorry, Mma,” he said. “I am sorry for

you.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes,” he expanded. “I am sorry that this is going to make it difficult for your business. Everybody will go to that man now.”

“So you were impressed?”

He smiled. “Of course. That is a very clever man there. New York. Did you see that? And Johannesburg. All those places. He knows what is happening, and he will deal with many things. I am sorry, because I do not want the business to go to him.”

“You are very loyal,” said Mma Ramotswe. And then, as the apprentice rose to his feet and left the room, she thought: Exactly!

“Well, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That shows us something, doesn’t it?”

Mma Makutsi made a dismissive gesture. “That boy is stupid. We all know that. Don’t believe anything he says.”

“He’s not that stupid,” said Mma Ramotswe. “To get the apprenticeship, he had to pass exams. He is probably a fairly average young man. So, you see, many, many people will be impressed by this Mr. Buthelezi. We cannot change that fact.”

MANY PEOPLE, perhaps, but not all. That afternoon, when Mma Makutsi had been dispatched to the births, deaths, and marriages registry to pursue some routine enquiries on behalf of a client, Mma Ramotswe was visited, unannounced, by a woman whose view of the Satisfaction Guaranteed Agency and its boastful proprietor was quite the opposite of the view held by the apprentice. She arrived in a smart new car, which she parked directly outside the agency door, and waited politely for Mma Ramotswe to acknowledge her presence before she entered the office. This always pleased Mma Ramotswe; she could not abide the modern habit of entering a room before being asked to do so, or, even worse, the assumption that some people made that they could come into your office uninvited and actually sit on your desk while they spoke. If that happened to her, she would refrain from speaking at all but would look pointedly at the bottom planted upon her desk until her disapproval registered and it was removed.