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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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step back and half turned to run; it could be a snake, a cobra or a mamba, which could be very dangerous if she had walked between the snake and its hole. Mambas loved these old anthills, with their cool chambers and the safety of their darkness, and mambas were so quick, so evil, so filled with old hatred for people.
A warthog. It had come through the undergrowth and now it wandered on to the path, saw Mma Makutsi not far away and for amoment itself froze, as she had. Then, turning round sharply, its ridiculous tail erect like an aerial, it trotted off, back into the safety of the sheltering bush.
Mma Makutsi relaxed. “Sorry,” she said after the retreating creature. “Sorry. This is your place.”
CHAPTER SIX
A SMALL, INCONSEQUENTIAL BOY
T HE ROAD TO LOBATSE runs south from Gaborone, heading straight for a pass that opens through low-lying hills on either side. Like all roads in Botswana, for many of those who passed that way regularly each stretch could evoke its memories: here was where we broke down, by that culvert, and waited for help under that tree—the sun was so hot that day; here we turned off once to visit a distant cousin who lived five miles down that track, so bumpy that we were all shaken up and bruised by the time we reached our destination; here lived a man who kept a mangy lion in a large enclosure; here is the turn-off to Mokolodi; here we bought melons from a woman who had flies swarming about her eyes but seemed unconcerned. For Mma Ramotswe, too, there were memories, going right back; of trips by bus when she was a girl, to see her cousin in Lobatse; of a journey with Note, her abusive husband, who broke her heart and then broke it again; of the time she drove this way with her father, just before he died, and he said that he thought he would never see those hills again but no doubt would find some just like them in that place to which he would shortly go, to that other Botswana just beyond that final darkness.
Mr. Botsalo Moeti had eventually told Mma Ramotswe where he lived. His earlier vagueness on this, bordering on reluctance, had puzzled her. Did he not trust her? Was his fear so great? “A road off to the right,” he had said. “There is no notice, but if you look for a large thorn tree beside the road just after Otse, then that is the place; there is the chassis of a very old car in the bush. That is my sign.”
She saw the tree, and then the remains of the car. These old vehicles were to be seen here and there—in the dry air of Botswana they barely rusted, but became covered in vegetation and dust and merged with the landscape. Often enough they were beautiful old cars or trucks, tractors too, reminders of a time when such things were built with grace and a sense of human proportion, like the implements to be found in an old kitchen, battered and well used, modest and simple. She had suggested once to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that he rescue one of these ancient vehicles some day and tow it back to the garage for restoration. He had laughed, and explained that you could not do something like that; that everything would be solidly fused together now, that the wind would have eroded the cables so that they would turn to dust if touched, that there would be nothing left where once there were dials and tubes and leather seats. The ants would have eaten all those, he said; it would be an exhumation, not a towing. “Cars are just like us, Mma Ramotswe,” he went on to say. “When their heart stops—finally stops—then there is nothing left. The life has gone from them. That is true, Mma Ramotswe. That is how it is.”
He paused, and then added, “And I do not think they go to heaven, Mma Ramotswe. There is no heaven for cars.” He spoke rather wistfully, as such a heaven would be a fine place for a mechanic, surrounded by all the cars that ever were, all those wonderful old cars with their intricate engines and their beautiful, handmade interiors.
He had not meant to be
A warthog. It had come through the undergrowth and now it wandered on to the path, saw Mma Makutsi not far away and for amoment itself froze, as she had. Then, turning round sharply, its ridiculous tail erect like an aerial, it trotted off, back into the safety of the sheltering bush.
Mma Makutsi relaxed. “Sorry,” she said after the retreating creature. “Sorry. This is your place.”
CHAPTER SIX
A SMALL, INCONSEQUENTIAL BOY
T HE ROAD TO LOBATSE runs south from Gaborone, heading straight for a pass that opens through low-lying hills on either side. Like all roads in Botswana, for many of those who passed that way regularly each stretch could evoke its memories: here was where we broke down, by that culvert, and waited for help under that tree—the sun was so hot that day; here we turned off once to visit a distant cousin who lived five miles down that track, so bumpy that we were all shaken up and bruised by the time we reached our destination; here lived a man who kept a mangy lion in a large enclosure; here is the turn-off to Mokolodi; here we bought melons from a woman who had flies swarming about her eyes but seemed unconcerned. For Mma Ramotswe, too, there were memories, going right back; of trips by bus when she was a girl, to see her cousin in Lobatse; of a journey with Note, her abusive husband, who broke her heart and then broke it again; of the time she drove this way with her father, just before he died, and he said that he thought he would never see those hills again but no doubt would find some just like them in that place to which he would shortly go, to that other Botswana just beyond that final darkness.
Mr. Botsalo Moeti had eventually told Mma Ramotswe where he lived. His earlier vagueness on this, bordering on reluctance, had puzzled her. Did he not trust her? Was his fear so great? “A road off to the right,” he had said. “There is no notice, but if you look for a large thorn tree beside the road just after Otse, then that is the place; there is the chassis of a very old car in the bush. That is my sign.”
She saw the tree, and then the remains of the car. These old vehicles were to be seen here and there—in the dry air of Botswana they barely rusted, but became covered in vegetation and dust and merged with the landscape. Often enough they were beautiful old cars or trucks, tractors too, reminders of a time when such things were built with grace and a sense of human proportion, like the implements to be found in an old kitchen, battered and well used, modest and simple. She had suggested once to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that he rescue one of these ancient vehicles some day and tow it back to the garage for restoration. He had laughed, and explained that you could not do something like that; that everything would be solidly fused together now, that the wind would have eroded the cables so that they would turn to dust if touched, that there would be nothing left where once there were dials and tubes and leather seats. The ants would have eaten all those, he said; it would be an exhumation, not a towing. “Cars are just like us, Mma Ramotswe,” he went on to say. “When their heart stops—finally stops—then there is nothing left. The life has gone from them. That is true, Mma Ramotswe. That is how it is.”
He paused, and then added, “And I do not think they go to heaven, Mma Ramotswe. There is no heaven for cars.” He spoke rather wistfully, as such a heaven would be a fine place for a mechanic, surrounded by all the cars that ever were, all those wonderful old cars with their intricate engines and their beautiful, handmade interiors.
He had not meant to be
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