people, and being irritating was not enough for him to be written off. No, there was something more than that. Was it smugness, or singularity of purpose? Perhaps that was it. It was always disconcerting to meet those who had become so obsessed with a single topic that they could not see their concerns in context. Such people were uncomfortable company purely because they lacked normal human balance, and this, she thought, might be the case with Mr Bobologo. And yet she had not been asked to find out whether Mr Bobologo was an interesting man, or even a nice man. She had been asked to find out whether he was after Mma Holonga’s money. That was a very specific question, and her feelings for Mr Bobologo had nothing to do with the answer to that question. So she would give him the benefit of the doubt, and keep her personal opinions to herself. She herself would never marry Mr Bobologo-or any man like him-but it would be wrong of her to interfere until she had very concrete proof of the exact issue at stake. And that had not yet appeared, and might never appear. So for the time being, the only thing to do was to concentrate on inspecting the House of Hope and wait until Mr Bobologo put a foot wrong and gave himself away. And she had a feeling now-a fairly strong feeling-that he might never do that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHILE MMA RAMOTSWE was visiting Mr Bobologo and his House of Hope, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was completing a tricky repair at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. He was relieved, of course, about the cancellation of the parachute jump, but at the same time he was concerned about the fact that one of the apprentices was going to do it in his stead. He knew that these boys were feckless, and he knew that they would do anything to impress girls, but he was their apprentice-master, after all, and he considered that he had a moral responsibility for them until they had served out their apprenticeship. Many people would say that this did not extend to cover what they did in their own time, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was not one to take a narrow view of these matters and he could not avoid feeling at least slightly paternal towards these young men, irritating though they undoubtedly were. He was not sure, though, how he could deal with this issue. If he persuaded the young man not to jump, then Mma Potokwane might insist that he do the jump after all. If she did so, then that would lead to a row between her and Mma Ramotswe, and that could become complicated. There might be no more fruit cake, for example, and he would miss his trips out to see the orphans, even if he was inevitably given some task to perform the moment he arrived at the orphan farm.
The repair took less time than he had anticipated, and well before it was time for the morning break Mr J.L.B. Matekoni found himself wiping the steering wheel and the driver’s seat to make the car ready for collection by its owner. He was always very careful to ensure that cars were returned to the customer in a clean state-something he had attempted to drill into the apprentices, but without success.
“How would you feel if your car came back to you with greasy fingerprints all over it?” he said to them. “Would you like it?”
“I would not see them,” said one of the young men. “I am not worried about fingerprints. As long as a car goes fast, that is the only thing.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could barely credit what he had heard. “Do you mean to say that the only thing that advantages is speed? Is that what you really think?”
The apprentice had looked at him blankly before he gave his reply. “Of course. If a car goes fast, then it is a good car. It has a strong engine. Everybody knows that, Boss.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head in despair. How many times had he explained about solid engineering and the merits of a reliable gearbox? How many times had he spelled out to these young men the merits of an economical engine, particularly a good diesel engine that would give years and years of service with very little trouble? Diesel-powered cars did not usually go very fast, but that was not the point; they were good cars anyway. None of these lessons, it appeared, had sunk in. He sighed. “I have been wasting my time,” he muttered. “Wasting my time.”
The apprentice smiled. “Wasting your time, Boss? What have you been doing? Dancing? You and Mma Ramotswe going dancing at one of those clubs? Hah!”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wanted to say, “Trying to teach a hyena to dance,” but did not. Where had he heard that expression before? It seemed familiar, and then he remembered he had said it himself only a few days ago when he had been discussing First Class Motors with Mma Ramotswe. The memory made him start, and put the apprentices quite out of his mind. There was something hanging over him; he had forgotten what it was, but now it came back: he still had to deal with the issue of the butcher’s car, which was due to be brought into the garage that morning. The thought appalled him: he would be able to effect a temporary repair, until such time as he tracked down the right parts, but there was more to it than that. He had agreed that he would confront the Manager of First Class Motors and tell him that his wrongdoing had been discovered. He did not relish this, in view of the other man’s reputation. Indeed, it might have been moderately more attractive to do a parachute jump, perhaps, rather than meet the Manager of First Class Motors.
“You look worried,” said the apprentice. “Is there something troubling you, Boss?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “I have an unpleasant duty to do,” he said. “I have to go and speak to some bad mechanics about their work. That is what is troubling me.”
“Who are these bad mechanics?” asked the apprentice.
“Those people at First Class Motors,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “The man who owns it and the men who work for him. They are all bad, every one of them.”
The apprentice whistled. “Yes, they are bad all right. I have seen those people. They know nothing about cars. They are not like you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who knows everything about all sorts of cars.”
The compliment from the apprentice was unexpected, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, in spite of his modesty, was touched by the young man’s tribute.
“I am not a great mechanic,” he said softly. “I am just careful, that is all, and that is what I have always wanted you to be. I would want you to be careful mechanics. It would make me very happy if you would be that.”
“We will be,” said the apprentice. “We will try to be like you. We hope that people will always look at our work and think: they learned that from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “
“You see,” he said, “my father is late. He became late when I was a small boy-just that high- very small. And I did not have uncles who were any good, and so I think of you as my father, Rra. That is what I think. You are my father.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was silent. He had always had difficulty in expressing his emotions-as mechanics often do, he thought-and it was hard for him now. He wanted to say to this young man: What you have said makes me very proud, and very sad, all at the same time-but he could not find these words. He could, however, place a hand on the young man’s shoulder and leave it there for a moment, to show that he understood what had been said.
“I have never said thank you, Rra,” went on the apprentice. “And I would not want you to die without being thanked by me.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave a start. “Am I going to die?” he asked. “I am not all that old surely. I am still here.”
The apprentice smiled. “I did not mean that you were going to die soon, Rra. But you will die one of these days, like everybody else. And I wanted to say thank you before that day came.”
“Well,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, “what you say is probably true, but we have spent too much time standing here talking about these things. There is work to be done in the garage. We have to get rid of that
