The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

SIX

I AM NOT RUDE ANY MORE
    M MA RAMOTSWE had been aware of the fact that something was preying on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s mind. It was not that anything out of the ordinary had been said: their conversation recently had been much as it usually was—mostly concerned with day-to-day things: the doings of the two foster children, the prospects for the beans in his special vegetable patch, the need to get a decorator to brighten up the paintwork on the verandah, as it was six years since it had last been painted. This was the stuff of ordinary existence; small matters, yes, but the ones that all married couples talked about, and that provided, at least for most people, a sufficient list of conversational topics.
    She understood, of course, that spouses could not share absolutely everything. Just as she needed to have time to herself to think about womanly things, so too did Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni need to be able to ponder the things that men ponder. She knew that there were women who did not like the idea of their husbands thinking about things without their permission, but she was definitely not such a person. She had known somebody like that—a woman who lived in Mochudi who was married to a rather harassed-looking man. Mma Ramotswe had learned from a mutual friend that this womanmade a point of knowing exactly where her husband was at any time, whom he was talking to, and everything that he said and was said to him. She insisted on collecting the mail from their post-box so that she could open any letters addressed to him—and reply on his behalf if needs be. Eventually it had all been too much for him and he had simply run away, not with any real idea as to where he was heading, but running as fast as his oppressed legs would carry him on the road into Gaborone. His wife had pursued him in her car and had eventually brought him down in what appeared to be a very competent rugby tackle, right in front of an astonished group of schoolchildren who were travelling into Gaborone on a school outing.
    She had told this story to Mma Makutsi, who had shaken her head and announced that in her view that was no way to run a marriage.
    â€œIt is quite understandable for a woman to keep an eye on her husband,” said Mma Makutsi, “but she should not make him feel that he is a prisoner. Men need to be given air. They need to feel that they are free …”
    â€œExactly,” said Mma Ramotswe.
    â€œâ€¦Â even if they are not really free,” continued Mma Makutsi. “It is called the
illusion of freedom.
”
    Mma Ramotswe was impressed with the term, but thought that she would express it somewhat differently. “Or kindness to men,” she ventured. “It is kindness to men not to sit on them too much.”
    â€œThat is true,” said Mma Makutsi, suppressing a smile at the thought of Mma Ramotswe sitting on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He would find it difficult to breathe, she felt, and the consequences could be serious. It was indeed true that men needed air.
    In spite of this recognition of the masculine need for space, Mma Ramotswe felt that in the case of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni it was necessary to be watchful for any signs of moodiness or preoccupation on his part. Some years earlier, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had suffered a bout of depression. He had fully recovered, but she had been warned by Dr. Moffat to keep an eye out for recurring symptoms. “If hebecomes withdrawn or indecisive,” the doctor had said, “this could be a warning that the depression is coming back. Be aware.”
    So far there had been no such signs, and she had assumed that the pills he had been prescribed had not only dealt with that bout of the illness but also warded off any recurrence. However, as she noticed him sitting in his chair with a fixed, rather worried expression on his face, she wondered whether it was time to make an enquiry. She had waited for her opportunity, which now presented itself, a