BOOKS BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
IN THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY SERIES
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
The Miracle at Speedy Motors
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
The Double Comfort Safari Club
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party
The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection
The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon
The Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café
The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine
Precious and Grace
The House of Unexpected Sisters
The Colors of All the Cattle
To the Land of Long Lost Friends
How to Raise an Elephant
IN THE ISABEL DALHOUSIE SERIES
The Sunday Philosophy Club
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate
The Right Attitude to Rain
The Careful Use of Compliments
The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday
The Lost Art of Gratitude
The Charming Quirks of Others
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds
The Novel Habits of Happiness
A Distant View of Everything
The Quiet Side of Passion
The Geometry of Holding Hands
IN THE PAUL STUART SERIES
My Italian Bulldozer
The Second-Worst Restaurant in France
IN THE DETECTIVE VARG SERIES
The Department of Sensitive Crimes
The Talented Mr. Varg
IN THE CORDUROY MANSIONS SERIES
Corduroy Mansions
The Dog Who Came in from the Cold
A Conspiracy of Friends
IN THE PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS SERIES
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances
Unusual Uses for Olive Oil
IN THE 44 SCOTLAND STREET SERIES
44 Scotland Street
Espresso Tales
Love over Scotland
The World According to Bertie
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones
The Importance of Being Seven
Bertie Plays the Blues
Sunshine on Scotland Street
Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers
The Revolving Door of Life
The Bertie Project
A Time of Love and Tartan
The Peppermint Tea Chronicles
The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa
La’s Orchestra Saves the World
Trains and Lovers
The Forever Girl
Emma: A Modern Retelling
Chance Developments
The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Alexander McCall Smith
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Little, Brown, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, a Hachette U.K. company, London, in 2020.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: McCall Smith, Alexander, [date] author.
Title: How to raise an elephant / Alexander McCall Smith.
Description: First United States edition. New York: Pantheon Books, 2020. Series: No. 1 ladies’ detective agency; 21.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020024535 (print). LCCN 2020024536 (ebook). ISBN 9781524749361 (hardcover). ISBN 9780593315729 (ebook).
Subjects: LCSH: Ramotswe, Precious (Fictitious character)—Fiction. Women private investigators—Botswana—Fiction. No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (Imaginary organization)—Fiction. Elephants—Fiction. Botswana—Fiction. LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6063.C326 H69 2020 (print) | LCC PR6063.C326 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020024535
LC ebook record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020024536
Ebook ISBN 9780593315729
www.pantheonbooks.com
Cover illustration by Iain McIntosh
ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Books by Alexander McCall Smith
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: No Double Bed
Chapter Two: Late People Talk to Us
Chapter Three: Rule No. 1
Chapter Four: A1 Excellent Fine
Chapter Five: All Needs Foodstuffs and Household Good
Chapter Six: Vehicles Have a Smell
Chapter Seven: Morning Boyfriend, Evening Boyfriend
Chapter Eight: Government Cherries
Chapter Nine: Mma Ramotswe Has Few Faults
Chapter Ten: They Say She Is Smart, Smart
Chapter Eleven: My Cup Has Too Much Tea in It
Chapter Twelve: She’s a Useless
Chapter Thirteen: Nice Things About Your Skin
Chapter Fourteen: This Is a Big Mess
Chapter Fifteen: Is It Hard to Raise an Elephant?
About the Author
This book is for Mats and Cecilia Ögren Wanger, Swedish friends of Botswana.
CHAPTER ONE
NO DOUBLE BED
PRECIOUS RAMOTSWE, owner and only begetter of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency—established to deal with the problems of ladies, and others—looked across her office towards the desk occupied by Grace Makutsi, former secretary and distinguished graduate—with ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations—of the Botswana Secretarial College. The sun was streaming through the high window behind Mma Ramotswe’s desk, sending a narrow butter-yellow beam to illuminate small particles of floating dust, just perceptible, feather-light, moving up and down, sometimes sliding sideways in obedience to the invisible currents in the room. But for the most part the air was still—it being that sort of day, sluggish and non-committal. The sort of day on which something might happen, but was more likely not to.
It was not unusual for Mma Ramotswe to look up and see Mma Makutsi staring back at her; and the same thing might be said for Mma Makutsi, who would suddenly lift her gaze from the papers in front of her and notice Mma Ramotswe watching her thoughtfully. Neither minded this—indeed, both were used to it, and when either of them was out of the office for whatever reason, the other would find that she missed seeing her colleague there at her desk when she looked up. This was particularly true for Mma Makutsi, for whom Mma Ramotswe was a reassuring presence every bit as significant, every bit as reassuring, as the great rock dome of Kgale Hill on the
outskirts of town, or the deep waters of the Limpopo River, just a few hours off to the east, or the sandhills of the Kalahari over to the west. These were all geographical facts, just as Mma Ramotswe herself seemed to be a geographical fact. She was simply there—as predictable and as constant as any of these things. And her voice was as familiar and as loved as the voice of the doves inhabiting the acacia tree behind Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors; indeed, she would not have been surprised had Mma Ramotswe suddenly started to coo, just as those doves did. Mma Makutsi could not imagine Botswana without those doves, and she could not imagine it without Mma Ramotswe; if she were not there, then it would be just any other country; with her it was something special—it was Mma Ramotswe’s place, a place bathed in the warmth of her presence as effectively as the sun blesses the land each morning with its warming rays.
Now Mma Ramotswe looked across the office and noticed that Mma Makutsi was looking back at her. There was something different about Mma Makutsi, she thought, and it took Mma Ramotswe a little while to work out what it was. It was not what she was wearing: she had on the green dress that for some reason she liked to wear on Fridays—Mma Makutsi was a creature of habit. No, it was something else, and when Mma Ramotswe realised what it was, she reproached herself for not noticing it at once. Mma Makutsi’s glasses, normally large and round, like outsize swimming goggles, had shrunk. They were still round, but the lenses were considerably smaller—tiny discs, by comparison, no bigger than the coins to be found in a pocket of small change. Any detective worth her salt would have spotted the change immediately, thought Mma Ramotswe. She had always prided herself on her powers of observation, but it was hardly very observant to miss a detail such as this. Of course, she had the excuse of the familiar: the eye is lulled into complacency when contemplating those things and people we see every day.
“Your glasses, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Ramotswe knew from long experience that Mma Makutsi was sensitive to criticism. The only response one could safely give if asked one’s opinion on any aspect of her appearance was to say that it was perfect. Any reservation, even in the form of a momentary hesitation, could give rise to a display of hurt feelings that could quickly become a more than momentary sulk; not prolonged beyond the evening, of course—Mma Ramotswe had never known Mma Makutsi to keep a state of huff going for more than a few hours, but it was best to avoid such occasions altogether, she thought.
“They are very fine glasses,” she said. “They are clearly very fashionable.”
It was just the right thing to say. Mma Makutsi touched the spectacles gently, repositioning them slightly on the bridge of her nose. “I saw them in a magazine, Mma,” she said. “One of those very famous actresses was wearing them.”
“Which famous actress, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi shrugged. “Oh, I don’t remember the names of any of those people. But they are very famous, Mma. They go to parties and there are many photographers at those parties. Snap, snap, snap—so that we can all see what was happening at the party even if we never get an invitation.”
“So, this lady—whoever she was—was wearing your spectacles, Mma?”
“The exact same,” said Mma Makutsi. “And there was a list at the bottom of the page of what she was wearing, and how much it cost. They gave the name of the shop where you could order spectacles like that. It’s down in Cape Town; they do not sell these glasses in Botswana. You have to write off for them. These are Cape Town glasses—everyone is wearing them down there, they say.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered whether it was really a model who had been wearing them. “I think that lady might have been paid to wear them, Mma. I think that is possible, because otherwise they would not have published the details of where you could buy them.”
“It does not matter,” said Mma Makutsi. “She might have been a model—who knows?”
Mma Ramotswe thought about this. “If she was a model, Mma, do you think she was really short-sighted, or would she have been wearing them just for the photograph?”
Mma Makutsi hesitated. “It is possible, Mma, that she was short-sighted. I could not tell from the photograph.”
“You’re right, though, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It doesn’t matter whether or not she needed them. The point is: they look very good on you, Mma.”
“You’re not just saying that, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I am not just saying it, Mma Makutsi. I am sitting here thinking it as well. I am sitting here thinking: Those spectacles look very good on Mma Makutsi. They are a big improvement.”
As soon as she said this, Mma Ramotswe realised that she had said the wrong thing. She was about to rephrase her words, but it was too late.
“What was wrong with my old glasses, Mma? Why did they need improvement?”
“There was nothing wrong with them,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “They were very fine glasses. It’s just that these new ones are even finer.” She repeated, even more emphatically, “Even finer, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi seemed appeased. She looked at her watch, and Mma Ramotswe noticed that she was peering at it more closely than usual. Perhaps it was the light, as the sun had just gone behind a cloud and it was darker in the office than it had been a few minutes earlier.
“I think it is time for tea, Mma,” she said. “I shall make it.”
She got up from her desk and crossed over to where the kettle was perched on top of the filing cabinet. As she pressed the switch, she said to Mma Ramotswe, “Have your new neighbours moved in now, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “They have, Mma. I watched their furniture arrive this morning. It was very interesting, Mma.”
* * *
—
AND IT HAD BEEN, because there are few things more interesting in neighbourhood life than to witness the unpacking and the installation of one’s neighbours’ effects. People can say all sorts of things about themselves, can portray themselves in all sorts of false lights should they choose to do so, but their furniture is incapable of lying. Your furniture always tells the truth about you, and if the furniture is unvarnished, then so too is that truth.
The furniture van, a lumbering pantechnicon, had pulled up outside the neighbour’s house at seven in the morning, at a time when Mma Ramotswe had just served breakfast to Motholeli and Puso. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni always breakfasted early, and he had already driven off in his truck to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. An early departure meant that he would beat the morning traffic, which, as was happening everywhere else, was getting worse and worse. Gaborone had grown, and its traffic problem had grown with it, although it was nowhere near as bad as it was in many other cities. They had discussed that over morning tea in the office a few days earlier, a discussion that had led to a spirited exchange between Charlie, the junior assistant detective and part-time mechanic, and Mma Makutsi. Mma Makutsi had introduced the topic by mentioning the traffic jams that could now be encountered in Nairobi.
“I’ve heard that there are people who live in their cars these days,” she said. “It takes so long to drive into work that they don’t bother to drive back. They just pull in to the side of the road, change into their pyjamas, and sleep in the car. Then they reverse back to the office the next morning.”
Charlie had laughed. “You cannot live in a car,” he said. “Where would you cook your meals? Where would you go to the bathroom? Those are very important questions, Mma Makutsi.”
Mma Makutsi had dismissed these objections. “I’m not saying that I have seen people doing these things, Charlie. I’m simply telling you what I have read in the newspaper—or it might have been a magazine. Somewhere I read it. They called them the ‘car people.’ That is what they said. They said they take their food with them. They did no
t say anything about the bathroom.”
Mma Ramotswe had expressed the view that it would help if the government spent more on public transport. “We need more buses,” she said. “We need more of these big buses that take a whole lot of people. One hundred people, sometimes, all in one bus.”
“The government says it has no money,” said Mma Makutsi. “They say it is not their job to buy these buses.” She paused. “Anyway, even if we had more buses, there are still too many cars. Too many people are buying cars and then driving them round. What can you expect but traffic jams if people have too many cars?”
Charlie frowned. “So what do we do?”
Mma Makutsi had the answer. “We take cars away from people. The government should say: there are too many cars, and so you cannot have a car any longer. They would give them compensation, of course, but they would take their cars away.”
“Whose cars?” challenged Charlie.
“People’s,” said Mma Makutsi.
“Including yours?” Charlie asked Mma Makutsi. “And Mma Ramotswe’s white van? What about that? Should the government take Mma Ramotswe’s van away from her?”
Mma Makutsi made a dismissive gesture. “Of course not, Charlie. I’m not suggesting that anybody should take Mma Ramotswe’s van from her. She needs it to get into work.”
“Ha!” crowed Charlie. “And your car, Mma Makutsi? You have that red car of yours with its big exhaust pipe. Think of all the smoke you make, Mma Makutsi, racing round in that red car. Think of that. And Phuti Radiphuti too. He has a car with a big engine—I’ve serviced that engine and so I should know. It is a very thirsty engine, I can tell you. Think of the Limpopo in full flood, and that is how much petrol goes into that engine. Ow!”