just have a sofa to sit on and not even anywhere to put it, because there would be no money for rent. He would have to put his sofa under a tree somewhere, at the edge of town, and live on it, eating lizards and birds’ eggs and even the remains of old sandwiches, crusts, thrown out of bus windows by passengers. He would sit on his sofa and eat such things and wait for something to happen.
Queenie-Queenie reached out and patted his shoulder. Even that had an electric effect on him, sending a shiver of pleasure down into his chest—into his heart, he felt; right into his heart.
“You don’t need to be nervous, Charlie,” she said. “The daddy is looking forward to meeting you.”
Charlie swallowed. “You have told him?”
She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But I did say: ‘Daddy, there is a really nice boy I want you to meet.’ That is what I said, Charlie, and he said, ‘I am always happy to meet nice boys, Queenie, if that is what you want me to do.’ ”
Charlie took some comfort from this, but not much. “What if he doesn’t like me?”
Queenie-Queenie brushed this aside. “Of course he’ll like you, Charlie.”
“And if I tell him that we want to get married? What will he say then? Will he say, ‘And how many cattle do you have?’ ”
“If he says that, then you should say to him, ‘There will be plenty of cattle in the future.’ ”
That, thought Charlie, was not the way it worked, but he did not have the chance to express these doubts, as Queenie-Queenie had begun to usher him through the hall and into the room beyond. As he walked beside her, Charlie was aware of the fact that his shoes were squeaking. He had not noticed it before, and perhaps it was caused by the expensive wooden floor underfoot, but they were definitely squeaking. He tried not to put too much weight on his step, which helped, but led to his using a strange, rather exaggerated gait, as if he were walking on hot coals.
“You shouldn’t walk like that,” whispered Queenie-Queenie. “My father won’t like a boy who walks like that.”
Charlie bit his lip. He was not sure that it was a good idea to have accepted Queenie-Queenie’s invitation. He did not belong here, in this house of expensive furniture, with its noisy floor and its…He looked up at the light fittings. He had never seen anything like this. Ten bulbs? Twenty? He had a single bulb in his room—a single, dim bulb that ran on electricity that he knew his uncle stole by attaching an illegal wire to a nearby cable. To live by stolen light, in a room shared with young cousins, one of whom still wet the bed, and another whose feet had an unpleasant odour, and now to be here, under the glare of a costly light fitting probably brought all the way from Johannesburg by some fancy electrician; that was to invite exposure. Queenie-Queenie’s father would see through him immediately. He would say, “This is not what you are used to, is it, young man?” And he would have to hang his head and say nothing because there was nothing he could say.
Queenie-Queenie’s father was sitting on one of the large leather sofas. On the wall behind him was a large picture of a giraffe, painted on dark velvet. Beside the sofa, on a glass-topped table, a table lamp in the shape of an eagle was surmounted by an elaborate tasselled shade in a silvery material.
“Ha!” said the father. “So here you are, Mr. Charlie.”
Charlie had expected a traditional greeting, and was taken aback. He muttered a few indistinct words.
Queenie-Queenie’s father said, “What?”
“I said I am very happy to meet you, Rra.”
Queenie-Queenie’s father acknowledged the sentiment with a nod of his head. Then he introduced himself. “I am called Isaiah. That is my name. Isaiah.”
Charlie bit his lip again. “I am Charlie,” he said.
“I know that,” said Isaiah.
“Charlie is a detective,” said Queenie-Queenie. “I’ve told you that already, I think, Daddy. A private detective.”
Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I knew that too. You work for those ladies, don’t you? That Mma Ramotswe.”
“I do,” said Charlie. “She is my boss.”
Isaiah gestured for Charlie to sit down. The leather upholstery of the chair on which he sat squeaked in protest.
“Sometimes I think these chairs are still alive,” said Isaiah. “I think they are saying to us: Do not sit