In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 16
Mma Makutsi was more sanguine. She had picked up Mma Ramotswe’s reservations, and set out to reassure her that what they were doing was unquestionably right.
“These men,” she said, as they drove off in Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van. “They think that we women don’t see what’s going on. They think they can get up to all sorts of tricks and that we’ll never notice. But we do. Oh, we notice all right.”
Mma Ramotswe’s reply was non-committal. “Maybe…”
“Not maybe, Mma. Definitely. Any woman can see the signs. I’ll give you an example. There are some people who live near us. He’s something in the government—not a minister, but very important in the transport department, I think. His wife is a headteacher in a school. She told me that she knew the moment her husband started to think of having an affair. She said that he bought himself some new trousers, although he never normally bought himself any clothes. Men leave that to their wives, you know, Mma Ramotswe. Men can be very lazy—although I am not talking here about Phuti or Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. We are lucky because we have got first-class husbands, but many women do not have our luck.”
“Perhaps—”
“Not perhaps, Mma. Without doubt. Anyway, this headteacher lady saw her husband taking these new trousers out of their wrapping and trying them on in the bedroom. She said to him, ‘So you have bought new trousers—why have you done that? I am the one who always gets you your trousers.’ And he said to her, ‘I thought I needed a change.’ Change, Mma? Change of wife, maybe? Was that it? She said, ‘There is nothing wrong with your existing trousers. They are in good condition and they will last for many years more.’ He ignored that, Mma. She said that he didn’t say anything—he just got into these new trousers. Well, that was an effort, apparently, and they were so tight that he could barely do up the zip. He had to pull his stomach in and it was hard for him to breathe. What use is it having tight trousers if you cannot breathe properly?
“So, there he was in his tight new trousers, and when he took the first step, you know what happened, Mma? I’ll tell you. The trousers split. They split all the way down one leg and up at the back. So this lady said, ‘Look, your trousers have split! You can’t go and see your new girlfriend with your underpants showing, can you? What will she think?’ And the man looked at her, and she knew that she had been absolutely right, and he took off the new trousers and put on his old ones, and he said, ‘I am very sorry, Mma. I have been a very foolish man. I am too old to wear trousers like that, and I am too old to have a girlfriend when I have got a perfectly good wife.’ And she said that she understood, and that nothing more would be said about it provided he did not see this new girlfriend of his. And then you know what, Mma Ramotswe? The poor man said, ‘But there is no girlfriend—I was just thinking of finding one.’ Isn’t that sad? Poor man. Whenever I see him out in his garden, I think of him standing there in his split trousers confessing that he had only been thinking of finding a girlfriend.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed that it was a poignant story. “It is a pity that people try to be what they are not, Mma. It would be very much better if we all looked at ourselves in the mirror each morning and said, ‘This is who I am, and I shall spend the rest of the day being this person.’ If we did that, we would not try to be something we are not, and we would all be much happier.”
“I think that too,” said Mma Makutsi. But then, after a few moments’ thought, she continued, “It is not easy for men, of course, Mma. They are often very lonely, don’t you think?”
Mma Ramotswe was paying attention to the erratic driving of the car ahead of them, and she did not reply immediately. Then she said, “That’s probably true, Mma. Men make their friends at work. They are not good at sitting about and talking with other men.”
“How many friends has Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?” asked Mma Makutsi. “I don’t mean that rudely, Mma, but how many do you think it is? Phuti has one or two, but not many. He says that I am by far his best friend and that he doesn’t really need any others. That is very kind of him, of course.”
Mma Ramotswe gave this some thought. How often would Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni meet up with a friend? Hardly ever, she thought. Occasionally there was an old school friend, or somebody from the village he had lived in as a child, but that happened only very rarely and he usually said that he had lost touch with the person in question. But then there was Freddie Mogorosi and the burgeoning friendship he had with him. How did that fit into the pattern?
Mma Makutsi glanced at her. She was thinking of the same person. “This Mogorosi fellow,” she said. “He’s Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s friend, isn’t he?”
“It would appear so,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi sucked in her cheeks. “Have you thought of putting an end to that one?” she said.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Putting an end to it?”
Mma Makutsi was cautious. “I didn’t say that you should put an end to it, Mma. I just wondered whether you had ever thought of doing so. That’s all.”
“But I cannot,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And why would I put an end to that friendship, Mma? Mogorosi is his friend, not mine.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Mma Makutsi. “I was just wondering…” She hesitated. They were on awkward ground and she wanted to choose her words carefully.
Mma Ramotswe cut her short. “I think it’s best not to interfere there, Mma,” she said. “At least, that’s what I’m doing—I’m not interfering.”
“Quite right,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. She wanted to warn her that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni might be in danger, but she knew that this would sound ridiculous: Botswana was a peaceful, law-abiding country, and the idea that somebody like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, a mild, friendly, and entirely blameless man could be in some sort of danger, would seem so fanciful as to be absurd.
They were now near the turn-off that led to the Modise house. The conversation about friendship could be continued later on—if they decided to continue it at all. Now they had to prepare themselves for what could be an awkward showdown with an errant husband and his mistress. It was not a situation that anybody would pick for herself, she thought, but, as Clovis Andersen would put it, this was the way the cookie appeared to be crumbling.
“One thing that’s certain about cookies,” Clovis Andersen wrote in The Principles of Private Detection, “is that they crumble.”
* * *
—
Mma Ramotswe did not park on the road but drove decisively through the open gates of the Modise property.
“We are not hiding anything, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “We are not coming here to look through any windows and then run away. We are coming here to knock on the front door.”
Mma Makutsi was peering out of the window on her side of the van. “Yes, Mma, that is right. And the front door is open, I think. We may not even have to knock. We can go straight in and catch this man.”
Mma Ramotswe switched off the engine. In the silence, they heard the ticking that an engine makes as it suddenly cools down. The tiny white van always made a rather loud sound, as if it were a clock that had just been wound up.
“I don’t think we want to catch him,” she said. “We are looking for evidence, Mma. We cannot tell him to stop…whatever it is he is doing.”
Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe. This was a delicate situation—there was no evading that conclusion.
“What if he is…if he is having a private conversation with her, Mma?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe rolled her eyes. “I hope that will not be the case, Mma Makutsi.”
“But if it is? What then?”
Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Let us worry about that if it happens.”
They got out of the van and walked towards the front door. Out of ancient, embedded habit, Mma Ramotswe called out Ko! Ko! All sorts of standards might be in the course of being abandoned in all corners of the world, but she, Precious Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in Botswana, was not going to saunter into somebody else’s house without properly announcing herself. And she would employ the correct greeting as well; she would say dumela to Mr. Excellence Modise even if she found him in the most compromising of situations. There was no reason, and no excuse, for rudeness.
The door opened rather quickly, and there was Excellence Modise—fully clothed, Mma Ramotswe was relieved to observe. He did not seem surprised to see them.
The appropriate greetings were exchanged before he said, “I saw you from the window, Mma, and your friend here, Mma—”
“Colleague,” interjected Mma Makutsi.
Modise smiled apologetically. “Of course—colleague, Mma—”
“Mma Makutsi,” Mma Ramotswe provided.
“Of course, of course. You are both very welcome, but please forgive me if I do not invite you in. The house is very untidy and I must put everything away before I invite anybody in.” He paused, and gave a nervous laugh before continuing, “I wouldn’t want people to think, this Modise is a very untidy man. I would not want that, I think.”
It was Mma Makutsi who responded to this unambiguous message. “But, Rra, it is very hot, and we need to sit down and drink a glass of water. If we stand out here, I am sure that one or both of us will faint. We will go down like a cow under the sun, Rra. We must—” And with that, even before she had finished what she was saying, she moved decisively to push past Modise.
He was too surprised to resist, although he did utter one or two words of surprise. “But…but there is…but…”
Mma Ramotswe took advantage of the opportunity that Mma Makutsi had created, and followed her into the entrance hall of the house. And from there it was only a step or two into the living room, half darkened by the drawn-down window blinds. And it was in this room that they saw the woman they had been expecting to see, sitting on a sofa in a rather prim pose, an open magazine beside her. The woman looked up in what seemed to Mma Ramotswe to be genuine surprise.
Mma Ramotswe felt a momentary disappointment. It was not Violet Sephotho. It would have been such a bonus to have discovered Violet Sephotho sitting there. It would have been a confirmation of everything that they had ever thought about her. For Mma Makutsi, at least, it would have been the most natural progression from those early days at the Botswana Secretarial College when she had been so shocked by Violet and her behaviour, especially having just come down from Bobonong to the capital. But this was not Violet, even if it could have been.
Excellence Modise was at their side. He was flustered, and his voice was high-pitched and uneven as he spoke. That was a sign that he was lying, thought Mma Ramotswe. Untruth raised the pitch of the voice, even in an experienced liar. “This is our maid,” he said.
This was too much for Mma Makutsi, who made a strange choking sound at the back of her throat. And even Mma Ramotswe, whose powers of professional self-control were well developed, opened her mouth in astonishment—and disbelief. What maid sat on the sofa in the living room and read a magazine? Maids worked in the kitchen—that was just the way it was, even in these egalitarian days. If they sat down, they tended to have a chair out at the back, just outside the kitchen door, where they could sit in the sun in between their household duties, and talk, if the house had other members of staff.
Modise sought to recover the initiative. “Please make tea for these ladies,” he said to the woman. “It is hot outside, and they are thirsty.”
The woman looked at him with unconcealed surprise. Then, like an actress who is suddenly reminded that she is on stage, she rose to her feet and mumbled some response. Mma Ramotswe watched her as she made her way out of the room in the direction of the kitchen. “I shall go and give a hand with the tea,” she said. “Mma Makutsi, you can stay and talk to our host.”
“But—” began Modise, helplessly.
Mma Makutsi responded quickly. “It is very good that the rains have come,” she said brightly. “Do you think this will be a good season, Rra?”
She did not expect a reply, and did not get one. In the ensuing silence, she cast an eye around the living room. There was a display cabinet stocked with a collection of gold-rimmed plates. There was a picture of an eagle and a framed photograph of Seretse Khama, first President of Botswana and paramount chief of the Bamangwato. What would that great man think? Mma Makutsi asked herself. What would he say about all this?
She noticed the plush of the sofa, and the two matching chairs. The room was expensively furnished, even if in a taste of which she did not entirely approve. Phuti, she imagined, would describe the furniture as “over the top.” He used that phrase about excessively fussy furniture—“It’s too good to sit on,” he said. “You must be able to sit on a chair. You must not feel that you have to stand because you’re worried that you will not be good enough to sit down in a particular chair. There are chairs like that, you know. They are just for show.”
Suddenly Modise found his voice. “Why have you come to see me?” he asked.
Mma Makutsi maintained her innocent expression. “It is Mma Ramotswe who has come to see you, Rra. I have come with her…to take notes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Notes about what?”
“That depends on what you say, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi, adding, “Although I am sure that Mma Ramotswe just wants to talk about business matters. You did consult her, after all.”
“That is true,” he stammered. “But…” His voice trailed off, and the silence returned.
Once in the kitchen, Mma Ramotswe said to the woman, “I am sorry, Mma, but I did not catch your name.” She had not been given it; this was a polite way of saying the same thing.
The woman looked away. “I am called Maria, Mma. That is my name.”
Mma Ramotswe waited. People seemed to be unwilling to give their full names for some reason—it was an increasingly widespread habit. She could not say Maria what? although it was tempting to do so. Instead, she said, “I can help you make the tea, Maria. Where is the teapot?”
When no reply came, Mma Ramotswe repeated, “The teapot, Mma?”
Maria approached a cupboard and opened the door. It was full of foodstuffs—tins of syrup and of beans, bags of flour. There were no pots and pans, and there was no sign of a teapot.
“Wrong cupboard,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Maria said nothing, but opened the door of the neighbouring cupboard. This was full of cleaning supplies.
“I don’t see a teapot in there, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “Unless I am missing something.”
Maria mumbled something that Mma Ramotswe did not hear. She turned to a third cupboard. This revealed itself to be full of plates.
Mma Ramotswe moved forward so that she was standing directly in front of Maria. It would be difficult for the other woman to evade her gaze now.
“I do not think you are a maid,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Most maids, I think, know where things are in the kitchen. In fact, all maids that I have ever met know what is in the kitchen cupboards.” She paused. Maria met her gaze, and Mma Ramotswe could tell that she was frightened.
“I am right, am I not, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe pressed.
Maria drew in her breath. “You are right, Mma. I am not a maid. I am a friend of Mr. Modise.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I thought you were, Mma.”
“I am visiting him,” said Maria.
“I could tell that,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “While his wife is away, of course.”
Maria said nothing. She closed her eyes. It was clear that she was embarrassed. “I know what it looks like, Mma,” she said quietly. “I know what you must be thinking.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I’m afraid that I was thinking exactly that, Mma. I am sorry, but that is all I could be thinking.”
Maria now turned to her and gave a pleading look. “Excellence and I are not having an affair,” she said.
“No?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“No, Mma, we are not. I think that he would like us to, but…well, we are not.”
“You have refused?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“I have not refused,” said Maria. “It is just not possible, you see. There are some men, Mma, who cannot have an affair with a lady because…it is just not possible.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “You mean…”
She did not finish. “It is not his fault,” Maria continued. “Sometimes these things do not happen. They just do not.”
Mma Ramotswe gazed out of the kitchen window. She did not have much time, as Mma Makutsi would not be able to engage with Excellence for long. She racked her brains. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a reason why…And then it came to her. It was possible, just possible, even if it was unlikely.
She drew Maria aside. “We don’t have a lot of time to talk about this,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”
Maria shrugged. “You are some lady who knows Excellence?”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her voice. “I am from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” she said. “I have been hired by Mma Modise.”
