In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 17
She had not told a lie. That was quite true.
Maria’s eyes widened. “She spoke to you, Mma? She told you about all this? You’re checking up on how things are going?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. Now she would have to stretch the truth a little—but only a little. “She has told me everything.”
Maria glanced over her shoulder. “It worked up to a point,” she said. “I went to that bar that she said her husband likes to go to. He was very happy when I started to talk to him. Men love to be flattered—you know how they are.”
Mma Ramotswe rolled her eyes. “Oh, I do, my sister. We all know how men are.”
“I told him that I would like to get to know him better. He was a bit hesitant at first, but I really laid it on. Eventually he said that I could come and see him here, at the house. He would tell me when.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Just as Mma Modise planned.”
“Yes. She would have told you about it. She is a very clever lady, that one—she knows how to plan things. And her plan went very well. I came here yesterday, and then again today. But, as I said to you, Mma, things did not go terribly well. You know what, Mma? I think that he feels guilty. I think that I managed to persuade him only half the way, you see, and then he thought better of it. That might be why he did not want to get to know me better, if I can put it that way, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Men,” she said. She was thinking very quickly now.
Maria was anxious. “But will I still get my money?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe assured her that she would. “I am sure Mma Modise will pay you.”
Maria was relieved. “You know something, Mma—I am not one of those ordinary bar girls. I am not a bar girl at all. I regard myself as a therapist. I help men to come to terms with themselves. I have helped many men to be happier, Mma. It is good work that I do.”
Mma Ramotswe said that she was sure this was the case.
“So, what now?” asked Maria.
“I think that we should all leave,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Makutsi and I will not need tea after all. We can give you a ride home in our van if you wish.”
“You are very kind, Mma,” said Maria. She paused. “You know something, Mma: I think that this man loves his wife. I really think he does. You can always tell.”
“I think you are right,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“That Modise woman is very wicked,” Maria went on. “She does not deserve to have a husband like that.”
“I don’t think she does,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think you are a lady who understands these things very well, Mma.”
“I do my best. I am not always right—not every time—but I am right more times than I am wrong, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head. “I think that when we go back in there, I shall pretend to believe that you really are the maid. I will say that I have remembered that I have to be somewhere else for an appointment and that we are going to have to leave. I will say that I have offered to drop you at your place.”
“Thank you,” said Maria. “That is a good idea.”
They did as she suggested. After they had dropped Maria off, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi returned to the house on Zebra Drive, where they drank the cup of tea they had missed at the Modise house. As they sat on the verandah, Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi about her conversation with Maria, and about how she had elicited the truth from her.
Mma Makutsi listened intently. Then, when Mma Ramotswe had finished, she said, “That poor man. He may be annoying but I feel very sorry for him.” She paused. “Yes, poor man—with his uncomfortably tight trousers.”
Mma Ramotswe gave a start. “Trousers, Mma?”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “Did you notice how tight his trousers were? They were far too small for him.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe as if she was surprised that such a detail could have been missed. “I noticed it immediately. I said to myself, Here is a man who is wearing trousers made for a much younger man. That is what I thought—my precise thoughts.”
“Well, well,” said Mma Ramotswe, and left it at that.
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “One thing I wonder about, Mma: if he loves his wife, as he told you he did, then why did he get involved with that woman? That doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps if he was worried about these…these private matters, then perhaps his self-confidence was low. Men can do strange things if they lose their confidence. They look for reassurance.”
Mma Makutsi thought this sounded credible. She went on to reflect on the fact that they had misjudged Excellence Modise. He was not at fault here; it was his wife who had misled them. But she did not blame Mma Ramotswe for not realising this earlier. “We can all get it wrong,” she said. “Some people get it wrong all the time. You don’t, Mma Ramotswe. You get it right almost always, except when you get it wrong.”
“It’s kind of you to say that,” said Mma Ramotswe. Mma Makutsi’s compliments, well meant, of course, sometimes came out as veiled, or not-so-veiled criticism, but this was not a time to think about that; we all had our little ways—some more so than others, of course. But, once again, this was no time for such thoughts, and so she added, “Would you like another cup of tea, Mma Makutsi?” Tea was always safe—always.
“I would, Mma. There is so much to think about, and I find it is easier to think about things when you are drinking tea.”
“That is well known,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi nodded her head in agreement. “If I ever write a book, Mma—and I am not saying that I shall do such a thing—but if I ever were to, it would be about tea and what it does for the world.”
Mma Ramotswe said that this was a book that she would certainly read. “There are so many books we would like to read,” she mused. “But one about tea should be right at the top of the list, I think.”
Suddenly, Mma Ramotswe felt the need to add something to what she had said. “You know, Mma Makutsi, I am very grateful to you for all that you do for me, and for the agency. It was a very fortunate day when you came into the office for the first time and said that you wanted to work with me. I am very glad you did that.”
“Oh, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am the one who should be grateful to you. And I am—I am grateful here, Mma. I am grateful right here.” She placed a hand across her heart. “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me in my life.” That was saying a lot. She might have given that accolade to her enrolment at the Botswana Secretarial College, but she did not. That was a close second, but meeting Mma Ramotswe was undoubtedly first.
They lapsed into silence. There were times when all that needed to be said had been said, and silence was all that remained.
Chapter Fourteen
Everybody Likes Looking at Cattle
It was in conversation with Phuti over dinner that evening that Mma Makutsi was persuaded she should tell Mma Ramotswe about her rather alarming conversation with Charlie. She had intended to keep it from her, at least until she had looked into it further, as she did not want to alarm Mma Ramotswe unnecessarily. But Phuti had taken her reports of Charlie’s warning very seriously, and said that in his view Mma Ramotswe should be informed. “You cannot keep important things from people,” he said. “We all have a right to know about things that affect us. It is very important—especially if steps have to be taken to protect somebody from something.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Mma Makutsi.
“I am definitely right,” said Phuti. “And I can give you an example, Mma. We had some problems with some chairs we sold to the city council for their meeting room. There was a structural problem.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. “Not enough legs?”
Phuti looked disapproving. “No, it is not funny, Grace. The chairs all had four legs, but they were not strong enough, and there were one or two cases of them giving way when important people sat on them.”
Mma Makutsi made an attempt to look grave. This was difficult, as the thought of an important person sitting on a chair that then gave way had some comic possibilities—as long as the important person was not hurt, of course. It was a childish thought, but we all had a childish streak in us, buried deep beneath adult seriousness.
“I only found out about it later,” continued Phuti. “One of my managers had kept it from me because he did not want me to be upset. He solved it, of course—he recalled the chairs and had one of our carpenters strengthen them, but I should have been told about it.”
“Of course you should have, Phuti. That was quite wrong.”
“And so I think you should tell Mma Ramotswe about what Charlie said.”
Mma Makutsi agreed that she would, and the following morning when Mma Ramotswe arrived in the office, and the first pot of tea had been brewed, she raised the matter directly—perhaps rather too directly, as she began by saying, “Mma Ramotswe, I believe that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s life may be in danger.”
Mma Ramotswe appeared not to have heard what was being said. “Oh yes, Mma,” she said evenly, as if acknowledging some innocent remark about the weather. “That is very interesting…”
And then she stopped. “What did you say, Mma?” she asked.
Mma Makutsi repeated, “I believe that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s life may be in danger.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “In danger, Mma? Did you say in danger?”
Mma Makutsi spoke slowly. “That is what I said, Mma.”
“But—”
Mma Makutsi rose to deal with the kettle, which was hissing steam. “I will make you some tea, Mma Ramotswe. Then I shall explain.”
She poured tea for Mma Ramotswe—red bush in her case, ordinary tea for herself. Then, delivering Mma Ramotswe’s cup, she perched on the side of her colleague’s desk as she delivered her disquieting message. “I heard this from Charlie,” she began. “Charlie knows somebody who works for Mogorosi…”
Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Mogorosi is threatening Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? Is that what you’re saying, Mma Makutsi?”
“I’m not exactly saying that myself, Mma…Sometimes the things we say are the things that other people have said first, if you see what I mean, Mma.” She waved a hand in the air in an attempt to convey the circulation of ideas. “Well, I suppose I am saying that, but I am just repeating what Charlie said.”
“But you believe him?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “You know how Charlie can be a bit…imaginative.” There had been a day when Mma Makutsi would have discounted everything that Charlie said; that was clearly no longer the case, and rightly so, in Mma Ramotswe’s opinion, but surely some degree of caution was required.
“I know that,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I think he is being quite serious about this. He spoke to a young man—some friend of his, apparently—who works for Mogorosi. This young man, who has a very large nose, apparently—”
“What has that got to do with it, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“Nothing, really. It is just a bit of background information. Anyway, this friend of Charlie’s is Mogorosi’s driver, and he had heard that his boss and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were seeing more of one another, and he thought that he should warn Charlie that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni should be very careful about where he walked. Those were the words he used, apparently: he should be very careful about where he walked.”
Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. Her cup of tea was left untouched on the desk in front of her. “But why?” she asked. “Why should Mogorosi want to harm his friend? Have they fallen out?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, they haven’t. But to tell you the truth, Mma, I have been suspicious of that man ever since he suddenly turned up here. I thought, What does this man want from Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? That is what I thought. The words in my mind were Oh yes? When you think Oh yes, then you have to pay attention. There is always a reason why you should say to yourself Oh yes.”
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “I know what you mean, Mma. It seemed a rather sudden friendship. But I still cannot see why Mogorosi should want to harm Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. That is quite different.”
Mma Makutsi explained that while she agreed that it seemed unlikely, Charlie had suggested a good reason why Mogorosi might want Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni out of the way. She explained it while Mma Ramotswe drank her tea, her expression one of close attention. When she finished, Mma Makutsi looked enquiringly at Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think, Mma?” she asked. “It could be, couldn’t it?”
Mma Ramotswe took a little time to answer. Then at last she said, “I have had dreams about that crocodile, you know.”
Mma Makutsi waited.
At length, Mma Ramotswe said, “I know that it was Mogorosi in the water, and not Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. I know that. But I have had two dreams—bad dreams, Mma—in which it was the other way round. And I have woken up feeling very sad that my husband has been eaten, and fortunately, there he is beside me. It is not pleasant, Mma Makutsi.”
“Well—” began Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe did not let her finish. “I take this very seriously, Mma. But what do we do? If I go to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and tell him about what Charlie has said, I think he will say that everybody is imagining things.”
“True.”
“So perhaps we should deal with this ourselves,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “We may have to tell him about it, but not just yet.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. “Charlie says that we can speak to this friend of his,” she said. “I think we should do that, Mma. We may find out more about what the exact danger is.”
She returned to her own desk and they finished their tea in silence, each lost in the contemplation of this entirely unexpected and distressing development. In all her years as a private detective, Mma Ramotswe had never felt what she now felt: a real sense of dread. Botswana was a peaceful country—this sort of thing happened elsewhere, but it was not how people conducted themselves in Gaborone. And yet, could anywhere—even this quiet, well-behaved country—be immune to the undercurrent of threat and insecurity that seemed to be so much an entrenched feature of the modern world? It seemed it could not. Sooner or later somebody like Mogorosi, an unlikely villain perhaps, would bring to their lives a reminder of the unpleasantness that human nature was capable of demonstrating—even in the best-regulated society.
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “We should go and speak to this friend of Charlie’s as soon as possible. Can you call Charlie in, Mma Makutsi?”
Mma Makutsi left the office to find Charlie, who was working in the garage. She returned a few minutes later, with Charlie in tow.
“She’s told you, Mma?” enquired Charlie, wiping his hands on the sides of his overalls.
“She has,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Charlie shook his head. “Bad news, Mma. I never liked that man. And if he got hold of this place, you could imagine what would happen to all of us. History—we’d be history, Mma. Gone.”
Mma Makutsi gasped. “But what about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? What happens to the garage is nothing beside the issue of what happens to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”
Charlie was quick to reassure her that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s safety was more important than anything else. “I care about the boss,” he said. “That’s what we all care about.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. “Where is he, by the way?”
They both looked at Mma Ramotswe. “He said something about taking his truck to collect a car. He should be back soon.”
Charlie looked puzzled. “His truck is still there.” He went to the door and glanced outside. “Yes, it’s there. It hasn’t been moved since he arrived this morning.”
“So where is he?” asked Mma Makutsi.
Charlie shrugged. Then he seemed to recollect something. “He did say something about going somewhere. I didn’t pay much attention, I’m afraid. I was under a car.”
Mma Makutsi glowered. “You can’t remember what he said?”
Charlie looked defensive. “I can’t remember everything that everybody says, Mma. Fanwell is always talking about something or other—ya, ya, ya—and I can’t be expected to make notes.”
“Where is Fanwell?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“He’s got three days off. His uncle up in Francistown has become late. They are having a big funeral up there. Fanwell’s cousins have come all the way from Mozambique. There are lots of his people there. They will all be up there, eating and drinking. Fanwell says his cousins are very greedy.” Charlie paused. “I think Fanwell can be greedy too, you know. It’s genetic, maybe. Fatso father, fatso son. Same same.”
Mma Makutsi interrupted him. “Fanwell is not overweight, Charlie. If anything, he’s a bit thin. And you don’t call people fatso these days.”
“Even if they are?” asked Charlie.
Mma Makutsi pursed her lips with disapproval.
“He ate three fat cakes the other day,” Charlie continued. “I saw him—I swear, I saw him. Three—”
“This is not about fat cakes,” Mma Makutsi scolded. “This is about where Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni has got to.”
Charlie held up his hands in mock defence. “Sorry. My fault. As always. Charlie’s fault. Charlie’s fault. Want to blame somebody? Blame Charlie. You asked me—”
Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. These spats between Mma Makutsi and Charlie blew up less often than they used to, but they could still occur. “Let’s not argue. What I want to find out is where Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is.”
Charlie suddenly looked worried. “You don’t think he’s with Mogorosi, do you, Mma? Did he say anything about seeing him?”
Mma Ramotswe said that she could not recall his saying anything about meeting his friend, but the fact that his truck was still where he had parked it suggested that he had been picked up by somebody. It could well have been Mogorosi.
Charlie had an idea. “I could call Big Nose. He’ll know where Mogorosi is. He’s his driver.”
