In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 2
Mma Ramotswe smiled indulgently. She did not like verbal sparring; she did not like people who tried to be smart, and this Mr. Excellence Modise—and why the two jokes, she wondered—this Mr. Modise was clearly trying to impress.
“We do our best by all our clients,” she said evenly. “There are some whom we cannot help, of course—some people whose problems are just too difficult. Then there are some cases where we just cannot unearth what people want us to find out, no matter how hard we try. Then there are some people whom we cannot take on as clients because they are on the wrong side of the law. But for most people, we can do at least something.”
Mr. Modise nodded. “I hope you don’t think I’m on the wrong side of the law,” he said. “I hope you don’t think I’m some sort of tsotsi.”
He used an expression from over the border, usually applied to a young gangster. Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow: you could not be a middle-aged tsotsi, no matter how you dressed. Mma Ramotswe looked embarrassed. “I would never think that, Rra,” she said. “So please, just tell me what we might be able to do for you.”
Mma Makutsi had now made the tea, and she passed a cup to Mr. Modise before going back to her desk. She avoided making eye contact with Mma Ramotswe.
“I am a very successful businessman,” Mr. Modise began. “I am the owner of Special Pest Services. You may have seen my vans. We deal with all sorts of household pests—and some industrial ones too.”
Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “I have seen them, Rra. They have a picture of a bug running away, carrying its suitcase.”
Mr. Modise beamed with pleasure. “That was my idea, Mma,” he said proudly. “I chose that picture myself. Many people like it very much. They think it is very funny.”
Mma Makutsi stared into her teacup.
“I have four branches in the country,” Mr. Modise went on. “One here in Gaborone, one in Selibi-Phikwe, one in Francistown, and one up in Maun. They are all very busy. There are pests everywhere, you see. Termites in particular. They have been trying to eat the whole country for a long time now.”
“You are right about that, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have a wooden fence in my garden, and it was eaten badly. The timber had not been treated properly.”
“Oh, there is a lot of that about,” said Mr. Modise. “You get these people who claim to know all about timber preservation, but they don’t know what they’re doing. They are fools, these people—and the people who engage them to deal with their timber are fools too—for choosing people who don’t know what they’re doing.”
This was too much for Mma Makutsi. “It is not their fault,” she protested. “They could not have known that these people knew nothing about termites. How could they? When it comes to timber preservation, we are all in the dark, I think.”
Mr. Modise made a dismissive gesture. “They should check up on people before they do business with them. That is very obvious, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi bristled. “Did you check up on us?” she asked.
Mr. Modise looked away. Mma Makutsi waited, but it soon became clear that she was not going to get an answer.
“Please continue, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You were telling us that you have a business. Is there some problem with the business? Is that what brings you here today.”
Mr. Modise adjusted his thin yellow tie. “There are no problems with the business,” he replied. “It is a personal matter.”
As he said this, he looked over his shoulder at Mma Makutsi at her desk.
“It’s a private-private, personal matter, Mma Ramotswe,” he continued.
Mma Ramotswe assured him that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was very discreet. “We are strict observers of the rules of confidentiality,” she said. “We hear many things in this office, but we speak about none of them.”
She stopped to think. That was true, she decided: she and Mma Makutsi were careful about talking of client matters with others. There were only one or two people who might become party to the confidences of the office; obviously one could discuss issues with one’s spouse, that was always implicit, she thought—although some disagreed—and was licensed by the whole institution of marriage. Mma Makutsi had once expressed the view that this was why Catholic priests were not allowed to marry—it was because if they had wives they might be expected to discuss with them the secrets imparted to them in the confessional box. Mma Ramotswe was not sure about that, and had once raised the matter with a senior member of the clergy at the Anglican Cathedral in Gaborone. He had laughed and said simply, “I very much doubt Mma Makutsi’s theory.” And then he had added, in case there might be any residual uncertainty, “In fact, she’s talking the most dreadful nonsense—silly woman.”
Mma Ramotswe had been privately shocked by this response. It was not fitting, she thought, for a clergyman to describe anybody as a silly woman. To begin with, it showed a certain attitude towards women that had long been impermissible. In the past, men might have imagined that they could be dismissive of women, that they might suggest with impunity that women were bad drivers (untrue) and that they had no head for business (equally untrue), but now such remarks like that would be roundly condemned—not only by women, who had become accustomed to defending themselves, but also by enlightened men—of whom there were now so many, including, of course, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. For a clergyman to identify himself as one of these unreformed men was, in her view, unfortunate, but perhaps not too surprising: clergymen were men after all, and no doubt had their faults too, even if these might not be quite as bad as those of other men.
And quite apart from the general unacceptability of such a remark, there was the issue of inappropriateness when applied to Mma Makutsi, of all people. Did this man know about Mma Makutsi’s ninety-seven per cent? Clearly not, because nobody who got that sort of mark could possibly be described as a silly woman.
Mma Ramotswe was never confrontational. She was tolerant of people’s failings—we are all weak in one way or another, she thought—some of us, perhaps, being extremely weak in some departments—but one should be tolerant of such failings in others. Most people, she thought, were doing their best, but some of them—the people she sometimes described as “the weaker brothers and sisters”—needed to be reminded from time to time as to where they were going wrong. And this, she thought, was probably one of those situations.
She frowned, and the clergyman shifted on his feet in a distinctly uncomfortable way. “Of course—” he began.
He might have been about to qualify his discourteous dismissal, but he did not get the chance.
“I do not think it is right,” Mma Ramotswe interjected, “for a man of the cloth, Rra, to describe a lady as a silly woman. It is not a charitable thing to say—about anybody.”
“Well—” he stuttered, but did not get any further.
“Particularly,” continued Mma Ramotswe, raising a finger, “when the lady in question happens to be the most distinguished graduate of her year at the Botswana Secretarial College.”
“No, well—”
“So, we shall say no more about it,” concluded Mma Ramotswe, adding, “I am sorry to have had to speak to you in this fashion, Reverend. But it is sometimes necessary to point out to people that they are not in touch with modern ideas. It is very important to be in touch with modern ideas.” She paused. “Not all, of course: there are some modern ideas that are…”
“Complete nonsense?” suggested the clergyman, and they both laughed. The tension had been defused, but Mma Ramotswe’s point had been made—and understood.
She remembered that now, as she thought of the categories of people who might quite properly be party to client confidences. She might discuss a case with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Mma Makutsi might talk to Phuti—that was the spousal exemption. But it was also permissible, she thought, to have at least one outside confidante to whom one might talk. That person could even be regarded as a member of staff—and therefore entitled to hear what clients said—the justification being that discussing a problem with another often helped to solve it. The person Mma Ramotswe chose for this role was, of course, Mma Potokwane, with whom she had shared so many professional secrets over the years, and who, time and time again, had come up with helpful insights. Of course, it was possible that Mma Potokwane might talk to her own husband about the matters that Mma Ramotswe had raised, but she had not enquired about that.
She watched Mr. Modise as he weighed what she had just said to him about client confidentiality.
He glanced again at Mma Makutsi, who had noticed his first look, and now repaid it with a challenging stare. “What about your secretary?” He lowered his voice as he spoke, but of course Mma Makutsi heard it. Its effect on her was electric. She sat bolt upright, and her large round glasses flashed in the light from the window.
Mma Ramotswe struggled to undo the damage. “Mma Makutsi is not a secretary,” she said. “She is…management.”
She swallowed hard. She was charitable in her view of others, but it was difficult to feel anything but intense dislike for this man. “Senior management,” she said, trying to remember what it was that Mma Makutsi was now president of.
Mr. Modise became conciliatory. “I did not mean to be rude, Mma.”
“Well, please tell us what you want, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I assure you—I have heard everything, and there is nothing that can shock me.”
Mr. Modise closed his eyes, and by this involuntary gesture, he told Mma Ramotswe something important. This man, she thought, is insecure. He may be the terror of the country’s termites. He may be dressed like a con man. His speech may be littered with unfunny jokes and bombastic references, but he was, at heart, a little boy who was frightened of the dark. The fact that he closed his eyes told her that he was trying to pluck up his courage.
“It is my wife, Mma,” he said at last.
They waited. On the ceiling, suspended upside down by the tiny suckers on its toes, a minute white gecko was motionless, waiting for a foolhardy fly.
Mma Ramotswe did not need to make an effort to sound sympathetic—she was sympathetic. She would not wish on anyone unhappiness in that most important of relationships. “I see, Rra. I’m sorry.”
On the other side of the room, Mma Makutsi’s glasses caught the light again. She was perhaps a bit less understanding.
“My wife does not like me,” Mr. Modise went on.
They waited for him to say something more, but he did not. Mma Ramotswe noticed that he was looking down at his hands.
“I am sorry to hear that, Rra,” she said. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I love my wife very much, Mma. I would do anything to make her love me. I would pay one hundred thousand pula for some muti if I thought that it would make her fall in love with me. I would do anything, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. Muti was a potion that some people believed could change the way people thought about them. It was an old belief, not held by educated people—a belief that belonged to an earlier, unenlightened time. A belief in muti was superstitious nonsense. “Muti does not work, Rra,” she said. “That would be a waste of one hundred thousand pula.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Mr. Modise. “I was just saying that to show you that I would do anything to get my wife to change her mind about me.”
Mma Makutsi now joined in. “Excuse me, Rra,” she said. “But if you have a marriage problem, should you not go to one of these people who give advice about these things? There are such people, I believe.”
Mr. Modise turned to face Mma Makutsi. “Yes, Mma, there are such people. They are the aunties, aren’t they? They are these aunties who are always telling you this thing or that thing. If I go to see them, they will say that it’s my fault, because the aunties are used to blaming men. No thank you, Mma. No thank you.”
Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. She saw the danger. “Oh, Rra, I’m sure that was not what Mma Makutsi was talking about.”
But it was too late for an emollient intervention—you did not talk to Mma Makutsi like that—not to the Mma Makutsi who was an executive president for development and who had, moreover, achieved the unequalled mark of ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College.
“These aunties,” hissed Mma Makutsi, “are very wise ladies, Rra. They have seen a lot of life, I can tell you. They are not like men who parade around in fancy shoes and yellow ties. They know far more about what’s what than men like that, I think.” She paused. “That is just my opinion, of course, but perhaps I am no better than these aunties you’re talking about, Rra.”
Mma Ramotswe tried again. “I think we should not get involved in a big argument about aunties and so on. I think we should look at this calmly.”
“I am being calm,” protested Mr. Modise. “This other lady is the one who is doing all the shouting.”
“I am not shouting,” shouted Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe shot her a glance. Professionalism was at stake here. Never lose your temper with a client, wrote Clovis Andersen, author of The Principles of Private Detection. Bite your tongue rather than argue with your client, who may be emotionally stressed. Rise above the urge to repay rudeness with rudeness.
Mma Makutsi realised that she had gone too far. “I’m sorry, Rra,” she said. “I should not have said that. I did not mean it.”
Mr. Modise laughed. “Many people say that they do not mean what they say,” he observed. “But I find myself wondering why they bother to say anything if they are then going to say that they do not mean it.” He turned to look towards Mma Makutsi again. “But don’t worry, Mma, I do not mind what people say. I am not one of these people who bear grudges against other people who say things about them. Do not worry about that.”
Mma Ramotswe seized the opportunity to guide the conversation into safer waters. “May I ask you, Rra,” she said, “what you would like us to do? Please remember that we are a detective agency—we are not a counselling service for people with marriage problems.”
“I know that, Mma,” Mr. Modise assured her. “But I was hoping that you would find out why my wife is so…so cold-cold towards me.” He looked away. “I am not just talking about the blanket, Mma. I am talking about everything. When I talk to her, she often hums a tune, as if she is thinking about a piece of music. That is not very pleasant, Mma.”
I am not just talking about the blanket. Both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi knew what that meant: it was an expression used in Botswana to refer to private matters of the bedroom.
It seemed now that Mr. Modise was struggling to say something that he found difficult to express. His voice cracking, he went on, “I think she has a lover, you see. I think that she is seeing another man.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. The conversation was now in very familiar territory. One of the most common inquiries that private detective agencies were obliged to take on was precisely this: to find evidence of infidelity. Unfaithfulness, wrote Clovis Andersen, is the bread and butter of our profession. Unfaithfulness, I am sorry to say, is everywhere.
“Do you know who this lover might be?” asked Mma Makutsi, her pencil poised above her notepad.
Mr. Modise shook his head. “I do not know.”
“But do you have any evidence?” Mma Ramotswe enquired.
Again, Mr. Modise shook his head. “I have no evidence. But that is probably because they are being very cunning. These people who have affairs are cunning-cunning in what they do. They do not like to be caught.” He paused, and gave Mma Ramotswe a pleading look. “That is why I have come to you, Mma Ramotswe. I have come to you because people say to me that you are not only a very kind lady, who likes to help people, but you are also very good at finding out what is going on. They say that you know everything that is happening in this town—that is what they are all saying, Mma.”
“You are very kind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I shall try to help you, Rra, because I can tell that you are unhappy.”
“I am very unhappy,” said Mr. Modise. “Here I am, the number one man in the country for dealing with termites, and yet my heart is a stone within me. And that is because my wife loves another man. I do not know who he is, but I must find out so that I can chase him away.”
Chapter Two
A Very Polite Boy
On the wall of Mma Potokwane’s office at the Orphan Farm was a noticeboard. It had been there for as long as she had occupied the room, and it bore the drawing-pin marks of a succession of notes, charts, and newspaper clippings. Staff rotas—who should be doing what, for how long, and who should take over when the shift changed—occupied a large part of the board, but there were numerous reminders to herself as well: meetings about this and that; details of appointments with officials; government circulars about infectious diseases and vaccination programmes—the entire business of a large children’s home was displayed on this board. A notice would go up, stay up for a few days, and then come down, to make room for the next reminder, the next official bulletin.
There was one item, though, that was displayed permanently, and to which the eye of any visitor was invariably drawn. This was a sheet of laminated paper, pinned prominently in the middle of the board, and on which, in large letters, was printed the message: What do children need? They need one thing: unconditional love. If they have that, they have everything.
Mma Potokwane had prepared this notice on the office printer, and had then taken it to a stationery shop for lamination. The words were her own, but she discovered that, with the passage of time, their inadequacy became increasingly apparent. What they said about children’s need for love was true enough—few would dispute that—but there were other needs, and these she had added to the list, using a marker pen. So, the message was changed to read: they need two things, and, after unconditional love was added healthy food, with not too many fried dishes. At a later date, a further amendment was made, and two things became three, with the addition of a lot of outdoor exercise. In due course, after further thought on the subject, Mma Potokwane had felt it necessary to cross out three and substitute four. The fourth requirement was a regular routine.
