In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 4
Mma Potokwane smiled. “Oh yes, Mma. Our stomachs always have opinions.”
They made their way through the front door of the low building in which Mma Potokwane had her office. This had a shady verandah on two sides—a feature of older local architecture that was often absent from more modern buildings, which were defiantly unshaded in their design. Mma Ramotswe had views on that: the whole point of a building was to protect one from the elements and in particular, if you lived in a warm country, from the sun. In Botswana there were few days of the year when the sun did not appear to be on duty. At times the sky would cloud over, but such conditions would rarely last for long before the sun would reappear. And in winter, when the air might be cold, with the dryness that came with the proximity of the Kalahari, the sun could still be warm enough to make you look for a bit of shade.
But it was not the cold season, and Mma Ramotswe felt immediately more comfortable once they were under the eaves of Mma Potokwane’s verandah. And in the office itself, where blinds had been pulled down to block any direct sunlight that might penetrate the windows, there was a delightful coolness.
Mma Potokwane invited her friend to sit down while she filled the kettle and laid a tray with two cups and saucers. Mma Ramotswe found her gaze falling on the shelf behind the matron’s desk. The battered round tin, with its ancient inscription, Peek Frean’s Biscuits, was in its accustomed place. Although it may once have contained pink iced wafers and small squares of shortbread, this tin had long been given over to even more delicious and irresistible contents: the fruit cake for which Mma Potokwane was renowned. Of her many talents, the ability to bake near-perfect fruit cake was the one that Mma Ramotswe most admired. She had been given the recipe by Mma Potokwane, who, unlike some bakers, was generous in these matters, but Mma Ramotswe’s efforts to replicate the fruit cake had somehow failed. She had followed the recipe closely but there had been something lacking in the cake she made. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been polite—he always was—and had said that it was every bit as delicious as anything made by Mma Potokwane, but she had been able to tell that he was saying this only so as not to hurt her feelings.
“You can be honest about this cake,” she said to him. “You can say what you really think, Rra. That is one of the good things about being married, I think. You can tell the truth about your wife’s cake.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken another bite, just to be sure. Then he had sighed. “It is true that there is something lacking, Mma. I did not want to say it, but there is.” He paused. “You are a very good cook—very good. When I think of your beef stew and pumpkin, my mouth waters. Just thinking about it is enough.”
She thanked him, and said that perhaps she should stick to the recipes she had always used. “We should not try to be other people,” she said. “I am not Mma Potokwane. She is the fruit-cake lady. I am not.”
“Well, there you are,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “All of us are what we are.” He reached out and touched her lightly on her forearm. “And I am glad that you are who you are, Mma, and that I am married to you. There is no other lady in Botswana—in the whole country—I would prefer to be married to. Not one.”
“And I am glad that I am married to you,” she said. “If the president of this country or that country came to me and said, ‘Marry me, Mma Ramotswe,’ I would say, ‘No thank you. I have a far better husband. I am married to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, and that is good enough for me.’ ”
They were two small and unexpected speeches of loyalty, prompted by reflections on fruit cake, but powerful nonetheless. She returned his touch, laying her hand on the rough khaki fabric of his working shirt. She was content. She would not change a word of what she had said about being married to him, and she knew that he, too, meant every word that he had uttered. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was a man of complete truthfulness. He is a good man, she thought, and he is mine. I am the most fortunate woman I know.
But now she was sitting in Mma Potokwane’s office, taking the first sip of the cup of red bush tea that Mma Potokwane had prepared for her. Mma Potokwane preferred ordinary tea, although she would occasionally join Mma Ramotswe in a cup of red bush if she felt like a change. They were both strong adherents of the view that any sort of tea was good for you, and that it did not matter how much one drank. “Nobody ever looks back over her life and says, ‘I wish I had drunk less tea,’ ” Mma Ramotswe observed. Nor did one ever hear, at a funeral service, the words, “She drank far too much tea.”
Mma Ramotswe took a second sip. Her gaze had been fixed on the Peek Frean’s biscuit tin, and now she was struggling with the temptation to turn Mma Potokwane’s attention in the same direction. She would have to be careful, though: it was bad manners to ask for something directly, and so she could hardly say, “A slice of fruit cake would be most welcome, Mma,” or words to that effect.
But there were indirect ways of making the same point, and so she said, “Have you been busy baking, Mma Potokwane?”
Mma Potokwane answered with a sigh. “There has been so much going on, Mma. I wish I had a few more hours in the day—then I could do the things that I really enjoy doing, such as baking.”
This was an unpromising start. Mma Ramotswe found herself wondering whether the tin was empty—a distinct possibility if Mma Potokwane had been too busy to spend much time in the kitchen.
“I know what you mean,” she said evenly. “We all have so many demands on our time these days. And yet…”
Mma Potokwane raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Mma?”
“And yet, I think it’s important that you make time for really important things…such as baking.”
Mma Potokwane nodded her agreement. “You’re right, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “We women have so many people coming to us and asking us to do things. We should just say: I cannot do this thing you want me to do because I have…”
“To bake a fruit cake,” suggested Mma Ramotswe.
“Exactly,” said Mma Potokwane. And then, quite unexpectedly, she looked over her shoulder towards the tin. “Oh, my goodness, Mma Ramotswe. I have been so rude. I should have offered you a piece of cake. Here I am sitting and drinking tea and leaving my old friend without so much as a crumb of cake.”
Mma Ramotswe struggled to conceal her relief. “You have not been at all rude, Mma,” she said. “But, since you ask, I must say that I would very much enjoy a piece of cake…if you were to offer it to me.”
“Which I shall certainly do,” said Mma Potokwane, reaching for the tin. “Here, I shall cut you an especially large piece to make up for my neglect.”
She was as good as her word, the slice of cake she offered to Mma Ramotswe being at least three times the size of a normal piece. Mma Ramotswe did not object, but immediately took a bite of the highly regarded confection. “Most delicious,” she said. “As always, Mma Potokwane.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, savouring the tea and cake, utterly content in one another’s company. Then Mma Ramotswe said, “We had a rather unusual visitor in the agency yesterday, as it happens.”
Mma Potokwane looked interested. “You are always having interesting clients, Mma. I cannot remember when you last said to me that you had had a dull one. I suppose that’s to do with the nature of your business. The people who come through your door are people who have done something unusual. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be in trouble.”
Mma Ramotswe said that she thought this was broadly true. Then she went on, “This man who came to see us yesterday was not our average client, you know.”
“Oh yes?”
“You know, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said, “I don’t normally dislike people. You know that, don’t you?”
Mma Potokwane nodded. “That is definitely true,” she said. “You are a very tolerant lady, I think. Perhaps even too tolerant at times—I wouldn’t put up with what you put up with. I would give people a piece of my mind.”
Mma Ramotswe did not like to say it, but that, too, was quite true. Mma Potokwane was not one to be crossed. Now she went on: “This man who came to see us yesterday was a most irritating man, Mma. He was one of those people who just gets under your skin. You know how it is.”
“Oh, I do,” said Mma Potokwane. “There’s a man in the government welfare department who does that to me. The moment he opens his mouth, I find myself wanting to shout at him. The poor man—he can’t help it, I think, but I just can’t stand him.” She paused. “Was your client like that?”
Mma Ramotswe hesitated. Her dislike of Mr. Excellence Modise had not been instant, but had become stronger as their encounter progressed. By the time he left, she found that she was on the verge of showing her irritation openly. “I did not dislike him immediately,” she said. “It took a bit of time.”
Mma Potokwane nodded. “There are some people who improve the longer you know them,” she said. “And then there are others who seem worse every time you see them.”
The matron drained her cup, and then enquired as to whether Mma Ramotswe would like more tea. She said that she would.
“Could you tell me,” asked Mma Potokwane, as she settled back in her chair, “could you tell me who this irritating person is, Mma?”
“He is called Mr. Excellence Modise,” answered Mma Ramotswe.
This brought forth a hoot of laughter from Mma Potokwane. “Oh, Mma, I know exactly who you’re talking about. That man! Oh, goodness, he’s one of the most annoying men in Botswana—and that’s official.”
Mma Ramotswe had not expected this, although she realised that she should not be surprised. Botswana was a large country geographically, but the population was small, and this meant that people often knew who others were, or, as was frequently the case, were related to them. In general, it was safest to assume that if you were talking to somebody about another person, they were, in fact, cousins.
“So, you know that man?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Mma Potokwane. “I know that man. His wife is the cousin of a man who comes here to fix the plumbing. The plumber has often spoken about him. He finds him irritating, too, Mma.”
It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that this was a rather tenuous connection. “But have you met him yourself?” she asked.
Mma Potokwane nodded. “He came out here one day to speak to us about termite eradication,” she said. “He was offering us a contract to deal with our termites. But we don’t have many, as it happens, and so I told him that we did not need his services. That didn’t seem to put him off. He went on and on about ants, Mma. Ants, ants, ants. He never stopped talking and he made very silly jokes, as I recall. And he repeats words. He says a lot of things twice-twice.”
Mma Ramotswe remembered how Excellence had tried to be funny but had failed to amuse Mma Makutsi. “I think he may not realise that his manner irritates people,” she said. “Perhaps nobody has told him.”
Mma Potokwane looked doubtful. “You are very kind, Mma Ramotswe. You like to see the good in people—even people like Mr. Excellence Modise. But I think he is just a rather irritating man—and that’s all there is to it.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent for a while. She did not like taking a negative view of people, and she would have liked to say something positive about Excellence Modise—but she was finding it difficult.
Then Mma Potokwane said, “Why did he come to see you, Mma?”
“He is concerned about his wife,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“His wife? What about her?”
“He thinks she is having an affair with another man.”
Mma Potokwane tried not to laugh. “But wouldn’t you have an affair if you were married to a man like that?” she asked. “Poor woman—he’s probably driven her to distraction.”
Mma Ramotswe looked away. She did not think that Mma Potokwane was serious. Having an annoying husband was no excuse to engage in a clandestine affair. If things were that difficult, a marriage could be ended with dignity and in such a way as to minimise the hurt caused to the other party. No, Mma Potokwane could not be serious.
Seeing the effect of her remark, Mma Potokwane said, “I’m sorry, Mma. I wasn’t thinking. I would never say that Mma Modise had no alternative but to run off with another man. No, I would not say that. All I would say is that I can understand how hard it must be for her to have a husband like Excellence. That’s all, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe assured Mma Potokwane that she did not think she had been intemperate. “People can be very difficult,” she said. “And in this case, I have been thinking of getting in touch with this man and telling him I cannot help him after all.”
Her tone was apologetic, and she was watching for Mma Potokwane’s reaction. But the matron seemed unperturbed. “You can’t help everybody, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “People can’t think that they can just walk into your office and be helped with all their problems.” She paused. “Especially if those problems are their own fault.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But I’m not sure, Mma, whether Mr. Excellence Modise’s problems are his fault. Can he help it if his wife is having an affair with another man?”
Mma Potokwane considered this. Domestic discord, she thought, was usually caused by all sorts of factors—all operating together. It was rarely a simple matter. But in this case, having seen how irritating Mr. Excellence Modise was, she felt that it was likely that he had brought the whole situation upon himself. “I’m sorry, Mma,” she said. “But you can’t help everybody. You need not feel guilty if you tell this man that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is unable to help him.”
Mma Ramotswe looked into her teacup. Life was not as simple as Mma Potokwane sometimes suggested it was. And now, in a rather unexpected way, she found herself feeling sorry for Mr. Excellence Modise, in spite of everything. To be disliked by one’s spouse was a hard sentence to bear, although…Suddenly she experienced a moment of doubt. Was Mr. Excellence Modise telling the truth? She had not asked herself that question before now, but it came to her, and she felt unsettled. In her profession, she had at various times felt a strong suspicion that a client was lying. It had not happened very often, but the interesting thing is that when this doubt had occurred, it had always subsequently proved to be well founded. In fact, she had never been wrong about this—not once.
She raised the possibility guiltily. “It’s possible that he may not be telling me the truth,” she said. “I don’t know why I should think that, but I must admit that I feel that way.”
Mma Potokwane’s response to this was robust. “Of course he’s lying,” she said. “That sort of man is full of hot air. When he was trying to get me to sign one of his ridiculous termite contracts, he said all sorts of things about ants that were clearly not true. He wanted me to think that there were whole armies of ants planning an invasion of the Orphan Farm. Did I believe him? I did not, Mma Ramotswe. Most ants have got better things to do than to spend their time plotting against these poor children.” She fixed Mma Ramotswe with a bemused stare. Then she continued, “You are a very kind lady, Mma Ramotswe. Sometimes, I think you are too kind. If you don’t want to help this man, then you don’t have to.” She paused. “But why would he be lying, Mma? Can you think of any reason for a man to tell you that his wife is having an affair when she isn’t?”
Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea and glanced at her watch. She would need to start the journey back to town if she was to have time to pick up a few things at the shops at River Walk. “Sometimes people imagine things,” she said. “They call it paranoia, I believe. It is like an infection—a cold that doesn’t go away—except that it’s all in the person’s mind. You think that people are doing things that they aren’t really doing. You think that people are against you.”
“So, this might make him think his wife does not like him?” Mma Potokwane asked.
“Possibly.”
Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “But in this case,” she said, “there is every reason to think that he’s right. We don’t like him, and so it’s more likely than not that she doesn’t like him either. And if she doesn’t like him, then that would be a reason for her to go off and find a man whom she does like. And I’m afraid that leads to a difficult question, Mma: Whose side should you be on?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. There could be only one answer to that question, she thought: she should be on the side of the client. That was at the heart of her profession, as Clovis Andersen himself pointed out in The Principles of Private Detection when he wrote: Remember that it is your duty to stand by your client. That is a matter of professional ethics and is non-negotiable. Personal feelings should not come into it. And yet, and yet…What if Mr. Excellence Modise’s wife was miserable in her marriage? Why should she, Mma Ramotswe, act to prolong the poor woman’s unhappiness?
She would have to think about it further, she said. Sometimes problems like this seemed different after one had slept on them for a few days. She suggested this to Mma Potokwane, and the matron said that she was of that view too—although there were times when sleeping on a problem made it seem even bigger the next morning. “I expect, though, that in this case you are going to do what you always do, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“Which is to ignore the fact that Mr. Excellence Modise is an extremely annoying man.”
“Well…”
“No, I am sure of it,” said Mma Potokwane. “You will help that man, and you are right to do so, Mma. You must forget what I said about telling him to go away. That is not the way your heart wants you to go, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend. This was the advice that she had secretly hoped for, and she inclined her head in acceptance. And inclined it again when Mma Potokwane suggested that before she left, she would wrap up a piece of cake for her to take home with her.
