In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 6
The door opened, and Mma Makutsi, who had picked up a file and was paging through its contents with what she hoped was an expression of convincing attention, looked up in what she hoped would be taken as surprise.
“Ah, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “What a surprise.”
It was not a surprise, of course, and he pointed this out to her. “You must have been expecting me, Mma. After all, I do work here.”
Mma Makutsi gave a shrill laugh. “Of course you do, Rra. It’s just that I was so busy with this case that my thoughts were somewhere else altogether.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “But not so far away as to be unable to make tea for our guest here, Mma.” He turned and gestured to the man at his side. Mma Makutsi shot a glance at the other man. His face was familiar, but only, she thought, because it was unexceptional.
“You may be wondering who I am, Mma,” said the man. “I am Mr. Freddie Mogorosi.”
Mma Makutsi reached out to take the hand offered in greeting. “How are you, Rra?”
“I am very well, thank you, Mma.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said that Mr. Mogorosi had just arrived after a dusty journey and would undoubtedly appreciate a cup of tea.
“Strong, and without milk,” said Mr. Mogorosi. “Ladies are always trying to get men to drink weak tea, and we are always saying that we do not want that sort of thing.”
“I am glad that you yourself seem to resist,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “The world is full of people who are incapable of standing up for themselves. They must be encouraged to resist.”
Mma Makutsi glanced at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. This was a rather out-of-character remark for him, she thought. He was the mildest of men, and she found it hard to imagine him rallying these legions of weak people who failed to stand up for themselves. Was he saying this, she wondered, to impress Mr. Mogorosi?
She smiled. “At least you know where you stand, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “You know what sort of tea you want in this life.”
Mr. Mogorosi found this amusing. “Oh, very good, Mma.” And to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni he said, “I can see that your secretary knows what’s what, Rra.”
Twice in a short period of time had this grave solecism been uttered—first, by Mr. Excellence Modise in the course of his interview with Mma Ramotswe, and now by Mr. Freddie Mogorosi in this ill-thought-out throwaway remark. And while Mma Makutsi was prepared to bite her tongue on one occasion, it was simply too much to expect her to do this again so soon after the commission of the original offence. She stood rooted to the spot, near the filing cabinet on the top of which the tea tray and the kettle were kept. Turning to Mr. Mogorosi, she said, “I am a fully qualified private detective, Rra. I am not a secretary.” And then she added, for good measure, just in case he might not appreciate the gravity of the offence he had caused, “Not every woman whom you find in an office, Rra, is a secretary, you know. Some women in offices are the boss—or, as in this particular case, the executive president for business development.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “Executive president for development? Who is an executive president for development? I have never heard of such a person.”
Mma Makutsi glared at him. “I am the executive president for development in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. This is my official position.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “That’s the first I’ve heard of that, Mma. But if that is what you are, then of course that is what you are.” And then he added, rather lamely, but with real feeling, “Sorry, Mma Makutsi. I really didn’t know. I am just a mechanic, you see. Mechanics don’t always know these things.”
Mr. Freddie Mogorosi looked bemused. “Do titles mean much, Mma? Surely, it’s what you do that counts. People can call themselves what they like these days. They can make up any sort of title. Even the Pope. You want to call yourself the Pope, there’s nothing in the law of Botswana, as far as I’m aware, that’s stopping you. And if the Pope wants to call himself executive president for something or other, then he can do just that.”
If he intended this to be conciliatory, it had the opposite effect. Tight-lipped, Mma Makutsi made three cups of tea. When she handed one to Mr. Mogorosi, she did so without saying anything, ignoring his elaborate thank-you. Returning to her desk, she busied herself with a sheaf of papers, studiously avoiding making any eye contact with their visitor. Sensing her disapproval, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni proposed that he and Mr. Mogorosi should drink their tea outside, where it was now considerably cooler.
Mma Makutsi sat at her desk, inwardly fuming. “Stupid man,” she muttered. She had not liked him. It was not just his tactless remark about her being a secretary—she could forgive that mistake in normal circumstances, even if it was irritating. No, it was not that; it was something deeper. This man was dishonest. He was untrustworthy. Anybody could see that.
And somebody had. For at that moment, she heard a small voice, faint and distant, a voice that seemed to come from somewhere altogether elsewhere—the sort of voice that might belong to a tiny, scurrying creature; the sort of voice that might be no more than the sound of the wind in a corner, but distinct enough for all that. That man, whispered the voice. Bad news, if you ask us, Boss.
She looked down. Her shoes were half concealed under her desk.
“What?” she said.
The shoes looked back up at her from their darkness, unblinking. They were quiet. They were impassive. They had nothing further to say. If people would not listen to their shoes, then what could they do?
Chapter Four
We Are a Bit Like Ants
Mma Ramotswe had intended to return to the office after her visit to Mma Potokwane, but a number of small errands demanded to be done, and these kept her busy until shortly before five o’clock in the afternoon. By that stage there would be no point in her going into the office, only to leave for home a few minutes later. So, rather than do that, she embarked on her final task of the day—the purchase of groceries for that evening’s dinner, and for the weekend ahead. It was already Friday, and the week seemed to have gone so quickly. But that, she felt, was how time now went—with a fleetness that she would love somehow to arrest, but that she knew was beyond her control. “Have you noticed how time seems to be speeding up?” she had once asked Mma Makutsi. And Mma Makutsi, after a few moments’ reflection, had replied, “Or we are slowing down, Mma.”
It had been a thought-provoking remark, and the more she mulled it over, as she did now as she found a parking spot near the supermarket, the more she realised that Mma Makutsi was probably right. She had not paid attention to the subject in the past, but then there were many things that one did not really dwell upon until one became a bit older, as we all inevitably did. Not that Mma Ramotswe regarded herself as middle-aged—she was not—as far as she was concerned. Middle age began when…She paused as she asked herself the uncomfortable question. The answer was that middle age began not just yet. Mma Potokwane was almost middle-aged, perhaps, but that was because Mma Potokwane was in her late forties, a few years older than Mma Ramotswe—or at least one year older, possibly more—and if you were in your late forties, then it might be said that you were closer to fifty than to forty. And if you were fifty, then the next big milestone was definitely in the middle-aged bracket. And thereafter, it was time to start thinking of finding a chair somewhere in a sunny place and sitting in it while you watched the world go past. That, though, was a long, long time away, and for the time being there were rather immediate decisions to be made—such as whether to get some mince to make a pie for dinner that night—Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni regarded pies as something of a treat—a rather middle-aged preference, perhaps—although he also enjoyed stew, or sausages with fried potatoes and pumpkin. You could never go wrong with pumpkin, she felt, as it could be served up to anybody and be greeted, in just about every case, with a smile of welcome. It was possible that there were people who did not like pumpkin, but Mma Ramotswe had never encountered anybody who turned their nose up at pumpkins or the sweeter variety of tsamma melons, such as the senwane, that could be made into jam or used to slake thirst.
She opened the door of her van and emerged into the late afternoon sunlight. All about her, there was movement and activity, as shoppers—engaged, like her, on a quest for supplies for the evening meal—made their way across the car park to the cool sanctuary of the supermarket. We are a bit like ants, she thought, and smiled. Ants can sense where supplies of food are, and will troop in tiny lines across what must be, to them, great plains and deserts—to us, just small stretches of ground—to whatever food their acute sense of smell had detected: a scrap dropped by some passer-by; or some small creature that has died on its own quest for food and would soon become a feast for the lesser life living down among the grains of sand; the manna of a piece of fallen fruit.
All these creatures, Precious, are our brothers and sisters, you know. All of them…That was what her father had said to her. Those were the exact words that he used when he would take her for walks through the bush and show her the things that he thought it important for her to see. He would give her the Setswana words for the creatures they came across—even the small, scurrying beetles—and it was only later that she realised why he had done this. It was because he wanted her to value and take delight in nature, and it was harder, much harder, to be unkind to anything once you knew the Setswana word for it. That was what he sensed—and he was so right. Of course he was right. If you knew the Setswana word for an insignificant little creature, you understood where it stood in the order of things, and you felt for it. That was her father’s insight, even if she had never realised it at the time, although she did later on. And thinking of it now, she glanced up at the sky, which was something she often did when she thought of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe. That was not because she believed he was really up there, but he was, in a sense. He was somewhere; she was sure of it. Whatever it was that had been within him, that part of us that we may find it hard to identify or describe—that bit would always be there, always. Late people, Mma Ramotswe said, are still with us. Of course they were—of course they were.
But you cannot think such things for long when you have to get to the shops before they close. Big thoughts like that should be kept for other occasions, when you do not have to buy the food for dinner and get back in time to make it before the family starts to complain that their evening meal is late. The people who thought about such weighty subjects, and who even wrote books about such things, did not have to make dinner—that was clear enough, she thought.
Once inside the building, she felt the relief of the cooled air on her skin. She suspected that there were people who visited the supermarket on particularly hot days not to buy anything, but simply to enjoy the air conditioning. She had seen some of them, standing near the refrigerated food section, pretending to take a great interest in the price labels displayed on the open cabinets, but actually taking the opportunity to make phone calls or chat to their friends while escaping the heat outside. Mma Makutsi had seen this too. She had recognised one of these people from her days at the Botswana Secretarial College, a woman who had been friendly with Violet Sephotho, and who had eventually been asked to leave the college after being caught cheating in the examinations. It had been no surprise to anybody when she had gone on to work for a lawyer who was widely regarded as unscrupulous, whom she subsequently married. Now here she was holding court in the refrigerated section of the supermarket, part of what Mma Makutsi described as the “cool set.”
But when she entered the supermarket, Mma Ramotswe did not see this woman, nor any of the cool set, but Mma Makutsi herself, who was pushing a shopping cart through the vegetable section while at the same time consulting a shopping list. Mma Ramotswe saw her stop at the avocado pear section, lean forward and prod the displayed fruit with a forefinger.
Mma Ramotswe came up behind her. “Still unripe, I think, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi spun round. “Oh, Mma Ramotswe, it’s you.” She pointed to the avocados. “Those are days off being ripe, Mma. If you bought those to put in a salad tonight, your teeth would break. They’re rock hard.”
“It is difficult for these supermarket people,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If they put them out when they’re already ripe, then a day or two later they’re much too ripe. And then people will complain that they’re too soft.”
In Mma Makutsi’s view, this was typical of Mma Ramotswe’s willingness to look at things from the point of view of others. She herself was not so ready to find excuses for others, and never hesitated to let people know if some service they were providing was not up to scratch. On one occasion, a dress made for her by a local seamstress had gone back six times for various adjustments, until eventually the seamstress had taken to pretending to be out if she saw Mma Makutsi’s car draw up outside. And then, on another, a painter who had been engaged to paint her kitchen—a man who regularly decorated Phuti Radiphuti’s furniture store—became so fed up with being asked to attend to missed corners that he disappeared off the job altogether and refused ever again to work for the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Phuti had been tactful. “It’s possible that you said something to offend him, Grace,” he began, and then, seeing the reaction that this was provoking, he went on to say, “Of course, these people can be temperamental. I suppose that they’re artists, in their way, and we all know that artists are difficult.”
“He is not an artist,” said Mma Makutsi. “He is a house painter. And he has left a big square of plaster under the basin unpainted. If painters do not think you will look somewhere, then they do not paint it. It is very bad.”
Now, as they stood and looked at the offending avocados, Mma Ramotswe said, “Oh well, I might buy one or two of those. I am in no hurry to eat them. They can ripen in my kitchen.”
Mma Makutsi consulted her list. “Cooking oil,” she said. “I mustn’t forget cooking oil, Mma Ramotswe.”
“No, Mma, cooking oil is very important—”
Mma Makutsi cut her short. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had a visitor this afternoon, Mma,” she said. “It was while you were out at Mma Potokwane’s place.”
“Oh yes, Mma? Who was it?”
Mma Makutsi’s face took on a pained expression. “He said that he was called Mr. Freddie Mogorosi. That’s what he called himself.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered why there should be any doubt about the name. Was his real name not Freddie Mogorosi? She waited for Mma Makutsi to continue.
“Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni brought him in for a cup of tea,” Mma Makutsi went on. “They drank it outside.”
“I see.” This was no surprise: Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni often took his mug of tea outside to drink it under one of the acacia trees. He liked to watch the world from the shade of the large tree at the back of the garage, away from the noise and disturbance of the workshop.
Mma Makutsi hesitated. She never criticised Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and was concerned that any comment she passed regarding Mr. Freddie Mogorosi might be taken as a rebuke to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—a suggestion, perhaps, that he was not sufficiently discerning in his choice of friends.
“Do you know this Mogorosi?” she asked Mma Ramotswe. “Have you ever heard of him before?”
Mma Ramotswe had not. “I knew some Mogorosis who lived down in Lobatse,” she said. “There was a Thomas Mogorosi, who had a small printing business. He was married to a woman who used to work in the Ministry of Health. This woman had been a theatre nurse at the hospital before she went to work in the ministry offices. I never knew her, although I saw her husband many times. Of course there are other Mogorosis—many of them. It is a common name, as you know, Mma.”
“I think I have heard Phuti talking about those Lobatse Mogorosis. I think this Mr. Freddie Mogorosi is a different sort of Mogorosi. I think…” Mma Makutsi’s voice trailed off; it seemed to Mma Ramotswe that she was unsure whether she should continue.
Mma Ramotswe knew her colleague well enough to realise that this meant she had reservations. Whenever Mma Makutsi’s voice disappeared like this, it was because something was worrying her.
“I think you may not like Mr. Freddie Mogorosi, Mma. Am I right about that?”
Mma Makutsi studied her fingernails. That was another sign, thought Mma Ramotswe.
“I never said that I didn’t like him,” sniffed Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “But you didn’t like him, did you, Mma?” And then, to soften any implication that there was an element of accusation in this, she added, “We can’t like everybody, Mma Makutsi. There are some people who are just…” She searched for the right way of putting it. Every word that suggested itself seemed too strong: horrid, awful, dreadful, terrible…Very few people deserved these extreme descriptions, because most people, in spite of their manifest failings, had at least some good qualities. Take Violet Sephotho, for instance. Violet was far from perfect, but at least she—Mma Ramotswe stopped. She was trying to think of Violet’s good qualities, but nothing was coming to her. Yet her initial point stood: every general observation had its lone exception somewhere.
Mma Ramotswe decided that sometimes the most charitable word was the best. “There are some people who are just very trying.”
“Possibly,” Mma Makutsi replied. “In fact, you could say that, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “You know that I always trust your judgement, Mma. You know that, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi had been tense; now she seemed to relax. “Thank you, Mma.” She lowered her voice, although there was nobody near them in the vegetable section. “There is something about him that I just did not like,” she said. “I’m not prejudiced, of course—I am a very fair person, I believe.”
