The woman seemed to hesitate before she replied. Only for a moment or two, but it was long enough for Mma Makutsi to notice and to flash a warning glance in Mma Ramotswe’s direction. The meaning of this glance was clear enough—at least to Mma Ramotswe. It was: she had to remind herself that she was claiming to be Rosie.
Mma Ramotswe was less ready to jump to that bleak conclusion. People can be hesitant for all sorts of reasons, she felt—unfamiliar surroundings, social awkwardness, lack of confidence: all of these could explain a brief hesitation in answering.
“Yes,” she said. “I am Rosie.”
Mma Ramotswe invited her to sit down. She offered to make tea, but Rosie declined. As she settled herself in the client chair, Mma Makutsi started to quiz her.
“You read the article?” Mma Makutsi asked.
“I did,” said the woman. “That is why I am here.” She paused, and then continued, “I’m sorry, Mma, but could you tell me who you are?”
The effect of this question on Mma Makutsi was dramatic. Straightening her back, Mma Makutsi sat bolt upright, her lips pursed, her fingers intertwined. “You’re asking my name, Mma?” she said. “Is that what you’re asking me?”
“If you don’t mind, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled—not by the question, but by Mma Makutsi’s intense reaction to it. “This is Mma Makutsi,” she offered. “She is my assist—” She stopped herself. Mma Makutsi was no longer her assistant, but her co-director. It could have been worse, of course; she might have referred to her as her secretary, something she had almost done a few days earlier, but had fortunately avoided just in time. “She is the co-director here, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye. A signal was being sent in her direction—a signal of great and urgent importance—but she could not work out what it was. Why should Mma Makutsi be so agitated simply because their visitor had asked who she was? She would no doubt find out later, but for the moment she had other questions to ask.
“Now,” Mma Ramotswe began, “you say, Mma, that you are the person who looked after that child all those years ago. May I ask how old you are, Mma?”
The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting the question. “I am fifty-three now, Mma. I was in my early twenties when that child was here.”
Mma Ramotswe jotted 53 on her pad of paper. The woman’s eyes followed the movement of the pencil.
Mma Ramotswe looked up from her note, her pencil poised. “And where were you born, Mma?”
“Mahalapye.”
Mma Ramotswe wrote this down.
Now Mma Makutsi asked a question. “Mahalapye, Mma? I have cousins there.”
The woman said nothing.
“They are called Makutsi, like me.”
The woman shrugged. “I do not know those people, Mma.”
“No,” mused Mma Makutsi. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. You must have left a long time ago.”
The woman looked at her. “I was eighteen, Mma. I came to Gaborone then. That’s over thirty years ago.”
“Of course,” said Mma Makutsi. “Thirty years ago is not yesterday. But…” She hesitated. “These cousins of mine lived fairly close to the railway line—right in the middle of town. What was that place called? The area in the middle? Leretlwa? It was Leretlwa, wasn’t it, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe sensed what was happening, but did not say anything.
“Yes,” said the woman. “That is right. There is Leretlwa. I know it.”
Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair, her expression one of scarcely disguised triumph.
Mma Ramotswe looked away. She was taken aback by Mma Makutsi’s questioning, but did not show it. “Tell me, Mma,” she said evenly. “How many years did you look after that girl? Two, three years?”
The answer came back quickly. “Eight,” she said. “From when she was a little baby—I helped the mummy even then—until the time those people went back to Canada. I was looking after her all that time.”
“Always in Gaborone?”
“No. In Molepolole to begin with. Then in Gaborone.”
Mma Ramotswe scribbled a note on her pad. “You must have been sad when they left.”
“I was very sad, Mma. I cried and cried. It was like losing my own child.”
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head briefly and then looked up again. “I can imagine how you felt, Mma.” She gazed out of the window at the slice of sky that could be seen from this angle. Blue—almost white with heat. No cloud. No rain. Just dry air all the way up to the heavens. Dry, hot air.
“The house?” Mma Makutsi said. “Do you remember where it was?”
The woman replied immediately. “Of course, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “Where was it, Mma?”
The woman pointed over her shoulder. “That way.”
“In the Village? In the old part?”
The woman shook her head. “No, more towards town. You know where the Sun Hotel is? You know that place where the ladies sell their lace tablecloths? You know that place?”
“Of course.”
“On one of those roads that go off the main road right there. On one of them. Round a corner.”
Mma Ramotswe made a further note. “Could you show us, Mma? If I took you in my van—could you show us?”
The woman thought for a moment. “I suppose so.”
“Right now, Mma?”
“If you want me to.”
Mma Ramotswe saw Mma Makutsi make some sort of sign, but she could not make out what it was. She threw her an enquiring glance, but all that Mma Makutsi did was to shake her head slightly.
“My van is very small, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There would not be room for the three of us, but I can borrow my husband’s car. He runs that garage through there.”
The woman made to stand up. “I’m ready, Mma. I can show you where the place is.”
Mma Ramotswe slipped her notepad into a drawer and rose from her chair. “Mma Makutsi and I will go and fetch the car,” she said, looking purposefully towards Mma Makutsi. “We will only be five minutes or so.”
The woman sat down again. “I can wait, Mma,” she said. Then she added, “Tell me, Mma: Is this Mma Susan wanting to say something to me?”
Mma Ramotswe stood still. “What do you mean, Mma?”
“I mean: Why is she wanting to see me? Is she wanting to…” She did not finish the sentence, but Mma Ramotswe knew what lay behind the question. Avarice, she thought, always shows in the eyes. Avarice could shine, could shine forth like a searchlight.
“I think she wants to thank you,” she said. “That is all I know.”
It was true, and she saw the effect of her reply. The woman smiled, and in an attempt at modesty said, “Oh, I do not need to be thanked.”
“But she would like to do so,” said Mma Makutsi. “Sometimes that is important for people.”
The woman said nothing.
“We shall fetch the car,” said Mma Ramotswe.
—
MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI’S CAR was parked on the other side of the garage. It would take only a minute or so to start the engine and drive round the building to the other side, but Mma Ramotswe realised they would need to talk. And she was right; the moment they were out of the door and out of earshot of the office, Mma Makutsi seized Mma Ramotswe’s elbow and whispered urgently into her ear.
“She is a very big liar, that woman. A very big liar. One of the biggest in the country, probably.”
Mma Ramotswe turned to face her. “I saw that you were very upset when she asked your name. Why was that, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. “Don’t you see, Mma?” she exclaimed. “Don’t you see?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Why should she not ask your name?”
“Because of what she said, Mma. That’s why.”
Mma Ramotswe’s puzzlement deepened. “I’m sorry, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I just don’t see what you’re trying to tell me.”
Mma Makutsi did no
t look impatient; rather, she looked understanding. “Now listen, Mma Ramotswe,” she said quietly. “She said that she had read about all this in the newspaper. Remember that?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I think so.”
Now came the disclosure, the revealing of the clue. “Well, who was in that article? I was, Mma—it was me. And whose photograph was on that page? Mine, Mma—mine!”
It became clear. “So she should have recognised you if she had read the paper? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“Of course. If she had seen the article, she would have seen me. But she didn’t know who I was—that’s why she had to ask my name. Strange, isn’t it, Mma? A lie, you see. Somebody has put her up to this; she knows nothing—somebody is behind her, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe was far from convinced, pointing out to Mma Makutsi that one might easily ignore the photograph accompanying an article—or forget the details. “Look at these articles about politicians saying this, that, and the next thing. We may read all about it in the newspapers, and there will be a photograph of the politician—they love that, those people—but do we remember what they look like? I don’t think I do.”
Mma Makutsi raised an admonishing finger. “But, Mma,” she said, “there is another thing—another thing altogether.”
Mma Ramotswe waited. There was a gleam of revelation in Mma Makutsi’s eye. “She mentioned Mahalapye.”
“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And you found her out with that reference to…where was the place, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi seemed disappointed that her trap had been detected, but continued, “Leretlwa.”
Mma Ramotswe waited. “And?”
“That place is not in the middle of town—it is not near the railway line, Mma. Yet when I said it was, she did not correct me.” She shook a finger for emphasis. “She did not correct me, Mma, and if you had really been born in Mahalapye, then you would not let a mistake like that go unremarked upon. You would not let people say Tlokweng is in the middle of Gaborone, would you? You would not, Mma. You would say, ‘Hold on, Tlokweng is miles away.’ That’s what you’d say, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe took Mma Makutsi’s wrist and led her gently round the side of the building. “We must get into the car,” she said. “We cannot stand outside talking about this.”
“There is more than enough evidence to prove this woman is an impostor,” muttered Mma Makutsi.
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Possibly, but not definitely, Mma. And there is a difference, you know.”
—
THEY DROVE IN SILENCE. Mma Ramotswe could not converse because she had to concentrate on driving Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s car, which, although slightly familiar to her, felt far too powerful. Her tiny white van had very little power—just enough to keep the wheels turning, she thought—and it would never run away with her, as this car seemed to be keen to do. For her part, Mma Makutsi had no desire to talk to the person whom she now thought of as the “so-called Rosie”—so she was silent too. And as for the woman, seated in the back, she simply stared out of the window, rather vaguely, as if she were thinking of something else altogether.
They drew near to the Sun Hotel. There, sitting on the verge of the road, their wares spread out beside them, were the ladies who made the crochet tablecloths. The woman had mentioned these in their discussion, and they were the signal for her to lean forward and tap Mma Ramotswe on the shoulder. “Turn left here, Mma,” she said. “This is the road.”
Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe. “Zebra Drive,” she said. And then, craning her neck to address the woman behind them, she asked, “Are you sure this is the road, Mma? Are you quite sure?”
The woman nodded. “I wouldn’t tell you it was if it wasn’t,” she said sullenly.
“I will go down here,” said Mma Ramotswe, and added, “I know this road well, Mma.”
“Well, the house is further down here—on the left.”
Mma Ramotswe drove slowly now, but she was not prepared for the sudden instruction that came from the back seat. “There it is, Mma. That is the place. That was the house those people lived in.”
Mma Makutsi gasped. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” she muttered.
“That is the house,” repeated the woman. “I remember it well.”
Mma Ramotswe pulled in and brought the car to a halt, leaving the engine running. Turning to face their passenger, she said, “That is my house, Mma. That is where I live with my husband, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”
The woman’s expression did not change. She now looked bored, shrugging her shoulders at this information. “So you live here now, Mma,” she said. “I’m not talking about now—I’m talking about then.”
Mma Ramotswe hesitated, but Mma Makutsi had already made up her mind. “Mma Ramotswe, I think we should go back to the office now,” she said. “We can drop this lady off near Riverwalk so that she can get a minibus home.” She turned to address the woman. Her tone was gruff. “Will that suit you, Mma?”
The woman shrugged. “If that’s what you want. But when will I see this Canadian lady?”
“Leave us your address,” said Mma Makutsi briskly. “We’ll be in touch.”
The woman became animated. “I am very keen to see her, Mma Ramotswe. I have been missing her so much, so much. My heart is very sore, you know.”
Mma Makutsi rolled her eyes. She had not intended this to be seen, but it was, and the woman turned on her angrily.
“You do not believe me, Mma—I can tell that. You think I am making this up, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi turned round to face the back seat. Her spectacles flashed dangerously. Then came her reply, each word delivered with the gravity that comes from complete conviction. “I do not believe one word you’ve said, Mma—not one word.” Her judgement delivered with defiance, she turned back to Mma Ramotswe.
“I think you should drive on, Mma,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe did not like conflict. She was unfailingly polite to others, and she could not condone this rudeness on Mma Makutsi’s part.
“I’m sorry, Mma,” she said over her shoulder. “We have to be very careful, you see.”
The woman was staring ahead fixedly. “I did not hear any of this,” she said suddenly. “I cannot hear what you’re saying.”
They drove back up Zebra Drive and out onto the main road. Perhaps I’m in the wrong job, Mma Ramotswe thought. What is that saying about not staying in the kitchen if you don’t like the heat? Should she give a bit more thought to that? After all, these old sayings were often right. Mind you, she said to herself, it’s not just the kitchen that’s hot—the whole country is too hot at the moment, this baking heat that wraps Botswana until suddenly the summer rains arrive and cool everything down. She might think differently then, she imagined; and Mma Makutsi might be a little less confrontational. Cool weather brings cool tempers. Was that a saying? she wondered. If it was not, then it could well become one, and she, Mma Ramotswe, would be the author of it. She might even write to Clovis Andersen and tell him about it. He would appreciate it, she thought. But then does he remember me? What am I, who is just Mma Ramotswe of Botswana, to that important man who lives so far away in Muncie, Indiana? Can I really call him my friend?
The woman in the back started to mutter.
“You don’t know anything,” she said. “You don’t know that I was like a mother to that girl. When she cried I was there; I was the one who comforted her. You don’t know that, do you? And when her little dog became sick and died I was the one who helped her bury it at the end of the garden and put the stones around its grave. I was the one who wiped away her tears. I was. And I was the one who nursed her when she was ill because the real mother was always working or playing tennis. I was the one, and you people don’t know that—and you don’t care, do you? You don’t care because all you think about is money and being paid by these people who come to see you. And having your picture in the newspapers too. That’s what you think about.”
Mma
Ramotswe felt that she had to reply to this. Slowing down, she spoke into the driving mirror. “No, Mma, you are wrong. We do care. And I’m sorry if you think that we do not.”
“Can you please stop the car,” the woman said. “Stop the car and let me get out.”
Mma Ramotswe pulled over to the side of the road. With their passenger out, Mma Ramotswe turned to Mma Makutsi. “Well,” she said, “that was a bit of a mess, Mma.”
“Not at all,” said Mma Makutsi. “That woman was a fraudster, Mma.”
“Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But fraudsters can have feelings, Mma.”
“But what about the feelings of the people they defraud? Don’t you think we have to consider those?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But—”
“No buts, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Some people are just skellums. That’s the way it is, Mma. That’s just the way it is.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. It was some time since she had heard the word skellum, as it seemed to have passed out of favour. Yet it was such a fine word, that so effectively described a rogue or a rascal; a word that her father had used eloquently, picked up from the Boers, when describing dealers who paid poor farmers too little for their cattle, or traders who doctored their scales so that they could give short shrift to buyers of sorghum or maize meal. Obed Ramotswe had seen these as skellums and would call them that to their face; now, perhaps, the skellums could get away with it because people were afraid to stand up to them, or were no longer sure what was right or wrong, or were afraid to identify wickedness or sleaze when they saw it. Mma Makutsi may be a bit extreme at times, she thought, but at least she speaks up against bad behaviour. She was probably right about this woman, who had made some bad mistakes in her story and probably was what Obed, once again, would have called a chancer, if not a skellum. And if she was right, then Mma Makutsi’s unmasking of her was probably the right thing to do, and yet, and yet…life was rarely as simple as Mma Makutsi thought it was. Subtlety, wrote Clovis Andersen, is the best aid to the understanding of human complexity. That was rather too long a pronouncement to use too often, but it had its place, and should be remembered, as she was doing now, from time to time.
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