He looked surprised. “Of course. It was in cash.”
Mma Ramotswe absorbed this information. It was clear to her what had happened: Mr. Polopetsi was the innocent recruiter; he would have been paid exactly what he had been promised so that he could bring others into the scheme with the conviction of one who has seen the whole thing work. “And the money?” she asked. “What have you done with it?”
Mr. Polopetsi started to give his answer, but said very little before his voice trailed off. “I re-invested it. My colleague had another…”
She saw his face fall.
“Your colleague? The same man?”
Mr. Polopetsi nodded.
“You gave him back the money?” said Mma Potokwane. Her tone was openly incredulous.
Mma Ramotswe winced. “He has another scheme?”
Mr. Polopetsi looked like a schoolboy whose unlikely story has suddenly been questioned. “Yes,” he said. “He told me he had the chance to buy a consignment of medicines from Zambia. He said that he could get these at a very low price and he knew people who would be able to sell them here in Gaborone at a much higher price.”
Mma Ramotswe heard Mma Potokwane’s sharp intake of breath.
“What medicines?” asked the matron. “Aspirin?”
Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “No, nothing like that. Antibiotics, he said. Blood pressure drugs. That sort of thing.”
“And why would they be cheap?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. Polopetsi shrugged. “Over-orders, probably,” he said. “Sometimes hospital dispensaries order far too much stuff and then realise they won’t be able to use it all. I suspect it will be something like that.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “I see,” she said quietly.
“I’m going to help him,” he said. “He can’t get away and so he asked me if I could collect them from the other side.”
“The other side of the border?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll go up to Chobe. He’s going to hire a car for me. He said that he’d order some chemicals for the school lab and his order could go in with mine. That would be very useful for us, you see—the school is always running out of the things I need for my chemistry lessons.” He smiled; people understood—and sympathised with—administrative inefficiency on the part of others. It was a common burden. “These would be a donation from him.”
Mma Ramotswe hardly dared meet the intense look Mma Potokwane sent in her direction, but when she did she knew that they both had exactly the same understanding of what Mr. Polopetsi had said. It was so obvious, she thought; so glaringly obvious. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mma Potokwane had beaten her to it. “Oh, Mr. Polopetsi,” she exclaimed. “How could you, Rra? How could you be so stu—”
“So unwise,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly.
Mr. Polopetsi looked at Mma Potokwane and then at Mma Ramotswe. He seemed confused now, and remained in that state until Mma Potokwane, taking a deep breath, spelled out to him what she thought. Once she had done that, there was complete silence, and nobody said anything for at least five minutes. Then Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “I shall deal with this,” she said firmly.
Mma Potokwane looked at her as if to say: How can you possibly pick up the pieces here? But Mma Ramotswe chose to ignore this. She signalled to the waiter for their bill. “Did you come here by foot, Mr. Polopetsi?” she asked. There was a Polopetsi car, but it was always being driven by Mrs. Polopetsi, and he was rarely allowed to use it.
He nodded, glancing at Mma Potokwane, as if preparing himself to forestall any further criticism.
“In that case,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I’ll run you back. My van is parked on the other side of the square—not far away.”
“Well, I’m going back to work,” said Mma Potokwane. Whether or not she intended it, there was a strong emphasis on the word work. The censure this implied—that there were some whose idea of work was the making of risky investments—found its target, and Mr. Polopetsi, already reduced, crumpled further. He was a small man, and now he was even smaller. His jacket, too large for him at any time, seemed to envelop him like some giant sack, his hands disappearing up the sleeves, the fabric around the shoulders without support now, loose and flapping.
Outside in the square, the afternoon sun made shadows under the trees and around the doorways of the buildings, pools of shade where people took languid shelter from the heat of the day. A few traders, those whose stalls were comfortably under the branches of the acacias, continued to offer their wares; others had packed up and left after the morning’s business was over.
They walked slowly, as the warmth of the day dictated.
“Rain,” said Mr. Polopetsi.
She barely heard the voice emanating from somewhere under the billowing clothes.
“What was that, Mr. Polopetsi?”
“I said: rain, Mma. I hope there will be rain soon.”
She glanced up at the sky. “I hope so too, Rra. Some people say we’re being punished by this drought. They say that God is expressing his displeasure.”
“Nonsense. That’s nonsense, Mma.”
“Of course it is, Mr. Polopetsi. This is all to do with the direction of sea currents and things like that.”
Mr. Polopetsi made a sound that indicated agreement. It was a strange sound, and she was not sure quite where it came from. It seemed to issue from one of the flapping sleeves of his jacket, but that surely was impossible. She looked at him. His mouth was very small, she decided. Did he take a very long time to eat a meal? she wondered; with that small mouth, the consumption of food would be a slow business. It was a strange thought to have, and she pulled herself up; the mind was a peculiar thing, suggesting all sorts of things of little or no consequence.
They drew level with a trader’s stall on which clothing was displayed. There was a neat stack of T-shirts on which Bostwana was printed in various colours.
“We don’t need one of those,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We know where we are.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked puzzled. “We’re in Gaborone, Mma.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had stopped, and was looking at some of the other items on display. The woman behind the table had been perched on a small folding stool, and now stood up. She was an ungainly-looking woman, but the eye went to her smile.
“I have many nice things here, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “Even things for your husband.”
Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “Oh, this is not my husband, this is just…” She stopped herself. She was not sure that Mr. Polopetsi had noticed, but it was as if she were laughing off the possibility that she could possibly be married to such a…to such a small man. And she had not meant that.
“Unfortunately,” she said quickly. “I would be a lucky woman to have a nice man like this as my husband.”
The woman looked quickly at Mr. Polopetsi—and then at Mma Ramotswe—and she understood. “Yes, my sister,” she said. “A man with a nice face is always a very good catch. Many of the sisters would agree with us on that.”
Mr. Polopetsi beamed. He said nothing, but somehow he seemed to grow back into his clothes; not entirely, but it was at least noticeable.
Mma Ramotswe watched him. He had picked up a tie and peered at the price tag. Shaking his head, he put it back on its rack. She reached for the tie and examined it herself. It was dark red, with a small eagle motif running across it at an angle. “Eagles,” she said. “This is very nice.”
“Those are very popular,” said the woman. “Everyone is wearing them now.”
“The good men are wearing them,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “The bad men are wearing ties with vultures on them, maybe.”
The other woman laughed. It was a loud, raucous laugh that seemed to go perfectly with her ungainly appearance. Mr. Polopetsi smiled. “It is a very smart tie,” he said. “Very smart. But it is too expensive, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe held the tie against the front of
his shirt, obscuring the thin grey tie he was already wearing.
“More colour,” said the other woman. “You see what a difference it makes. You see that, Mma?”
“I certainly do, Mma.” She looked at the price tag. “It is not all that expensive.”
“It’s a bargain,” said the woman. “Buy cheap, sell cheap, you see. That’s the motto of my business.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. She had read in a magazine recently that every business should have a mission statement. She liked the sound of that—a mission statement sounded very purposeful. She had discussed the matter with Mma Makutsi, who had been in strong agreement. “At the Botswana Secretarial College,” she said, “they told us to set goals. They said: Put your goals into words—you cannot have goals without words. That is when I made my first mission statement, Mma.”
“And what is that, Mma Makutsi?”
The reply came quickly. “It’s confidential, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe had been surprised. The whole point of a mission statement, she had thought, was that you declared your purpose to the world. You judged yourself by it, yes, but far more importantly you invited others to judge you by the extent to which you lived up to your professed aims. So when the Botswana Power Corporation printed its mission statement on their customers’ bills, it was to let everybody know that Getting Power to You was what they wanted, above all else, to do. That was a modest enough goal, after all; it was not as if they said Lighting Up the Whole World or something of that sort.
But a confidential mission statement? That, surely, would encourage speculation that something underhand, or even threatening, was being planned. To Get to the Top at Any Cost—there were people who behaved as if that was their mission statement, and perhaps that was exactly what it was. Did Mma Makutsi have a mission statement like that? No, on balance she thought not. It would be something to do with filing; Mma Makutsi had an intense interest in filing and often talked about its finer points. Perhaps her mission statement, then, was To Put Things in the Right Place. But if that was what it was, then why keep it confidential? Nobody was threatened by one who wanted to file documents correctly, unless you were one of those people who wanted things to be in the wrong place—if there were such people. And then she had thought of Violet Sephotho: now there was somebody who would definitely have to keep her mission statement confidential, involving, as it no doubt did, goals far too shameful to be revealed, goals related to the number of husbands stolen, or some such thing.
She became aware that Mr. Polopetsi was addressing her.
“That tie will suit Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni very well, Mma. He’ll look very smart.”
She handed over a few banknotes to the trader, who counted out her change.
“It’s not for him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s a present for you, Mr. Polopetsi.”
She handed the tie to him. His mouth was wide open in astonishment.
“There you are, Rra,” said the trader. “This is a very kind lady. I can tell.”
Mr. Polopetsi tried to say something, but no words came. He looked at the tie, with its eagle motif, and then, taking off the grey one he was wearing, he began to put the new one round his neck.
“Very smart,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“But why me?” asked Mr. Polopetsi.
She thought for a moment. “Because you have helped me in the past, Rra. Because you have given me your company. Because we have worked together. Because you are a good, kind man, and many people take good, kind men for granted and never say thank you to them. Because of all these reasons I’m giving you a tie.”
They walked on in silence. She noticed, though, that the shoulders of his jacket seemed less empty now, his walk more confident.
“I think we shall have rain rather sooner than we thought,” said Mma Ramotswe as they reached her van.
“Rain,” said Mr. Polopetsi, and nodded.
She started the van and drove off. Before she dropped him at the gates of the school where he was a part-time teacher, she said, “You mustn’t worry, Rra. I have a very good idea about how to sort out this…this mess you’ve got yourself into.”
He looked anxious once more. “I’ll do everything I can to help, Mma.”
“I think you’ll need to,” said Mma Ramotswe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DOGS DO NOT HAVE A SOUL INSIDE THEM. THEY ARE JUST MEAT
IT WAS UNCOMFORTABLY HOT in the offices of the Botswana Housing Corporation.
“They promised us air-conditioning a long time ago,” said the clerk who was leading Mma Ramotswe through a narrow, airless corridor. “The senior people are all right—they’ve got it up in their offices—but down here, not a chance.” He shook his head. “It is always like that, isn’t it, Mma? Junior staff don’t mind the heat, do they? Junior staff don’t mind drinking water from the tap rather than from one of those water fountains they have upstairs. Junior staff don’t mind having the last choice of holiday dates, do they? They don’t mind all of these things.”
Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic clucking noise. “You are right, Rra,” she said. “It is hard to be junior staff.”
Unless you were Mma Makutsi, she thought. If you were Mma Makutsi, you simply promoted yourself regularly until you ended up as joint co-director, or whatever her current position was—Mma Ramotswe had rather lost track of Mma Makutsi’s stellar ascent.
“I have been waiting for promotion to go into one of those offices upstairs,” continued the clerk. “I have been told that I don’t have the educational qualifications. They said to me: ‘You need a degree.’ But you know something, Mma? Having a degree has nothing to do with being able to do the job they do up there. A degree doesn’t teach you how to add up rental income. A degree doesn’t teach you how to deal with contractors. A degree doesn’t make you good at dealing with builders when they try to cheat you on a contract. Oh no, Mma, none of that is taught at the university. All they do there is teach you big words and long sentences.”
“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. She felt some sympathy for the clerk; she herself had left school at sixteen and although she would have liked to have had further education, it had not hampered her unduly. Of course, had she wished to get to the level of somebody like Clovis Andersen and write a book on private detection, then she would undoubtedly need a degree. Mr. Andersen, she knew from the biographical details at the back of The Principles of Private Detection, had a BA from Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. She could never aspire to that, but when it came to the work she did, she felt that her education was perfectly satisfactory.
“And then,” continued the clerk, “they send those students out at the end of their course and say, ‘Go off and use those big words and long sentences to get all the good, high-paying jobs. And once you’re in those jobs, always remember to use long sentences to protect your position. If you use long sentences, nobody will dare remove you. That is an important rule that we have worked out.’ That is what they say, Mma—I have heard it on very good authority.”
“I think promotion should be on merit,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Everybody should be judged the same, whether or not they have a whole cupboard full of certificates. The question should be: Can this person do this job? That is all they need to ask themselves.”
This pleased the clerk. “Oh, Mma,” he said. “It’s so good to hear some common sense being talked.”
She had not intended to flatter him, and she had spoken out of conviction, but the warmth that her comments had produced would certainly be useful. Clerks and receptionists were, in her opinion, some of the most powerful people in the country, even if they bemoaned their lowly status and their lack of air-conditioning. A clerk could easily deny the very existence of a file if rubbed up the wrong way, and a receptionist could stop you seeing somebody important simply by saying there were no appointments. That had happened to Mma Ramotswe recently when she had sought a meeting with a senior municipal official who could help her in an enquiry. The receptionist, who was in an
uncooperative mood for reasons that Mma Ramotswe could not fathom, but she felt might have something to do with the woman’s romantic life, had at first told her that the official in question had no free appointments that day. When asked if there was a slot available for the following day, the receptionist had said that day too was completely full. And the following week? Sorry, Mma, nothing available. It’s a very busy time. Next month? No, that was very busy too.
Mma Ramotswe had not argued, but had returned to the office to brief Mma Makutsi and suggest that she try the next day.
“You are very good at dealing with these awkward people,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“You’re kind to say that, Mma,” came Mma Makutsi’s reply. “I have no time for obstructive people.”
The result was that Mma Makutsi was given an appointment immediately—or at least immediately after she had delivered a stern lecture on the subject of managing appointments and suggesting that the receptionist should enroll forthwith in an office administration course at the Botswana Secretarial College. She—Mma Makutsi—could easily facilitate that and would write to the Mayor to follow up her suggestion. The receptionist knew when she was beaten, and surrendered without further resistance, finding an appointment that had fortuitously opened up that very morning—in ten minutes’ time, in fact.
There would be no such difficulties with this clerk, who was already voicing views as to where he might find the information she sought.
“Nobody really knows what we have in our archives,” he said. “Apart from me, of course. I know where everything is, Mma. I know it in here.” He tapped the side of his head.
“There are some people who need to write all these things down in notebooks,” he went on. “And then you know what happens, Mma Ramotswe? I will tell you. You know those ants? You know those bad ones? They love notebooks, Mma—it is their biggest treat. Notebooks are like ice cream to them!” He laughed at his witticism.
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