Precious and Grace

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “She is asking for water,” he said. “She says that she will tell us their names once they have had water.”

  Mma Potokwane went into the office and returned with a cup of water. She passed it to the girl, who drank half of it before giving it to the boy. He drained the cup and handed it back to Fanwell. This was followed by more whispering.

  “She says that they are brother and sister,” said Fanwell. “She says that she is called Buhle. That means beautiful. And her brother is called…” He leaned forward and asked the girl. “Sfiso,” he said. “I don’t know what that means, but it is a name they use.”

  Mma Potokwane asked him to find out where they were from. “And their parents,” she said. “Ask them where their parents are.”

  Fanwell posed the questions. The boy remained silent, but the girl spoke freely.

  “I cannot understand everything she says,” said Fanwell. “But she says that their parents are late. She says they have been late for months. She says they were very thin.”

  Mma Potokwane caught Mma Ramotswe’s eye. That was the prevailing euphemism: the slim disease.

  Fanwell continued his translation. “She said that they were brought to Botswana from Swaziland by an aunt and left here. She said there is nobody to look after them in Swaziland. The aunt has gone, she says.”

  Mma Potokwane sighed. “Not an unusual story,” she said. “Nobody to look after children somewhere else—dump them in Botswana and then go home to wherever you come from.”

  “That’s not fair on you,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “It’s even less fair on the children,” said Mma Potokwane. She sighed again. “A child is a child. We shall not turn them away.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Zebra. “I shall take the dog back, Mma,” she said. “You cannot look after the whole world.”

  Mma Potokwane turned to her friend. She knew how much she owed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He had nursed their old pump for years, he had fixed the Orphan Farm van, he had tinkered with the hot-water system and kept the boilers going for far longer than their allotted, biblical span. She owed Mma Ramotswe many favours, and she could not recall Mma Ramotswe ever calling them in. A dog would be popular with the children, and they would give it the love it needed. There was only one answer.

  “He must stay,” she said. “He can be the father of these two children. He will love them.”

  “You are very kind, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is nobody kinder than you.”

  She meant it, and as she spoke, she thought how strange it was that we so very rarely said complimentary things to our friends, and how easy it was to do so, and how it made the world seem a less harsh place.

  “The dog is very happy, Mma Potokwane,” said Fanwell. “He will be a very good dog out here. He will make the children happy.”

  Mma Potokwane nodded. “We must drink some tea,” she said. “We have dealt with several problems very quickly. Now we should have tea in case any further problems arise.”

  “I hope they do not,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “So do I,” said Fanwell. “I am very grateful to you, Mma Potokwane, for taking this poor dog.”

  Two out of three, thought Mma Ramotswe: Mr. Polopetsi, and now Zebra—both crossed off the list with no complications at all. Now all that remained was the easiest task of all: bringing Rosie and Susan together—an easy task, it would seem, and one that should have every bit as satisfactory an ending as this one.

  But then a feeling of foreboding set in. It was insidious in its onset, but by the time Mma Ramotswe had dropped Fanwell off at his uncle’s house in Old Naledi, she was beginning to feel less confident about seeing Rosie. She was not even sure that she would find her—she knew that she worked in a bakery out towards Kgali Hill, but she had no telephone number for her, nor a home address. And she was not even sure about the location of the bakery—new businesses were springing up all the time—and closing too—and bitter experience had taught her that tracing people at their work could be difficult: people changed jobs, went off on holiday without warning, and even occasionally used assumed names at work in order to avoid tax.

  Fanwell, though, said that he knew exactly where the bakery was, and had given her precise instructions. “You go up Kudumatse Road, Mma,” he said, “and then you are in Extension 23. That is where that man who was having that affair with that lady lived—the man who was married to that lady wrestler—you remember her, Mma? Charlie told me all about that case.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency had been approached by the wife of the errant husband and had quickly laid bare what was happening.

  “I felt very sorry for that man,” said Fanwell. “He didn’t know what was coming to him. Is he out of hospital yet, Mma?”

  “I think he is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I saw him at the shops at Riverwalk. He was reading a long shopping list in the supermarket.”

  “He has learned to be obedient then,” said Fanwell.

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Be careful when you choose a wife, Fanwell.”

  “I shall be very careful, Mma. I will not marry a lady who likes to wrestle.”

  “I think that’s wise, Fanwell—on balance.”

  He grinned. “Do you think anybody will marry me, Mma Ramotswe?”

  She did not hesitate. “There will be young women, Fanwell. They would love a nice young man like you.”

  “And Charlie?” asked Fanwell. “Will anybody marry Charlie?”

  She remembered the man in the housing office and his request that she should help him find a bride. She had rashly offered to help, but how could she? How could she assume responsibility for all the disappointments of the world—for all the yearnings and searches of those who had not found what they wanted to find? Was that her role in life?

  Fanwell wanted an answer. “I asked you, Mma: Will anybody marry Charlie?”

  She said that the answer was yes, but she saw greater difficulties there. “Charlie is a very big man with the ladies, Fanwell, as you might have observed. Men who are very big with the ladies often have no judgement as to what qualities to look for in a wife. It’s the same with the ladies who are very big with the men—they often don’t understand what will make a good husband.”

  Fanwell looked thoughtful. “A good husband? Like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? He’s a good husband to you, Mma, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “He is the best husband in Botswana, Rra. That is well known.”

  “Better than Phuti Radiphuti, Mma? He is a good husband to Mma Makutsi, I think, but maybe not as good a husband as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Perhaps Phuti is a Good Husband, Division Two.”

  Mma Ramotswe dealt with this quickly. “I don’t think we should compare people, Fanwell. I would not say one is better than the other.” She gave him a warning look. “I wouldn’t like Mma Makutsi to hear that I had been saying that her husband is not as good as mine.”

  “Oh, I would not tell her that, Mma,” protested Fanwell. “I wouldn’t go and say that to her face.” He paused. “But if you had to choose, Mma—let’s say that you were an unmarried lady and these two men were standing in front of you, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Phuti Radiphuti—which one would you choose? Which one would you walk up to and say, ‘I would like you to be my husband’?”

  She brushed the question aside. “You can’t ask people that, Fanwell. It’s like those questions where you say there are three people in a big balloon and one has to be thrown out in order to stop the balloon from crashing. You can’t answer those questions—not really.”

  But Fanwell liked the idea of such a quandary. “Oh, I like the sound of that, Mma! That is very good!” He thought for a moment. “Let’s say that we have a balloon just like that, and it’s flying across the Okavango Delta and there are all these hippos and crocodiles down below. Let’s say that the people in the balloon are…” He scratched his head. “All right, Mma, there’s Mma Potokwane in the basket under the balloon. And then there’s Nelson Mandela—before he d
ied, of course. And then there’s…” He waited for a moment before revealing the identity of the third passenger. “Violet Sephotho. Yes, Violet Sephotho is the third person. And you’re the pilot, Mma, who has to throw one of them out. Which one would it be?”

  “Do you think you know the answer I’m likely to give?”

  Fanwell looked smug. “I think I know the answer, Mma.”

  “Then why ask the question?” said Mma Ramotswe, and laughed. “Anyway, Fanwell, you were telling me the way to the bakery.”

  “Well, Mma, once you are in Extension 23 you take a road off to the left. That is called Monganakodu Road and there is a big church on the left up there. They’re always singing. The bakery is behind that place, Mma. That is where you’ll find that bakery. It is called Fresh Time Bakery.”

  She nodded her thanks, and then her thoughts returned to the balloon and its passengers. Of course she would have to throw Violet Sephotho out of the basket in order to save the other two, meritorious lives, but it would not be easy. She did not approve of Violet, but she had never forgotten that she was a person too and had the rights that went with being a person. Mma Ramotswe could never inflict pain on another, and Violet Sephotho would require rough handling to be helped over the edge. Mma Ramotswe would do it—if she did it at all—with real regret, apologising to Violet even as she pushed her over the side. “I’m so sorry, Violet. I wish I had an alternative, but I simply don’t. You’ll have to go. I’m so sorry.” But then she thought: no, I could never push Violet Sephotho over the side, even if the balloon was going down. We would have to take our chances for a bumpy landing; I could not do it, I could not push another person overboard.

  The instructions were clear enough, and she drove there by herself, without telling Mma Makutsi. The handling of Mma Rosie was now a matter for her and her alone, and she would have to be very careful not to ruffle feathers.

  She parked in the broad sunlight, as every available bit of shade was already taken. Then, leaving the van, she walked over the road to the bakery, from which, in the still air of the afternoon, the delicious smell of baking bread drifted—along with something else, and halfway across the road she realised what that was: fat cakes. She stopped for a moment and sniffed at the air: she was on duty and should put all thought of food out of her mind, but fat cakes…She tried to remember when she had last eaten one. Two weeks ago? That was a long time ago and there would be no guilt now in buying one—possibly two—of the famous confections and eating it, or possibly eating both of them, in the van. Indeed the purchase of fat cakes might even count as a legitimate expense in the case, just as buying a cup of coffee did when one was waiting for somebody whom one was following.

  She opened the door of the bakery. Now the delicious odour was all about her, and there, on a tray on the counter, was a freshly baked batch of fat cakes, their pores exuding tiny succulent drops of nectar, the sweet perspiration of the confection itself.

  A woman behind the counter greeted her politely, and Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting.

  “I would like some fat cakes, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe began.

  “Then you have come to the right place,” said the woman, gesturing towards the tray. “These are very fresh, Mma. And they are very delicious—probably the most delicious fat cakes in the country.”

  “That is a big claim, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “We are confident of it, Mma,” said the woman, somewhat formally. “We don’t make such a claim lightly.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, Mma. But I would like to ask you something: Is Rosie in? I’ve been told she works here.”

  For a moment the woman hesitated, and Mma Ramotswe thought that perhaps she had come to the wrong place altogether. But then the woman nodded towards the back of the bakery. “She’s back there. Would you like to speak to her?”

  “I would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If you could fetch her, Mma. I will not take up much of her time.”

  The woman disappeared, leaving Mma Ramotswe contemplating the tray of fat cakes. There were other delights too: on a shelf near the window several richly iced birthday cakes sat ready for purchase—a generic cake for a boy, decorated with icing-sugar footballs and cars, and one for girls, all pink and frilly. Mma Ramotswe smiled: Mma Makutsi would take strong exception to that if she told her about it. And there was a sense, too, in which she herself objected to the forcing of children into such roles; boys should be allowed to be frilly if they wanted, and girls to play football and play with cars; it was just that there were so few boys and girls who wanted to follow such independent instincts. Puso would never agree to wear anything too colourful—khaki was his preferred colour—and Motholeli showed no interest in football, in spite of her brother’s attempt to invoke her support for the Botswana Zebras team. “They’re silly” was all she had said. “Don’t waste my time with silly football things.” Of course cars were different; she loved cars and was on course to be a mechanic in the fullness of time, apprenticed, she hoped, to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.

  Rosie appeared quite suddenly, wearing a voluminous set of white overalls and dusting the flour off her hands. For a few moments she looked confused, as she evidently tried to place Mma Ramotswe. But then she remembered, and her brow knitted into a frown. It was not a good sign, thought Mma Ramotswe.

  “I am sorry to disturb you here,” Mma Ramotswe began. “I would have visited you at home, but I do not know where that is.”

  Mma Rosie pursed her lips. “It is not here,” she said. “It’s somewhere else.”

  “Of course, Mma. I know this is where you work. And may I say, those fat cakes smell very, very good.”

  She had not expected that to work, but it was worth trying. And for a brief moment a smile of satisfaction crossed Rosie’s face. Almost everybody, thought Mma Ramotswe, likes to be complimented on their work—there were few exceptions to that.

  “Yes, they are very good,” said Rosie. “They’re very popular.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am sure there will be fat cakes in heaven—if we ever get there.”

  Again there was a brief smile, and then the question: “What do you want, Mma?”

  The woman who had been behind the counter when Mma Ramotswe entered the bakery was still there. She was listening, although she was busily pretending to be concerned with sweeping some crumbs off the floor.

  “I wonder if we could talk outside,” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice lowered.

  The woman looked up sharply. “It is a private matter, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said to her.

  The woman returned wordlessly to her sweeping.

  Rosie hesitated, but then she put her cloth down on the counter and walked round to join Mma Ramotswe on the other side. Together they made their way outside, where they stood, partly sheltered by a tattered awning on the side of the bakery, and where Mma Ramotswe began the conversation as tactfully as she could.

  “I am very sorry, Mma, that there was a misunderstanding between you and Mma Makutsi—”

  She got no further.

  “Misunderstanding?” Rosie exploded. “Is that what they are calling big-time rudeness these days? Misunderstanding?”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am so sorry, Mma. I can see that you were upset. All that I am asking is that you understand—”

  “Understand a misunderstanding? Is that what I have to do? I go to your place because you asked me to—in the paper, you asked—and then I find that I am the number one suspect of a very strange lady with big glasses.”

  “You were never suspected of anything,” said Mma Ramotswe in as conciliatory a tone as she could manage. “And I have said that I am sorry, Mma. I am truly sorry.”

  “You are sorry, Mma? And what about the lady with the big glasses? Where is she? Has she come to say she’s sorry? She has not. She’s still sitting somewhere suspecting innocent people.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. The way to defuse anger, s
he thought, was to allow it an outlet. Anger was like a volcano; you had to wait until it discharged before you could approach its crater.

  After a while, Mma Ramotswe mentioned Susan. “She wants to see you, Mma. This has nothing to do with Mma Makutsi—it’s Mma Susan. She is the one you must think of here.”

  Mma Rosie thought for a moment. “But this Mma Makutsi—what about her?”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she did not think Mma Makutsi need be involved. “This will be a meeting between you and the Canadian lady, Mma. That’s all it will be.”

  Rosie fiddled with the strings of her apron, nervously twisting them round a finger. “Then let her come to me.”

  Mma Ramotswe felt a surge of relief. “Oh, I’m very pleased, Mma. That’s very good news. I shall go and speak to Mma Susan—”

  Rosie raised a hand to stop her. “No, Mma. I meant that your Mma Makutsi should come to me. She must come to me and apologise. As for this Mma Susan—I have changed my mind, Mma. I do not want to see that lady.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up at the sky. Pride, she thought—it was such an important factor in the way in which people led their lives—and such an unnecessary one. Yet one could not wish human failings out of existence—pride, jealousy, anger, resentment: these were all things with which people cluttered their lives. Life would be so much easier if they were not there, but they were, and we had to find a way round them.

  Mma Ramotswe struggled to control her irritation. “But why did you contact us, Mma, if you didn’t want to see her?”

  Rosie shrugged. “I was curious, Mma. That’s all. I was curious.” She paused. “Now I’m not curious any longer.”

  Mma Ramotswe was at a loss as to what to say. She was used to cases collapsing, but it always took her unawares.

  Rosie looked as if she had just remembered something. “She was a very difficult child, that one.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. She was headstrong. She was disobedient. I always said: that one will be a big problem for somebody when she grows up.”