‘That’s as may be,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘What happened, though, had nothing to do with me. It was a snake.’
Mma Ramotswe recalled that Mma Makutsi had said something about Phuti having killed a cobra in the house. Had that upset the aunt?
Mma Makutsi grinned. Victory over the aunt had clearly been sweet. ‘It was not that, Mma,’ she said. ‘What happened was that Phuti had only dealt with one of the snakes. Then I went into labour and we forgot all about the fact that there was another one around somewhere. While I was in hospital, he searched the house from top to bottom but did not find it, and so he concluded that it had gone away. But it had not.’
Mma Ramotswe gave an involuntary shiver. Like most of her fellow Batswana, she did not like snakes, although she had come round to the more tolerant view that they should be left alone as much as possible. In that, she was a minority; people still killed them on sight, not bothering to distinguish between the non-venomous and the venomous ones – the cobras, the mambas, the puff adders – that one could not allow to be around the house. The puff adders were the most dangerous, even if their venom was not as powerful as that of the black mambas. The lebolobolo, as the puff adder was known in Setswana, was a lazy snake, not given to moving very fast – except when striking – and the danger was that it would not get out of your way. Cobras and mambas generally avoided contact with people, although the mamba could be aggressive and might pursue an intruder on its territory. Puff adders did not stir themselves; they could lie in sluggish inactivity halfway across a path and then respond with furious and fatal indignation if trodden upon.
The thought occurred to her that the aunt had been bitten. Mma Makutsi had said that the aunt had ‘gone’; surely that could not mean that the aunt was late? Surely she would not have dropped this fact into the conversation so casually. Mma Makutsi might be prickly from time to time, but she was not as cold-hearted as that.
Mma Makutsi explained what had happened. ‘The aunt complained about noises in the ceiling above her bed,’ she said. ‘Phuti said that he thought she was imagining things, which made her very angry. So he eventually got a ladder and went up into the roof. That is where he found the snake’s skin. But he also found something else, which he didn’t tell us about when he came down.
‘The aunt was very frightened. She started to shout and weep and say that now that the snake had shed its skin it would be very hungry and would be looking for something to bite. Phuti tried to calm her down. He said, “Oh no, Auntie, there is no danger. I promise you there is no danger.”
‘The aunt did not like this,’ Mma Makutsi continued. ‘She carried on shouting and pointing at the empty snakeskin. Phuti kept telling her that he was sure that there was no danger. Nobody was going to be bitten by a snake, he said.’
Mma Ramotswe smiled at the thought of the two Radiphutis – nephew and aunt – at odds with one another, with the snakeskin, the vital evidence, in front of them.
‘Eventually,’ said Mma Makutsi, ‘the aunt said that she could not stay in a house that was crawling with snakes and she was better off in her own place.’
‘She left?’
‘She left, Mma. And then, after she had gone, Phuti did not say anything, but he climbed back up into the roof. I heard him moving about up there and I was worried that he would fall through the ceiling – he did not. Then he came down, Mma Ramotswe, and he was carrying a dead cobra. He had not killed this snake – it had died because it had choked on a rat that was too big for it. You could see the shape of the rat in its throat.’
Mma Ramotswe chuckled. ‘Phuti did not lie to his aunt. He told her that there was no danger, and there was not. There was no longer any snake.’
‘That is right,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Sometimes saying what is true may not be altogether true but is still not a lie.’
‘That is so, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘That is entirely true, I think.’
Mma Makutsi now changed the subject. ‘This woman we are going to see,’ she said. ‘This Daisy Manchwe.’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you going to say to her?’
Mma Ramotswe hesitated for a few moments before replying. ‘We shall need to be careful.’
‘Of course.’
‘We will tell her that we have been looking into threats against Mma Soleti. Then we watch her reaction. Guilty people give themselves away, Mma.’
Mma Makutsi agreed. ‘And then? What if she gives herself away – what then?’
‘Then we… Then we…’ Mma Ramotswe faltered.
‘Yes, Mma?’
‘We remind her that this is a country in which the law says that you cannot intimidate people. We mention a lawyer.’
‘Which lawyer, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. ‘Any lawyer, Mma. There are plenty of them. And anyway, people who tell other people about their lawyers rarely have a lawyer. Just mentioning a lawyer is usually enough, even if you don’t have one, which we don’t.’
‘Mma Sheba?’
Mma Ramotswe had not thought of her. It was useful to have a name of a lawyer, even if the lawyer had not agreed to act for you. ‘A very good idea, Mma,’ she said. ‘Now we have a lawyer.’
The premises of Clear Image Copies were sandwiched between a takeaway food place and a shop selling fashionable men’s shoes. Mma Makutsi stopped outside the men’s shoe shop; she had never been able to walk past a shoe shop without pausing to admire the display, and Mma Ramotswe waited patiently as her assistant examined the offerings in the window.
‘Shoes are wasted on men,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘They don’t appreciate them, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe made a non-committal sound. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni possessed two pairs of shoes: one was his working pair, made of ancient suede and covered in grease to the extent that their original colour could not be discerned, and the other was a black leather pair that he donned on those occasions when he wore his one and only suit. ‘I do not need more shoes than that,’ he said to Mma Ramotswe. ‘I have only got one pair of feet.’
‘Those shoes over there,’ said Mma Makutsi, pointing to a pair of white shoes with narrow, pointed toes. ‘Those are very good shoes, Mma – very fashionable, I think – but there would be no point my buying those for Phuti. No point at all. He would not appreciate them. Men never do.’ She paused. ‘And he has that problem with his foot after that accident. He can’t use any old shoes.’
She reluctantly tore herself away from the shoe shop window and joined Mma Ramotswe, who was now standing outside the door of Clear Image Copies. It was not a large store, and much of the space within was occupied by a photocopying machine that was in action when they arrived, spitting out paper into a receiving tray at the side. Operating this machine was a woman in a red dress, who looked out through the shop window when Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi appeared. She nodded to the two women, and then continued with her task of duplication.
Mma Ramotswe entered first.
‘One moment, Mma,’ the woman said. ‘One moment and I will be finished.’
The machine cast a leaked band of light across the wall with each pass. Mma Ramotswe noticed how the light caught Mma Makutsi’s glasses and was reflected for a second time. Their eyes met briefly and she thought: she has decided; her mind is made up.
The machine gave a final whirr and then settled into silence. ‘There you are,’ said the woman. ‘Another job done.’ She flicked a switch. ‘Now then, ladies, what can I do for you?’
Mma Ramotswe did not approve of the sudden launch into business. She felt that even if you had things to do, there was no reason not to introduce yourself and enquire after the other person. That was the way it had always been done in Botswana, and she saw no reason to change. So she greeted the woman in the traditional way and introduced herself.
‘I am Mma Ramotswe,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘And this is Mma Makutsi, my assistant.’
‘Associate,’ corrected Mma Makutsi.
‘My associate.’
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br /> They shook hands.
‘You are Mma Manchwe?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
The woman nodded. ‘I am. That is me. I am the owner of this business and I shall be very pleased to do some copying for you ladies, if that is what you need. You’ll find that my charges are competitive.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But that, Mma, is not why we are here.’
Mma Manchwe’s eyes narrowed, but only slightly. Mma Makutsi noticed, though, and glanced at Mma Ramotswe: proof – if it were still needed.
‘We are from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,’ Mma Ramotswe said.
It seemed to take Mma Manchwe a few moments to absorb this information. Then her head went back and she laughed. ‘That place! The ladies’ detective place? I’ve seen that sign of yours, Mma – that funny sign.’
Mma Ramotswe sensed Mma Makutsi stiffen beside her. ‘I do not see why the sign is funny, Mma,’ she said mildly. ‘You have a sign too. A business needs a sign.’
Mma Manchwe was unapologetic. ‘But it says something about the problems of ladies, doesn’t it? It says something like: For the problems of ladies and others.’ She paused, looking almost incredulously at her visitors. ‘Don’t you think that sounds a little bit… a little bit gynaecological?’
Mma Makutsi drew in her breath sharply. ‘I do not think that, Mma. I do not think that any reasonable person would think that at all. In fact, I think only a person with a very crude mind would think that, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch Mma Makutsi’s forearm. ‘I do not think that she meant it unkindly, Mma,’ she said.
Mma Manchwe was placatory. ‘Of course not, Mma,’ she said, looking anxiously at Mma Makutsi. ‘I was just saying.’
Mma Makutsi was not to be so easily pacified. ‘There are many people who just say things, Mma,’ she said icily. ‘There are fewer people who think before they open their mouths. That is something I have observed, you know. I have seen it many, many times.’
Mma Ramotswe touched Mma Makuti’s arm again. ‘We all understand that, Mma.’ She turned to face Mma Manchwe again. ‘We are working on behalf of Mma Soleti, Mma. I believe you know this lady.’
Mma Manchwe did not flinch. As she replied, her voice was even, and she held Mma Ramotswe’s gaze without that falling away of eyes that can signify fear or distrust. ‘That lady, Mma? Do I know her? I do. And I am very thankful to her. She may not know that, but I am.’
Mma Makutsi shot a puzzled glance at Mma Ramotswe. ‘You are thankful, Mma? Why?’
Mma Manchwe shrugged. ‘Why should I not be thankful to the lady who took a great load off my shoulders? If you were walking along carrying a big heavy burden on your shoulders, Mma, and somebody came along and took it off you, would you not be thankful? Would you not want to shake her hand and say: “Thank you very much for taking this great weight off my back”?’
For a while there was silence, to be broken at last by Mma Makutsi. ‘You are not her enemy, Mma?’
Mma Manchwe laughed again. It was a loud, irritating laugh – one that was impossible to ignore. ‘Enemy? I have no enemies in this world, Mma – not one. I am a Christian, you see, and a Christian does not have enemies. If you have enemies, then your biggest enemy is yourself. Do you know that, Mma?’
‘But that lady went off with your husband, Mma,’ protested Mma Makutsi. ‘Any woman would feel very angry about that. It is human nature to feel that way.’
‘Not if you had a husband like mine,’ Mma Manchwe countered. ‘Do you know him? I don’t think you do. He is a man who is very kind to ladies – many ladies. Ten, twelve, maybe more. Oh yes, he is a very kind man.’
Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘A philanderer?’
‘A very big philanderer. The biggest in the country. Head of the No. 1 Men’s Philandering Agency.’ She shook her head. ‘That poor woman learned about that very quickly. Two months, I think, and then, bang, he is gone. On to the next lady. Goodbye Mma Soleti. Ha!’
Mma Ramotswe sighed again.
Yes,’ said Mma Manchwe, ‘you may sigh, Mma. But you will notice that I am not sighing. And that is because I am pleased that Mma Soleti came and took that man away. I am grateful to her, you know. She is a very big heroine as far as I am concerned.’
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who was pursing her lips. She turned to address Mma Manchwe. ‘So, Mma,’ she said, ‘you would never wish to harm that lady?’
Mma Manchwe seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Harm her? Why should I want to harm her?’ She stopped. She was looking at Mma Ramotswe with some distrust now. ‘Why are you asking me, Mma? Are you wanting to get somebody to help you harm her? Is that what’s happening?’
Mma Makutsi intervened. ‘Certainly not,’ she exploded. ‘We would never do that sort of thing, Mma.’
‘I am only asking,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘You never know these days.’ She looked at her watch before she continued. ‘I’m sorry, Mma Ramotswe and Mma…’
‘Makutsi. Makutsi.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Mma Makutsi, but I am going to have to get on with my work. Let me give you my leaflet here, though, as it explains my charges. If you can get a lower per copy price anywhere in Gaborone – and I mean anywhere – then I will do your copying free. How about that? You take that leaflet, Mma, and get back to me if you have any copying to be done. You will get very good service from me – I promise you that.’
Mma Manchwe smiled as she gave them the leaflet. It was not the smile of one who would send a ground hornbill feather to another, nor was it the smile of one who would spread false rumours aimed at destroying somebody’s business. But there was something odd about the smile, thought Mma Ramotswe. Although you could say what it was not, you could not necessarily say what it was.
Chapter Thirteen
Bless You, and Your Shoes
Mma Ramotswe was late home that evening. The school that Motholeli and Puso attended had arranged for parents – including, of course, foster parents – to visit their children’s classrooms and speak to their teachers. Since most of the parents worked, these meetings took place after five-thirty, which gave time for everybody to reach the school through the after-work traffic. After a chat with the teachers, the school choirs, of which there were four, were due to entertain the parents before they went home. Both Motholeli and Puso were in a choir, but in different ones. Puso was in a choir of boys whose voices were yet to break, which sang traditional Botswana songs; Motholeli was in a mixed choir – boys and girls – which sang gospel music and occasional jazz.
Motholeli’s teacher was happy with the progress that she had made over the year. ‘She is very good with her hands,’ she said. ‘She is one of those children who will be able to make anything.’
‘She wants to be a mechanic,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘She has always wanted that.’
The teacher nodded. ‘Your husband…’
‘Yes, he is a mechanic. But it is not because of that. He has never tried to persuade her. She is naturally good at it.’
The teacher smiled. ‘And she is brave too.’
Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. ‘It is not always easy for her.’
They sat in silence. The teacher knew.
‘I hope that she is able to follow her heart,’ said Mma Ramotswe quietly. ‘I hope that she will be able to be a mechanic, but…’ She did not like to spell it out, and anyway, the doctors had said that they could not tell; the course of the young girl’s illness was unpredictable, even if they could say with certainty that she would always need the wheelchair. ‘But we do not know. There are many things that we do not know about life.’
The teacher fiddled with a piece of paper. Looking after thirty children meant that you gave thirty hostages to fortune. A parent’s heart may be broken once, maybe twice or thrice; as a teacher your heart could be broken thirty times.
‘That she is happy is the main thing, Mma Ramotswe. She is happy in the home you have given her. That is a good thing.’
P
uso’s teacher had a more mixed message for Mma Ramotswe. The boy’s schoolwork was good enough, he said, but he had a tendency to daydream.
‘He has always been like that,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I try to snap him out of it, but it is a very big thing for him. I have asked him what he is thinking about and he says nothing. That is what all children say, I think. You ask them what they have been doing, and the answer is nothing. You ask them what they are talking about on the telephone and they tell you it is nothing. They are very busy with this nothing of theirs.’
The teacher nodded. He knew all about that.
‘You cannot get inside their minds,’ Mma Ramotswe continued. ‘I can also see that he is daydreaming, but he will never admit it. He just sits there and smiles at you.’
‘That is better than those children who sit there and frown at you, Mma,’ mused the teacher. ‘We have more and more of those, I’m afraid.’
After the meetings with the teachers, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the school hall, where the choirs were to perform. Puso’s was on first, and she listened intently as they sang one of the songs that she remembered being taught as a girl, all those years ago, in Mochudi. Then Motholeli’s choir came on and sang ‘Shall We Gather By the River?’ She knew that song, and liked it. Soon we’ll reach the shining river. She closed her eyes. The voices of the children were pure; their hearts were pure. Some of them had already discovered how hard life could be; others had yet to do so and probably did not fully understand what the world could be. We wanted to protect them, she thought, of course we did, but we knew that we could not and they would have to deal with the disappointments and shocks of life as best they could. All we could do was to give them that one thing that they could use to protect themselves from all of that. At least we could do that. That thing was love, of course.
She stayed to the end, although some of the parents slipped out early. Then they travelled back to the house together, where they saw that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was already at home and in the kitchen. Leaving the children to do their homework, Mma Ramotswe joined her husband. She was surprised to find him standing over the sink, a pot before him.
The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon Page 17