“His cattle,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had not planned to say it, but the thought had somehow nudged the word out into the open, as a chance remark will sometimes be made against our better judgement. It was true that words slipped out; they did; they jumped out of our mouths and said, Look, you’ve let us loose!
The woman froze. “His cattle, Mma? What of them?”
Mma Ramotswe watched her eyes carefully. The woman’s gaze slid away, off to the unruly thorn tree. Guilt. Unambiguous guilt.
“He has had some trouble with his cattle, Mma. I have come to sort it out. To get to the bottom of it.”
The woman’s eyes moved. She was looking at Mma Ramotswe again, and the fright that had greeted her initial remark had been replaced by a look of blankness. “I can wake him up if you like, Mma.”
“A good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe.
SHE WAS READY to detect in Mr. Moeti’s expression the fear that she had seen before, but it was not there, at least to begin with. She met him on the verandah, where he shook hands with her and invited her to sit down on a traditional Tswana chair. The supports of the chair were made of panga panga wood; leather thongs, threaded carefully in a criss-cross pattern, formed the seat and back.
“A good chair, Rra,” she said. “A village chair.”
He smiled at the compliment. “I have always had chairs like that,” he said. “They belonged to my father, who was a village headman, and they came to me when he became late. Now there is only one—the other one was sat in by a very heavy person, one of the fattest men in the country, I think, and it collapsed.”
Mma Ramotswe did not stir. The chair beneath her felt solid enough, but it certainly had creaked and even yielded a bit when she had put her weight on it. A chair should be able to support a traditionally built person, and that should apply in particular, she felt, to a traditional chair.
“But you haven’t come to see me about chairs, Mma Ramotswe,” Mr. Moeti continued, seating himself casually on the low parapet of the verandah.
“I came because of your problem,” said Mma Ramotswe. She noticed in the corner of her eye that the woman in the apron was hovering in the doorway. “That private problem you told me about.”
Noticing the look, Mr. Moeti flashed a quick dismissive glance in the woman’s direction.
“That is the woman who looks after the kitchen,” he said. “She has been here forever. Most of these people”—he gestured towards the surrounding bush—“were born on this land. I suppose it’s as much theirs as it is mine, except … except that it isn’t.”
She looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure if I follow you, Rra.”
He laughed. “I’m not surprised. I didn’t put that very well. What I meant to say is that these people—the people who work for me on the farm—were born here. Their fathers worked for the farmer who owned this place before me. Now they work for me. They’re fixtures, really.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. She understood perfectly well; the land came with people, and with the stories of those people. And so when somebody bought the land—as people could do, if they had the money—then they bought not only the land but its people too. For the most part, the new owners would understand that, unless they were foreigners who had no idea of the meaning of land in Africa. But Mr. Moeti, a Motswana, would know exactly what obligations land ownership brought; or she hoped he would. If he did not, then he would soon make enemies, and could easily find that his property came under attack. It was only too easy to start a bush fire, to turn a swathe of golden-grassed cattle range into charred stubble; it was only too easy to take a knife to the Achilles tendon of a cow.
“Are there many such people, Rra? Many here, I mean.”
He replied that there were. It was difficult to tell exactly how many people lived on the farm, as not only were babies always being born, but there was also movement away to the towns, or deaths. But if pressed, he would say forty people altogether, in three families. These were all related to one another through complex and convoluted genealogies that only the old people remembered, and even they were now forgetting.
“Do you get on well with them?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
His answer came quickly, and unambiguously. “If you think it’s one of them, Mma,” he said, “then you couldn’t be more wrong. I am their friend, and always have been. There are many children named after me. Go to that place where they live, over there by the dam, and call out ‘Botsalo,’ and then see how many children come running over. No, it cannot be one of them, Mma Ramotswe.”
“I did not say it was, Rra,” she said mildly.
“You implied it.”
She shrugged. “I have to ask questions. I have to pry—otherwise, how would we find out who has done this terrible thing?”
He said that he understood this.
“And that lady in the kitchen?” Mma Ramotswe went on to ask, looking into the house, her voice lowered. “What about her?”
Mr. Moeti hesitated. “That lady is a very close friend, Mma. She is my wife, but isn’t my wife, if you understand me.”
She understood, but reflected for a moment on his curious way of throwing opposites together—this was the second time he had done it. “You have a wife, Rra? A legal one?”
He pointed. “She is down in Lobatse. She prefers to be in town. She lives here but she doesn’t live here, if you see what I mean.”
Now it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that there was another suspect: the wife who was a wife but who also was not. If she knew of the other woman, the resident mistress, then might she not try to get even with her husband? Wronged women did not always take it out on the other woman, Mma Ramotswe knew; often they reserved their venom for the man who had let them down. If there was resentment on the part of the real Mma Moeti—the Mma Moeti who was but was not—then she might well take it out on her errant husband’s cattle. After all, a man’s cattle were his representatives in a sense, and any insult offered to them was an insult to the owner; or so her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had always maintained, though partly, she thought, with tongue in cheek. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, she saw him raise his battered old hat to some cattle beside the road; she had asked him why, and he had explained that they were cattle of a respected man, of chiefly family, and he was merely according him the respect that such beasts deserved. But then he had smiled, and winked at her, and she realised that the remarks of adults might not always mean what they appeared to mean.
There was a silence as Mma Ramotswe digested Botsalo Moeti’s disclosures about his wife. She did not approve of such arrangements, but she did not show her disapproval: he was her client and it was not for her to speak to him about fidelity and those other things that the government advertisements spelled out so carefully. If people like him—well-placed men of experience and status—behaved in a cavalier way towards women, then what hope was there for getting people like Charlie to conduct themselves more responsibly?
Charlie: there was another problem, adding to the list of problems she already had. Moeti, Charlie, the sighting of the white van: these were issues enough to interfere with anybody’s sleep.
Moeti’s stomach now broke the silence with a loud gurgling sound. “Juices,” he explained. “I have too many juices in my stomach.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Juices are a big problem for some,” she said.
There was a note of criticism in her voice—just a touch—but Mr. Moeti did not pick it up, or if he did, gave no indication of having done so.
“I’d like to show you the place where the last attack happened,” he said. “Are you ready to come with me, Mma, or would you like some water first?”
She asked for water, and he called out to the woman in the house. “Water for this lady, Mma. A big glass. Very big.”
She did not blink. Why did he imagine that she would want a very big glass? Was it because she was traditionally built? If so, then he had no right to assume that a traditionally built person would dri
nk more than a moderate amount of water. Traditionally built people did not necessarily eat or drink more than those of less substantial construction. It just did not follow.
The woman in the apron brought out a glass on a tray. On the surface of the glass were her greasy fingerprints, each swirl and whorl perfectly outlined, as if etched by an engraver. These prints were about the rim too, which, for some inexplicable reason, the woman had contrived to touch. Although Mma Ramotswe was not unduly fastidious, believing that a reasonable degree of exposure to the germs of others helped maintain healthy resistance, she did not think there was a need to handle a glass quite so thoroughly before offering it to another.
“Look at these wonderful fingerprints,” she said, as the woman offered her the tray. “How useful for a detective!”
The woman looked at her blankly.
“Mma Ramotswe is making a joke,” said Mr. Moeti to the woman, in a tone of condescension. “It is a joke for Gaborone people, not for rural people like you.”
Mma Ramotswe turned to look at him in astonishment. This, she decided, was a man who could well have more enemies than she had imagined.
THEY WALKED FROM THE HOUSE, following a path that took them past the servants’ quarters and a shed housing a tractor side by side with an ancient donkey-cart. Mr. Moeti pointed to the cart and told Mma Ramotswe how he believed that the old ways of doing things still had their place. “Donkeys don’t go wrong,” he said. “Tractors do. And the same goes for everything else. An old radio, for example, has very few buttons. A new one? There are so many buttons that you don’t know what to do, even if you’re an engineer.”
“My husband would agree with you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “When people bring in their cars these days, he needs a computer to do everything. He says you even need a computer to work out if you’ve run out of petrol.”
In a small paddock not far from the barn, they saw the donkeys in question, three dispirited creatures standing under the shade of a tree, their heads lowered in that air of utter defeat, of dejection, that marks out their species. A young herd boy, aged no more than seven or eight, was standing beside the donkeys, staring at his employer and Mma Ramotswe as they walked past.
“That child?”
Mr. Moeti glanced in the boy’s direction. “Just a herd boy. That was his mother back there in the house.”
“Does he know anything?”
Mr. Moeti looked at her in surprise. “No. He’s just a boy.”
“They have eyes,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly—so quietly that he did not hear her and had to ask her to repeat what she had said.
“And?” he asked.
“I have found that children—especially boys—see things and can give you very important information. They notice.”
Mr. Moeti shrugged. “You can ask him if you like.”
Without waiting, he whistled and gestured for the boy to come over. The child hesitated, and then approached them. He brought flies with him, Mma Ramotswe noticed.
“This lady wants to ask you something,” Mr. Moeti said. His tone was gruff, and he stared at the boy as he spoke.
Mma Ramotswe bent down to speak to the boy, reaching for his hand as she addressed him. She asked him his name, and he gave it. He was Mpho.
“So, Mpho, you know about this bad thing with the cattle?”
He moved his head slightly—a nod, but a reluctant one. His eyes, she saw, were fixed on Mr. Moeti.
“Did you see anything?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
He was still watching Mr. Moeti, and Mma Ramotswe glanced up discouragingly at the farmer. “Maybe I should speak to him by himself,” she said. “It is sometimes better to speak to children on their own.”
“No need,” snapped Mr. Moeti. “Mpho, you answer the auntie: You saw nothing, right?”
Mpho shook his head. “I have seen nothing, Mma. I know nothing.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
The boy shivered. He looked up at Mr. Moeti again and then lowered his gaze to the ground. “I am sure, Mma. Can I go now?”
She squeezed his hand. “Of course you can. Goodbye, Mpho, go siame.” They continued on their way.
“That’s an odd little boy,” Mr. Moeti remarked, smiling. “He stands there by the donkeys half the time, doing nothing, or just playing with stones he picks up.”
“He’s a child,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Children should be allowed to spend their time doing things like that.”
“He has cattle to watch. That’s what he’s paid to do.”
She did not reply. The child’s fear had been so obvious, and she was surprised that Mr. Moeti had not felt obliged to explain it away. Did he imagine she had not noticed it? And the cause of the child’s fear was equally apparent: the herd boy was frightened of Mr. Moeti. He had seen something—of course he had—but he knew that he was not supposed to talk about it. She could find out what the child knew, if she really wanted to; if she had the chance to speak to the child by himself, then it would not be difficult to encourage him to speak. All you had to say to a child was that you knew what the secret was, and it would all come tumbling out. No child could keep a secret for long; they claimed to, but it was usually beyond them.
But of course it was not that simple. If she managed to persuade the child to speak, then he would be even more terrified, knowing that Mr. Moeti might find out. And yet, if the boy had witnessed the incident, he would be able to identify the perpetrator. And if he could do that, then why would Mr. Moeti have an interest in concealing the fact? It did not make sense at all, unless, of course, the child had seen something else altogether—some incident that explained the attack. Perhaps Mr. Moeti had done something to somebody else that had then resulted in the attack on his cattle, and perhaps the child had seen whatever it was that the farmer had done. Or—and this was also a possibility, she had to admit—perhaps the herd boy was simply frightened of Mr. Moeti in general and really had seen nothing. What was it that Clovis Andersen said in The Principles of Private Detection? It was in the chapter on establishing facts—a very important section in the scheme of the Andersen opus. Do not forget, wrote the distinguished authority, that although a possible explanation may seem likely, there may be an entirely different cause operating in the background. If Mr. Green votes for Mr. Brown, you may think that is because Mr. Green approves of Mr. Brown’s politics, but the real reason may be because Mr. Brown is Mr. Green’s brother-in-law!
Mma Ramotswe had been intrigued by this passage, and had read it out loud to Mma Makutsi one morning when business had been slack. Mma Makutsi had listened intently before asking Mma Ramotswe to repeat it. Then she had asked, “Who is this Mr. Green?”
“He is Mr. Brown’s brother-in-law,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “I do not think they really exist.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I am asking because there may be another reason altogether. What if Mr. Brown has told Mr. Green that unless he votes for him he will cut off his nose? What then? That is a possible explanation too.”
Mma Ramotswe gave this some thought before replying. “A good point, Mma Makutsi. And it shows that Mr. Andersen is correct. There may be even more explanations than those you think you have. That is very true.”
It had been a slightly odd conversation—many conversations with Mma Makutsi could take a surprising turn—but it seemed helpful to remember it now. There could be any number of reasons for the boy’s fear of Mr. Moeti and none of them might have anything to do with the cattle incident.
Mr. Moeti now stopped and pointed to a patch of grass at the side of the path. “This is where the last bullock was found,” he said. “He was a very fine beast. Strong. White patches on his head.”
Mma Ramotswe looked about her. They were, she thought, in a place best described as nowhere, surrounded by thin acacia scrub that stretched out to a small outcrop of hills to the south. Through the trees, though, she could just make out a fence that ran die-straight through the bush. She pointed at this.
“The border of my farm,” said Mr. Moeti. “My neighbour is on that side—I am on this.”
“And who is he?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. Moeti did not appear to be particularly interested. “He is just a man,” he said. “He has a business down in Lobatse. He comes here at weekends.”
She nodded. This was not at all unusual. The ambition of any successful businessman in Botswana was to own land, and cattle, of course. Wealth in the bank was one thing; wealth in the shape of cattle was quite another, and for many, much more desirable.
She sighed. “It is very sad, what happened to your cattle. Very sad. People can be so cruel to animals. They do not think of their suffering, do they? Imagine how painful it must be to have your tendons cut and you just lie there and …”
She looked at him as she spoke, and saw that his expression remained impassive. That was interesting, she noted. Most people, when reminded of pain, reacted in some way. They winced or gritted their teeth, or simply looked distressed. But Mr. Moeti did none of these.
“Not good,” he said.
“No. Not good, Rra.”
He gestured to the patch of grass. “Should we look around?”
She saw no point to doing this, but having gone out there she thought that she should at least look; not that there was anything to see, really, other than a small patch of ground on which something cruel had been done. There were numerous such small patches of ground throughout the world, she thought, and Africa, her beloved Africa, had many of them.
She looked up at the sky. That was the real witness to human cruelty, to all our manifold sorrows—the sky.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a grunt from Mr. Moeti. It was a rather odd sound, and she wondered for a moment whether he was in pain; it was that sort of sound, the oh that escapes our lips when a sudden awkward movement sends an electric shock of pain from the back. What if Mr. Moeti were to have a heart attack out here? Would she have to leave him lying on the ground—on the very grass on which the bullock had lain in the embrace of its own pain—and run back along the path to the house? And what would happen then? How long would it be before a doctor could be summoned or an ambulance brought out from Gaborone?
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party Page 7