Mma Makutsi sniffed. “I wore them out of the shop and I saw … well, I saw something and ran after it. And then I tripped and I broke both heels and a strap.” She paused to sniff again. “And then I went home and Phuti came for dinner and I did not tell him what happened because I was so ashamed. And now I’m ashamed for not telling him. I am filled with shame, Mma Ramotswe—filled with shame.”
Mma Ramotswe waited to see if Mma Makutsi had finished. She understood why anybody should feel upset about such a thing—particularly if shoes meant as much to you as they did to Mma Makutsi—but she had heard of considerably worse disasters than this. She knew, however, that it never helped to tell another that their troubles were eclipsed by the troubles of others, tempting though that might be. If you have a sore tooth, it does not help to be told that there are people with far more severe toothaches. Yet one thing in this story intrigued her: What had Mma Makutsi seen that made her want to run after it? People spoke of chasing a bargain: Had she seen something on sale in one of the shops? For a moment, she allowed an irreverent image to form in her mind of Mma Makutsi, her large glasses catching the sun, running towards a stall with a sign on it reading BIG SALE—HURRY! HURRY!
She banished the picture from her thoughts. “Tell me, Mma, what did you see that made you want to run?”
Mma Makutsi hesitated. “I will tell you in a moment, Mma. First, look at my poor shoes.”
She extracted the damaged shoes from her bag to show Mma Ramotswe.
“See? See how beautiful they were, and now … Now, they are just rubbish.”
Mma Ramotswe rose from her desk to examine the shoes. “This is very sad, Mma, but don’t you think they could be fixed? These heels, they could be glued together, and this strap could be stitched. It should not be hard to stitch something like that.”
She handed the shoes back to Mma Makutsi. “But what did you see, Mma? What made you run?”
Mma Makutsi replaced the shoes in her bag. “I think I saw a ghost,” she said quietly.
There was silence. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke. “In broad daylight?”
Mma Makutsi examined her fingernails. “If ghosts exist, Mma—and I am not prepared to exclude that possibility—then why should they just appear at night? Where do they go during the day, might one ask?”
“I don’t know,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It would be interesting to find out.”
Mma Makutsi agreed that it would. “In this case,” she went on, “the ghost that I think I saw was the ghost that maybe you yourself saw only a few days ago—the ghost of your late van.”
Mma Ramotswe gasped. “My van?”
“Yes, Mma. It was in the parking lot near the shops, on the Tlokweng Road side. I saw it reversing out of a parking place and I tried to stop it. But the driver did not hear me, and he just drove off.”
Mma Ramotswe reflected on this. So the van really was running once more, in spite of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s conviction that it would not. And the driver was a man—that was an additional piece of information; as was the fact that he shopped at the Riverwalk shops—another piece of potentially useful knowledge. “I do not think it is a ghost,” she said. “It is my van. I had heard that it had been bought by a young man up north somewhere, near the Tuli Block. I thought it had been bought for parts, but he must have changed his mind.” She paused; perhaps something about the van had stayed his hand and he had been unable to end its life. “Yes,” she continued. “That’s what must have happened.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. This seemed quite reasonable to her. “Well, you must be happy that it is back on the road, Mma.”
Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, I am. But in a curious way, if the knowledge that the tiny white van had been restored was reassuring, it was also saddening. Some other person—somebody who did not necessarily appreciate the white van—would be driving it while she, who loved it, was driving a new blue van of very little character. If only they were able to change places … She stopped herself. The thought had occurred to her on a whim, but now that she thought of it more seriously it seemed so obvious. The person who currently owned the white van would probably very much like to have a newer van. If she were to approach him and offer to exchange vans, he would no doubt leap at the chance.
The idea was a delicious one, and it brought a broad smile to her face.
“So you’re happy, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi. “You are smiling. That is very good.”
Mma Ramotswe brought herself back to reality. It would be ridiculous to exchange a new van for an old one—far better to buy the tiny white van back. She now became aware that Mma Makutsi was speaking to her …
“I was thinking of something,” she said quickly. “But we should really get back to work, Mma Makutsi, or we would spend our whole day talking and thinking about this and that.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” agreed Mma Makutsi. She knew, though, that talking and thinking about this and that was exactly what both she and Mma Ramotswe would love to do, but could not, as that brought in a great deal of happiness but no money, and a lack of money had a tendency to diminish happiness in the long run. It need not, of course, and she remembered that she had been happy enough when money had been tight. Now things were different, but she realised that she would have to remind herself of how life had been before. Those who had enough money, she thought, often forgot those who had none. Mma Ramotswe had once told her that, and she had remembered it. “Never forget, Mma,” she had said, “that there are people who will be looking at you and wishing to be in your shoes. Because they have no shoes, you see.” It was a puzzling comment, and a rather odd one, but now that she called it back to mind she found that she knew exactly what Mma Ramotswe had meant.
BY THE TIME of the mid-morning tea-break, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had more or less completed the task of sending out the month’s-end invoices. This was a pleasant task—the direct opposite of the business of paying bills, and now that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was reasonably well established, the invoices always added up to more than the bills to be paid. It had not always been so, especially in the early days of the agency, when there had been the merest trickle of clients and an even smaller number of invoices, given Mma Ramotswe’s habit of taking on meritorious cases for no fee. She still did that, but there were plenty of cases that paid well enough to give them both a modest but adequate living.
“That’s that then,” said Mma Makutsi, as she stuck the last stamp on the final invoice. “Two thousand pula for knowing that your wife is a bad woman. I feel sorry for that man, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at the envelope. The Ditabonwe case. “Yes, that poor man does not deserve it. He should not have married that woman.”
“Three boyfriends,” said Mma Makutsi disapprovingly. “And all the time she was living in that expensive house and eating her husband’s food.”
“And where will the boyfriends be when they discover that she no longer has any money and has been thrown out of the house? Will they be at her side, Mma Makutsi?”
“They will not,” said her assistant.
They were silent for a moment, both contemplating the foolishness of others—their bread and butter. Then Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of resignation. “People do not learn, Mma,” she said. “But I suppose we must carry on hoping that they will. You never know.” She paused, looking at the kettle. “And now, I think, it’s time for tea. Would you mind switching on the kettle, Mma Makutsi?”
The tea was infusing in the pot when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni came in, closely followed by Fanwell. Mma Makutsi, who was lining up the mugs on the filing cabinet, turned and looked the two men up and down. “No Charlie,” she said.
At the mention of his fellow apprentice, Fanwell looked down at the floor.
“No,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There is no Charlie, is there, Fanwell?”
Fanwell muttered something that none of them could make out.
“Well, Fanwell?” Mma Makutsi pressed. “I did not quite hear what
you said. No Charlie, is there?”
“He is not here,” said Fanwell. “I am here, but he is not. I am not his boss. I cannot answer for him.”
Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe before turning again to the young man. “You know where he is, though, don’t you?”
“I do not,” muttered Fanwell.
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I think you do, Fanwell.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, pouring tea into his mug, made a gentle intervention. “I don’t think we can expect Fanwell to know Charlie’s whereabouts,” he said. “You would tell us if you knew, wouldn’t you, Fanwell?”
Fanwell thought for a moment. “He asked me not to tell you,” he said.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “So he told you. You see? I was right. You cannot lie to me, Fanwell. You can’t fool a detective.”
Fanwell looked to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for help. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and came to his rescue. “You mustn’t worry, Fanwell,” she said quietly. “Mma Makutsi is trying to be helpful, you see. We don’t want to punish Charlie—we just want to make sure that he’s all right.”
“And make sure that he faces up to his responsibilities,” interjected Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. “Mma Makutsi, please …”
“Justice,” said Mma Makutsi. “That’s what I believe in, Mma. Justice for wronged women, that’s all.”
Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. “Fanwell, you come with me for a moment. Just come with me.” She pointed to the door.
They went out through the garage, past the car on which the young man and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been working.
“That poor car,” remarked Mma Ramotswe. “It looks so sad with all its parts exposed like that. And yet you and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will put it all together again and it will be as good as new. It’s a great skill you have, Rra.”
Fanwell smiled with pleasure. “Thank you, Mma. It is easy when you know how.”
It is easy when you know how. Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was easy when you knew how, and right at that moment she was thinking of how Mma Makutsi most certainly did not know how, at least when it came to dealing with young men.
They went out from under the shade of the garage eaves, out into the warm morning sun; above them an empty sky, so high, so pale, and a bird, a speck of black, circling in a thermal current. Mma Ramotswe took Fanwell’s arm and walked with him towards the acacia tree behind the garage. The young man, she noticed, was shivering, as if a cold breeze had suddenly blown up from somewhere; but the air was still.
“You’re upset, Fanwell, aren’t you? You’re shivering.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you afraid of something?”
He did not answer immediately, but looked up into the sky. She followed his gaze. There was nothing; or nothing I can see, she thought.
“Charlie told me not to tell anybody,” he said. “He has come to my place.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. That made sense.
“So he is staying at your place? With your grandmother and the children?”
“Eee, Mma.” It was the way that people said yes, and it could be said through an exhalation of breath. It was an eloquent sound, capable of registering a range of emotions. The suggestion here was of regret, tinged with fear.
“It is not right that he should put you in this position,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Charlie should not put his problems on your shoulders.”
Fanwell turned to face her. “He said he would kill me.”
Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Charlie said that?”
Fanwell inclined his head. “He said that if I told anybody where he was, he would kill me.”
Mma Ramotswe snorted. “What nonsense! He didn’t mean that, Fanwell. You know how Charlie is always talking nonsense. Big words that mean nothing—nothing at all.”
Fanwell was not convinced. “He meant it, Mma. He put his fist in my face like this—shaking it about—and then he said that if I told anybody he would come at night when I was sleeping and pinch my nose so that I had no air. He showed me how he would do it.”
“Pinch your nose!” exploded Mma Ramotswe. “That is complete, one hundred per cent nonsense, Fanwell. You cannot stop a person breathing like that. If you pinch somebody’s nose, then they simply open their mouth and breathe that way. Charlie was joking—he must have been.”
Fanwell listened to her, but still looked miserable. “Please do not come to fetch him,” he said. “I do not want that. Even if he does not kill me, he will do something bad to me.”
Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch him lightly on the forearm. “Very well,” she said. “I will not come and look for him.”
“And you won’t tell Mma Makutsi?”
She assured him that she would not. “But you will have to do something for me,” she said. “You must tell him that I have offered to help him. You must give him that message from me. You must tell him that he should come to my house—at night if he likes. He should come to see me and I can tell him how I shall be able to help him.”
She waited for the young man to respond, and eventually he did. He would pass this message on to Charlie, he said, and he would try to persuade him.
They walked back to the garage, where Mma Ramotswe left him while she went back into the office.
“Where is he, then?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Did you get it out of him?”
Mma Ramotswe put a finger to her lips. “Subject closed, Mma,” she said. “Closed until further notice.”
She looked over her shoulder through the open door into the garage. Fanwell was standing next to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, looking down at the engine on which they were working. He seemed so slight beside the well-set figure of the older mechanic—not much more than a boy really, with all the vulnerability that boys have. The sight tugged at her heart and she turned away again. She knew that Fanwell supported his grandmother and several of his younger brothers and sisters on his tiny salary as an apprentice. Yet he never so much as mentioned this fact, nor complained about it. This made her think: those who have a great deal to complain about are so often silent in their suffering, while those who have little to be dissatisfied with are frequently highly vocal about it.
CHAPTER NINE
WITH REFERENCE TO THAT PREVIOUS KISS
MMA RAMOTSWE liked to leave the concerns of the office where they belonged—in the office. But that evening, as she drove home from work, following the tree-lined route that she liked to take through the older area of town known simply as the Village, she found herself thinking of the Moeti case. She had done nothing about it that day—there had been other things to claim her attention—but now she found herself considering possibilities. As often happened, the words of Clovis Andersen came to mind. His general advice, applicable to almost all cases, was to talk to as many people as possible, or rather to get them to talk to you. The more you listen, the more you learn, he wrote in The Principles of Private Detection, and Mma Ramotswe had been particularly struck by the wisdom of these words, even on one occasion drawing them to the attention of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He had frowned, inclined his head, and said, “Well, Mma, I think that is certainly true. You cannot learn anything if you close your ears. I think that is undoubtedly true.”
She had gone so far as to work these words into a small needlework sampler that she had embarked upon, the words forming the centre part of the piece, with detailed pictures of Kalahari flowers around the edge, all executed in colourful thread. She had been pleased with the result, and had donated it to the sale of work in aid of the Anglican Hospice. It had sold well, she was told, to the wife of a hotel manager, a woman widely known to be something of a gossip. The humour of this had not escaped the ladies running the sale of work, who had all agreed that the woman in question was contemplating the listening being done by others rather than by herself.
Mma Ramotswe was certainly prepared to listen to anybody who had any light to shed on the unfortunate fate o
f Mr. Moeti’s cattle, but she realised that it was going to be difficult to find that person or persons. It would be different if the case were in some suburb of Gaborone, or even in a village; one could always find somebody in the street with views to express—one of the neighbours usually. But this was in the country, where one’s only company as often as not were the birds, or the small creatures that scurried through the bush. There was that boy, she recalled, and the woman who worked in the house. Mpho seemed to know something, but he was clearly frightened of Mr. Moeti—for whatever reason—and she doubted whether she would get anything out of him. Unless, of course, she were able to speak to the boy in private, if she could somehow get him on his own somewhere. Boys could be good informants, as she had discovered on a number of earlier occasions; boys saw things, and remembered them.
As she paused at a crossroads to allow a couple of trucks to lumber past, she considered the chances of a private conversation with Mpho. The boy was the son of the woman who worked in the house, the one she had met, so he presumably lived with his mother in the staff quarters behind the house. She was not sure how old he was, even if she was certain that he was under the age of legal employment; but that made no difference. There were plenty of children who worked on farms, unofficially, and there were even some who worked in towns. Bobashi were children whose parents were dead, or who had run away from home and who survived by their wits. They tended to be found in the towns rather than in the country; she had even come across one who lived in a storm-water drain, a scrap of a child with a face that had seemed so prematurely worldly-wise. She had tried to bring the child to the attention of Mma Potokwane, but when she had driven the matron to the place where she had spotted him, he was nowhere to be seen. “They move about,” said Mma Potokwane, sadly. “One day they live in a drain, the next day they are up a tree. There is no telling with that sort of child.”
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