The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She arrived back at the house to find Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni waiting anxiously in the kitchen.

  “Where have you been, Mma? I was worried.”

  She put the van key down on the table. “Charlie,” she said. “He came to see me.”

  He looked incredulous. “Charlie?”

  She told him of her encounter with the young man, and about his promise to return to work. “Just pretend that nothing has happened,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Just carry on as normal.”

  “But it has happened,” he said.

  “Yes, but there are times when something that has happened has to be treated as if it hasn’t. This is one of those times, I think.”

  He shrugged. “I do not always understand you, Mma Ramotswe.”

  She laughed. “And another thing, Rra. What would you do if I did something that you thought was a very bad idea, but that I really wanted to do? What if that thing was a thing that made me very happy, but looked ridiculous to you?”

  He frowned. “Something your heart was set on?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Something that my heart said I just had to do.”

  “In that case, I would say to myself: It is an odd thing that Mma Ramotswe has done, but if that is what makes her happy, then I am happy too.”

  She looked at him fondly; that he had been sent to her, when there were so many other, lesser men who might have been sent, was a source of constant gratitude. That we have the people we have in this life, rather than others, is miraculous, she thought; a miraculous gift.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CARBOLIC SOAP AND LIES

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS were marked by the fact that virtually nothing happened. Such spells in otherwise busy lives are like breaks in bad weather: we know that they will not last, and our knowledge of their impermanence makes them seem all the more precious. But although throughout this time scarcely a soul crossed the threshold of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, both Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe had more than enough to occupy their thoughts. For Mma Makutsi, the main concern was her impending wedding; the date was fast approaching, and the invitations had already been posted. Her long list of preparations was now marked by rows of ticks as task after task was completed with all the efficiency one would expect of one who, after all, had achieved a hitherto unheard-of ninety-seven per cent in her final examinations. But there were still things to do, and things to worry about, or to worry that Phuti was not worrying about enough.

  An example of the latter was the cattle that would be used for the wedding feast. A very large cow and three well-fed goats had been identified for this purpose, and Phuti was meant to have arranged for them to be brought in from his family’s cattle post. Had this been done? And what about the cow he had promised her people for their feast up in Bobonong? Was this going to be purchased up there, or would it be taken up from the Radiphuti cattle post? These were important questions, and Mma Makutsi was not entirely satisfied that Phuti was on top of them. It was all very well for men; they assumed that weddings happened, and they often enjoyed themselves conspicuously at such events, but did they know how these things went off smoothly? Did men make lists, she wondered; and concluded that they did not. She had never seen a man with a list—not once—although she often saw men in the supermarket struggling to read the lists made for them by their wives. Mma Makutsi had, in fact, once helped such a man to interpret his wife’s instructions and had ended up doing his entire shopping for him, consequently making herself late for an appointment at the hair-braiding salon.

  While Mma Makutsi sat at her desk and thought about the wedding, Mma Ramotswe sat in her place, her mind filled with thoughts of a rather different nature. She had more than enough on her plate, she reflected, and several things that were concerning her seemed to be without obvious and immediate solution. There was Charlie, of course. He had returned to work and appeared to be coping; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been tact itself, and had not even docked his wages for the missing days. But there was still the issue of Prudence, and the visit that Mma Ramotswe had promised to pay to the wronged young woman. Charlie, she suspected, had assumed that a few words to Prudence from her would solve the whole issue; they would not, thought Mma Ramotswe. He would have to make some effort, and she was not sure whether he had the staying power for that. Time would tell, as Mma Potokwane sometimes said; time will tell, Mma Ramotswe. Yes, Mma Potokwane, but what if time tells us what we don’t want to hear?

  At least with the Charlie affair she knew what she had to do. It was not that simple when she turned her attention to the other difficult problem with which she was confronted—the Moeti case. Her heart sank even as she started once again to think about it. She had decided that she could not let Mpho’s deeds go unreported, but she remained deeply concerned about the small boy’s safety if Mr. Moeti were to hear, even indirectly, that he was responsible for the attack on his cattle. Terrible things happened out in the country, and a person like Moeti would, as likely as not, take a sjambok to the errant herd boy. Sjamboks, those cruel cattle-hide whips, would do real damage to a small boy; she could not allow that. But how could she deal with the problem and yet keep it from Mr. Moeti? The obvious thing to do would be to speak to the boy’s mother and ask her to do something about disciplining or watching the boy. But could she be sure that the information would not somehow leak out? People talked. If she went to the police and told them what had happened, they would be bound to let Mr. Moeti know who was responsible for the outrage; that was how the police operated. They had their rules, of course—it was not their fault—and one of those rules would probably state that the owner of damaged property had to be informed of who had done the damage if that fact were to emerge. Well, it had emerged—if, of course, Mpho were to be believed.

  And then there was the van. That at least had been a positive development, but she had done nothing about going to see Daniel because that would involve negotiations and she was in no mood for negotiations at present. So the only thing to do, she decided, was to wait at her desk and see if anything happened. Which it did—not that day, nor the next, but the day afterwards, when everything seemed to happen at once, as is often the case.

  “There is a man parking his car under the tree,” said Mma Makutsi. From her vantage point on the other side of the room, she could see through the window that Mma Ramotswe could not really look through unless she craned her neck uncomfortably.

  “Coming to see us?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “I think so. If he was going to the garage I think he would have parked his car there rather than under the tree. That is what I think, Mma.” There was a note of reproach in Mma Makutsi’s voice, almost as if she was suggesting that Mma Ramotswe’s powers of deduction were failing. Mma Ramotswe just smiled; brides-to-be could be testy—that was a well-known fact.

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. “Perhaps we have a new client, Mma,” she said. “And about time, I think.”

  “Or an old one come in to see you,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is equally possible, don’t you think, Mma?”

  Again, Mma Ramotswe said nothing. Mma Makutsi had a lot on her mind, and once she was married these comments would surely stop.

  She opened the door and saw Mr. Moeti speaking to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was directing him to the office door.

  “Moeti,” she whispered to Mma Makutsi. “This is him.”

  Mma Makutsi glanced out of the door. “I shall put on the kettle, Mma,” she said. “And I am right here if you need me.”

  Moeti approached, holding out his hand in greeting. “So this is your place, Mma Ramotswe. It is a very nice office, I think. And very handy for that garage, too, if your car breaks down.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “That mechanic is my husband, Rra.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Moeti. “And this lady is your secretary?”

  “Associate detective,” corrected Mma Makutsi.

  Mr. Moeti made a show of apologising. “Oh, very sorry, Mma. Big mistake on my par
t. Very sorry.”

  “That is all right,” said Mma Makutsi primly. “There are two detectives here. Mma Ramotswe, who is the proprietor, and myself. Would you like some tea, Rra? These mornings are so hot these days, aren’t they?”

  Mr. Moeti looked about the room. “Tea would be very nice, Mma. Three spoons of sugar, please.” He turned to Mma Ramotswe, who was offering him the client’s chair. “Yes, a very good office, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe acknowledged the compliment. She had been surprised by Mr. Moeti’s appearance, and a little concerned. He would ask her for a progress report, no doubt, and that would be tricky, as she would be unable to reveal what had happened. So she would have to watch her words carefully, weighing each one to ensure that she told him nothing without telling any outright lies. Never, ever lie to your client, Clovis Andersen had written. That’s Rule No. 3, right up there with Rules 1 and 2. Don’t lie.

  As she sat down at her desk and faced her client, the thought occurred to her that something about Mr. Moeti’s visit was not quite right. When he had first contacted her, he had been careful to arrange a meeting elsewhere, wanting to avoid being seen coming to the detective agency. He had appeared frightened, and jumpy in his manner. Now, by contrast, he seemed cheerful and unconcerned about visiting her quite openly at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. It was strange.

  “It is good to see you, Rra,” she said. “And I’m happy to see you here in the office. Last time, you seemed unwilling …”

  Mr. Moeti looked at her suspiciously. “What last time? What unwilling?”

  Mma Ramotswe watched him carefully. Her remark had wrong-footed him, she thought. That was interesting; had he forgotten? Actors forget; people who are not acting never do.

  “Last time you consulted me,” she said. “You didn’t want to come to the office. And forgive me if I say this, Rra, but you seemed very anxious then. Are you no longer worried?”

  For a moment or two he said nothing. He’s thinking, she said to herself; thinking what to say.

  He looked over his shoulder—an exaggerated glance. “I am still worried, Mma. And wouldn’t you be, if you knew that somebody was trying to harm you? Even during the day, things can happen …”

  He transferred his gaze to the window, looking out as if to identify any threat lurking outside. From where she was sitting, if she half turned in her seat, Mma Ramotswe could not see a great deal, but she had a good view of the sky, which was empty, innocent. A shadow passed over his face, though; she could see its effect in his eyes.

  “You have reminded me, Mma Ramotswe,” he said quietly. “I had almost forgotten, and I was happy. But you have reminded me.”

  She had not expected this, and his comment made her catch her breath. Perhaps he really was frightened, and perhaps she had tactlessly spoiled things for him. He is my client, she reminded herself. He is not a suspect.

  “I’m very sorry, Rra,” she said. “It is not my business to tell you how you’re feeling.”

  The apology was accepted with a quick movement of the hands. “That’s all right, Mma. No damage. It’s best to be positive, I find, and that’s what I’m trying to do. We cannot let wicked people spoil our lives for us, can we?”

  Mma Ramotswe indicated that she agreed with this sentiment. And she did; stopping wicked people from spoiling the lives of the non-wicked was, after all, what she and Mma Makutsi did in their working lives.

  “So,” went on Mr. Moeti, “tell me, Mma: What have you found out? Have you any … what do you people call them? Any leads?”

  Mr. Moeti’s use of the word lead was a godsend to Mma Ramotswe. She had an answer, not a lead, so she replied, “No leads as such, Rra.”

  He did not seem unduly disappointed. “Well, I have.”

  She looked at him politely. “Oh yes, Rra? What have you found out?”

  He sat back in his chair. “You remember that thing we found? The key ring?”

  She nodded: the cheap metal map of Botswana.

  “I have found out where it is from.”

  “Who dropped it?”

  He hesitated. “No, not directly, but I have found out which firm gives them to its business clients. There is a firm of livestock-feed manufacturers in Lobatse. They make that lick that you give to cattle.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew the lick in question. She used it herself out at her cattle post. Cattle loved the salt it contained, and it gave them all sorts of other things too. Of course humans were rather like cattle these days, she thought—always taking extra vitamin pills. Perhaps they should make a vitamin lick for people, which they could put on people’s floors, and they would get down on all fours and lick away, just like cattle.

  “So, Rra,” she said. “You have found out who gives the key ring away. But you have not found out who owned this particular key ring, have you? Is that correct?”

  Mr. Moeti reached forward and tapped the desk lightly. “No, I have not done that because that would be impossible, Mma Ramotswe. Nobody, not even the best detective in the world, could look at a key ring and say that it belonged to this person or that person. But …”

  He was looking at her with a curious intensity; she held his gaze. “Yes?”

  “But I can tell you something about this key ring, Mma—something that will make you sit up straight in your chair.”

  Mma Ramotswe shifted slightly. Had she been slouching? Perhaps it was just the impression that her chair gave—it had always sagged in the middle, for some reason.

  “Yes,” continued Mr. Moeti. “I know that the firm that gives away this key ring is in Lobatse. I know that it makes cattle-lick. And I know who owns it.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded politely. “That is a lot to know, Rra. But what has it got to do with our inquiry?”

  “It is the person who owns that firm that will interest you. He is my neighbour.”

  Mma Ramotswe digested this information. “So are you saying that he must have dropped it?”

  There was a look of undisguised triumph on Mr. Moeti’s face. “Exactly. That is exactly what I am saying. This thing—this attack on my cattle—was carried out by my neighbour.”

  He paused, watching the effect of his disclosure. From the other side of the office there came a muttered comment: “Neighbour! It is always the neighbour!”

  Mr. Moeti turned in his seat and stared at Mma Makutsi.

  “My assistant,” said Mma Ramotswe. “As she told you, she is an—”

  “Associate detective,” supplied Mma Makutsi.

  Mr. Moeti nodded. “Very good,” he said. “And you are right, Mma Makutsi. It is always the neighbour who is the problem.”

  “Except sometimes,” Mma Ramotswe said gently, “some neighbours are no trouble at all. Many, in fact.”

  “That may be true,” said Mr. Moeti. “But not in this case. This neighbour of mine is big trouble. Big trouble. It should have been obvious to me that he was suspect number one. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

  The way he said that he did not know why he had not thought of it struck Mma Ramotswe as very strange. It was said flatly, as a bad actor will deliver a line in an unaccented monotone.

  “But we need a motive, Rra,” she said.

  This, by contrast, brought an energetic reply. “Motive? He is a bad man, Mma. Bad men always have motives—plenty of motives, I think.”

  She wanted to find out in what respects this neighbour—still nameless—was bad. “You must tell me about him, Rra,” she said. “His name first, and then why you have this low opinion of him.”

  “He is called Fortitude Seleo,” Mr. Moeti began.

  He uttered the name with an expression of disgust, or as one might talk if one were obliged to speak with a slice of bitter lemon in one’s mouth. Or carbolic soap. Carbolic soap had been administered to children who used bad language when Mma Ramotswe had been young. The miscreant’s mouth had been opened and a sliver of soap applied to the tongue and palate while others looked on. And the punished child would pull a
face and run off to the taps to rinse out the offending mouth. It had been effective, she remembered, and although one could never do such a thing today, she could not help but notice that people used bad language casually and with no regard to the feelings of others. There would not be carbolic soap enough, she thought, to clean up the language used in films, where people found it necessary to curse and swear with utter abandon. Mma Potokwane would have views on this, she imagined; none of the children at the orphan farm used such language. Love, not punishment—that was the solution; the sort of love that Mma Potokwane could dispense to scores of children: a brisk, understanding love; a love that made them want to do their best and make the most of a world that had treated them badly at the start of their young lives.

  “Fortitude Seleo,” she said.

  “Yes, that is the man, Mma. He owns that factory and he thinks that because he is a big manufacturer of cattle-lick he can have the whole country for his own cattle.” He paused. “And so when his fences fall down he doesn’t bother to fix them, but lets them wander wherever they like. They could go into the middle of Gaborone and start grazing on the lawn of the Grand Palms Hotel for all he cared!

  “But do his cattle catch a bus and ride into Gaborone for their breakfast? No, they do not, Mma. They just wander onto his neighbour’s land—that is me, by the way—and eat and eat there until all the grass is eaten up. Then they go back and are sent down to Lobatse for slaughter with their stomachs full of my grass! That is what happens, Mma. It has happened four times, five times, one hundred times maybe.

  “And what does he do when I phone him and tell him that his cattle are on my land? He says, ‘Are you sure, Rra? Because I do not think any of my cattle are missing. Maybe you should get your herd boy to check. Maybe he is just making these things up.’ That is what he has the cheek to say to me, Mma Ramotswe. He thinks I am just some ignorant man who doesn’t know what’s going on. He thinks that he can fob me off with this nonsense.”