The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The diatribe continued. “I took him to the broken fence one day and pointed out where it was lying on the ground like some old fence from the Protectorate days. Some old British fence maybe. And I said to him, ‘Look here, what is this? Is this not your fence?’ And he said, ‘That fence is your fence, Rra. That fence is your responsibility and you should be fixing it rather than me. Do not tell me to fix a fence that is not mine or anything to do with me.’ Those were his actual words, Mma. That is what he said. And I had to take a big breath because I was so angry that I had forgotten to breathe and all my oxygen was gone. He is a man who makes you use up all your oxygen when you are with him, Mma. It is not just me, I assure you. There are many people who have run out of oxygen when arguing with that man. Maybe that is the way he wants it—maybe that is his technique. He makes people run out of oxygen, and then they fall over and he has won. There are people like that, Mma—I’m sure you know that as well as I do.”

  Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. There was an eloquence to this denunciation that was as alarming as it was impressive. And even if Mr. Moeti had almost run out of oxygen when arguing with Fortitude Seleo, there seemed to be no danger of that happening now.

  “He would not accept,” Mr. Moeti went on, “that the fences were his. I said that I would look at the title to the land and check up on what it said about fences, and he said that titles were drawn up by lawyers and what did lawyers know about fences? How can you argue with a man like that, Mma? I couldn’t, and so I just had to chase his cattle off my land and wait until it happened again. And again after that.

  “He is a greedy man, that man. Very large, Mma. Not that there is anything wrong in being large, I must say. It is a good thing to be large; it shows that the country is prosperous. I am just saying that sometimes people can be a little bit too large because they have eaten a bit too much beef. That is the case with Seleo, I think. The country is not big enough for him, he thinks, Mma. There really need to be two Botswanas—one for Mr. Fortitude Seleo and one for the rest of us Batswana. Two whole countries. And then his cattle would start wandering out of his private Botswana and coming over to eat the grass in our Botswana. That would happen, Mma, I have absolutely no doubt about it. It is definite. His cattle have got a very bad temperament, Mma. They are like their owner. They are arrogant. Arrogant man, arrogant cattle. That is definite, Mma. Definite.”

  He sat back in his chair and folded his arms with the air of one who has proved his case. Mma Ramotswe waited for a few moments to see if he had anything further to say, but he had not.

  “So, Rra,” she began. “You do not like this Mr. Seleo.”

  Mr. Moeti shook his head, but remained mute.

  “Well,” continued Mma Ramotswe, “it sounds to me as if he is not the best of neighbours, but that does not mean that he—”

  “Of course he did it,” interrupted Mr. Moeti. “We found his key ring at the scene. That is big proof.”

  Mma Ramotswe was tactful, but felt that she had to spell out just what was meant by real proof. “You have to ask yourself what a clue means,” she said. “What does it say to you? That is the question you must ask.”

  “It says to me: this man Seleo attacked my cattle. That’s what it says to me.”

  Mma Makutsi, who had been following this exchange with rapt attention, now intervened. “It says: somebody has dropped a key ring. That is all it says. It does not say whose key ring has been dropped. It could be anybody’s.”

  Mr. Moeti did not turn to face Mma Makutsi, but addressed her while still looking at Mma Ramotswe. “Seleo makes that key ring. It is his key ring. He does not like me, or my cattle. He drops his key ring after he has done his wicked deed. Anybody can tell that.”

  It was clear that Mma Makutsi was irritated by being addressed by one facing the other way. “I hope you can hear me, Rra,” she said. “I think sometimes that when you talk to the back of somebody’s head they do not hear you because their ears are facing the other way.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised a cautionary finger, but Mma Makutsi continued undaunted. “That is why it is not only polite, but also wise to face the person who is talking to you—that way you don’t miss anything. That is just one view, of course, but it is significant, I think, that it is the view held by all polite people in Botswana.” She paused. There was more to come. “Of course, there may be countries where things are done quite differently. I do not know, for instance, whether it is customary to talk to the back of people’s heads in China. For all I know that might be considered quite polite and normal; but I do know that this is not the case in Botswana.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked down at the desk. It was hard to stop Mma Makutsi once she had started, and it was particularly difficult to do so now that she was about to become Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti and would shortly have no financial need of the job, even if she had indicated that she wanted to continue working.

  Mr. Moeti had now turned, slowly and awkwardly, so that he was facing Mma Makutsi. He looked embarrassed.

  “So the point is this, Rra,” Mma Makutsi went on. “There will be many key rings of that sort. The fact is that we cannot link that key ring to Mr. Seleo. So we have nothing against him, other than that he and you are not friends.”

  Mr. Moeti turned round again to face Mma Ramotswe. “So you and that lady behind me, Mma, have nothing to report.”

  “We will be looking very carefully into the whole thing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We shall consider every aspect of the situation.” She spread her hands. “At present, we do not really have anything concrete, but I shall certainly look into your suggestion that it is this Seleo man who has done this dreadful thing.”

  This seemed to satisfy Mr. Moeti, who nodded enthusiastically. “Good,” he said. “And then, when we catch him, Mma, we can tell the world what sort of man he is and how I have been putting up with his nonsense for such a long time. That will be very good.”

  Mr. Moeti departed, taking great care to say an elaborate farewell to Mma Makutsi as he left. Once they were alone, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances across the room.

  “A very rude man,” said Mma Makutsi. “But what can we expect these days? The world has forgotten about manners.”

  “Yes, sometimes it seems like that, Mma, and then you suddenly come across somebody with good manners and you realise that there are still people who believe in these things.” She paused. “Like your Phuti. He has very good manners—old Botswana manners.”

  Mma Makutsi beamed at her employer. “Oh, Mma, thank you. I think you are quite right.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think Phuti would have got on very well with my Daddy. I am sure of it, in fact. They would have been very good friends, I believe.”

  Mma Makutsi knew that this was the highest possible praise from Mma Ramotswe. “It is a shame that they cannot meet,” she said. “Since your father is late, that will no longer be possible, but it would have been a very good thing had it been able to happen.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, both imagining the scene of that meeting: Obed Ramotswe, with his battered old hat and his face that had such understanding and kindness etched into every line of it; Phuti Radiphuti, with his slightly ill-fitting suit and his artificial foot, but with his polite and gentle manner. It would, thought Mma Ramotswe, have been an embodiment, an affirmation, of everything that Botswana stood for: decency and the things that decency brought with it.

  Mma Ramotswe brought the spell to an end. “There’s something odd going on, Mma Makutsi,” she said.

  “Very odd, Mma Ramotswe. And in my opinion it is that man who is odd. He is lying, if you ask me.”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she, too, had the impression that Mr. Moeti was not being truthful, but what exactly was he lying about? Was he lying about his neighbour? Was he inventing the story of the fence, which would, of course, be a gross defamation of his neighbour’s cattle? “I just can’t work it out, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “But one thing I think is very cle
ar: that man was never frightened. He had been pretending to be frightened, but his fear was not real.”

  “You are right,” said Mma Makutsi. “He was not a frightened man. A rude man, yes, but not a frightened one.”

  “And that Fortitude Seleo?”

  Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “I would like to think he is an ordinary man who has the misfortune to have a farm next to Moeti’s farm. That is what I’d like to think, Mma. But what I actually think is quite different.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked expectantly at her assistant. “Yes, Mma. What do you think?”

  “I think that he’s probably very rude too,” said Mma Makutsi. “So put two cats in a box and what do they do, Mma? They fight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WAS PRUDENCE PRUDENT?

  PRUDENCE RAMKHWANE lived with her parents, Leonard and Mercy, in a large house behind the shopping centre at the beginning of the Lobatse road. It was not a good place to live, thought Mma Ramotswe, who did not like the clutter and noise of that particular conglomeration of shops, but there were those who did, she had to remind herself, and there must also be those who did not mind living close to such places.

  As she parked her car outside the Ramkhwane gate, Mma Ramotswe found herself looking at the house with her detective’s eye. This was a special way of looking at things that she had developed over the years, not without some assistance from the relevant chapter of Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection. The author of that seminal work had sound advice in this regard. Always remember that things are where they are because somebody has put them there, he wrote. So if there is a kennel in a yard it is there because the owner of the yard put it there, and that means that he has a dog. If there is a boat in the yard, then you may conclude that he likes fishing. Things are always there for a reason. I learned this lesson myself from Mrs. Andersen, who always accuses me of moving things that she needs!

  It was a lovely, intimate glimpse into the home life of the great authority, and Mma Ramotswe had read the passage aloud to Mma Makutsi, who had enjoyed it a great deal.

  “How interesting to hear about his wife,” Mma Makutsi said. “I would not have guessed that he was married, but there you are.”

  “She must be very proud of him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It must be strange to be married to such a famous man.”

  “I expect she’s used to it,” said Mma Makutsi. “And she probably talks to him like any wife, telling him to be careful and to watch what he does and so on.”

  Mma Ramotswe had smiled at this. “Is that how you think wives talk, Mma?” she asked. “If so, you should be careful when you and Phuti get married. Men don’t like being told to watch what they do.”

  “But if we let them do what they wanted, then what would happen?” asked Mma Makutsi. “It would be chaos. Big chaos.”

  Mma Ramotswe had agreed that it would not be a good idea to allow men to do as they pleased, but she felt that there were tactful ways of achieving the desired result. “Rather than telling a man directly what to do,” she said, “a wife should make the man think that he is doing what he wants to do. There are ways of making this happen, Mma—tactful ways.”

  There had then followed a certain amount of instruction on how to handle husbands, during which Mma Makutsi made the occasional note.

  “This will be very useful for when I am married,” she told Mma Ramotswe, and then added, “And I think you should possibly write a book, Mma. It could be called How to Handle Husbands and Keep Them Under Control. Or something like that. It would be a very successful book, Mma, as there are many ladies who would rush to buy a book like that.”

  Now, standing in front of the Ramkhwane house, Mma Ramotswe looked about the yard to determine what it said about the Ramkhwane family. The yard was well swept, which was a good sign—indeed, the most important message that a householder could send out was that based on the neatness, or otherwise, of the yard. Then there was the car: that spoke to modesty—a modest person drives a modest car, a pushy person drives a pushy car. The Ramkhwane car was unostentatious, she was pleased to note: a medium-sized vehicle painted white—a traditional Botswana colour for a car and completely unobjectionable for that. And at the back of the yard, a vegetable patch and a hen coop—both good signs of traditional Botswana values.

  Good manners would have required that she call out from the gate and await an invitation before entering the yard. That was difficult to do, though, when the gate was some distance from the house as this one was, so she made her way towards the front door, a large, red-painted affair with an elaborate brass knocker fixed to its central panel.

  A maid answered—a thin, rather lethargic woman in a faded print smock. Unhappy, thought Mma Ramotswe. There would be a hundred possible reasons for her unhappiness, but it was probably something to do with poverty and the bad behaviour of some man somewhere—just as was the case with the maid at Mr. Moeti’s place.

  “I have come to see Prudence, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think this is her house.”

  The woman gave a reply that sounded like a sigh. “Yes, Mma. This is her place.”

  The maid gestured to Mma Ramotswe that she should follow her. They went along a corridor and into a room at the side of the house. It was a sparsely furnished bedroom with a large cot. Two babies under a year old were sleeping in the cot, one at each end, their small rounded stomachs exposed. In a chair by the window, reading a magazine, was a young woman in jeans and T-shirt. This was Prudence.

  Prudence looked up in surprise.

  “I have come to see you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “My name is Precious Ramotswe. I know …” She glanced at the babies. Should she say, I know their father? She decided to say, “I know Charlie.”

  Prudence looked away. She had not got up when Mma Ramotswe had entered, in spite of the difference in their ages. “Oh yes,” she said flatly. “Charlie. How is he?”

  “He is very well,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  There was a silence. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke again: “I think you must be cross with him.”

  Prudence looked up sharply. “Cross with Charlie? Why should I be cross with Charlie?”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced at the twins. “The babies …”

  Prudence stared at her. “What have they got to do with it?”

  Mma Ramotswe was perplexed. “I thought … I heard that Charlie was the father. That is what I heard.”

  Prudence frowned. “Charlie? Oh no, Charlie is not the father. No, it is not him.”

  “Some other man then?”

  Prudence flicked a page of her magazine. “Yes, some other man. He is a pilot. He flies up in Maun—those small planes that go to the safari camps. He is Kenyan. We’re going to get married in a few months—at long last.”

  “Does Charlie know this?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “About me getting married?”

  “Yes. About the twins … and this other man, this Kenyan.”

  Prudence shrugged. “He doesn’t think he’s the father of the babies, does he?”

  Mma Ramotswe explained that Charlie had drawn that conclusion, and that was why there had been a rather sudden termination of the relationship.

  Prudence listened to her with interest, but without any great show of emotion. “Well, he’s wrong,” she said once Mma Ramotswe had finished. “I never told him he was the father. I told him I was pregnant—that’s all.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe to see if she had grasped the distinction. “Listen, Mma, the point is that I had more than one boyfriend then. I know you shouldn’t, but it’s difficult sometimes when there are all these men knocking on the door. What are you expected to do?”

  Mma Ramotswe was about to say, You choose one and you stick to him, but she judged it best not to engage. There would be no point in getting into an argument about faithfulness with Prudence; it was too late for her to change, she thought. And there were other people who should tackle her about that.

  But she could not let the matter pass altogether. �
�But you told your parents that Charlie was the father?”

  Prudence looked away sulkily. “I didn’t say that, Mma. Not exactly. Maybe they thought it themselves—because I was seeing Charlie at the time.”

  “And they didn’t know about the other man … or men?”

  Prudence shrugged. “Maybe not.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at her. She found it hard to imagine such callousness. She sighed. “I don’t think you behaved very well, Mma,” she said gently.

  Prudence looked at her blankly. Perhaps she simply does not understand, thought Mma Ramotswe. Something was missing.

  “Oh well, Mma,” she said, “I think that I should be on my way. Charlie says hello, by the way.”

  “Tell him hello,” said Prudence. “Tell him that I think of him a lot. Tell him to come and see me some time, but to phone first.”

  “I shall,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And if you’d like something to eat,” Prudence went on, “I can get you something.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mma, but I am not hungry.” She paused. One of the babies had stirred, but only to move an arm. “They are very fine babies, Mma. You must be proud of them.”

  “They eat a lot,” said Prudence. “And I’m having another one, you know.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “I really must go, Mma. I have a lot of work to do.” She did not, but she wanted to leave the house; she wanted to be away from this silly young woman with her casual ways and her utter indifference. How could anybody be so bored with life, she wondered, when all about one there were all these things happening?

  The maid showed her out. As they approached the front door, Mma Ramotswe leaned over and whispered, “Mma, that girl, Prudence, doesn’t seem to care very much about things, does she?”