To the Land of Long Lost Friends

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “There,” said Mma Ramotswe, wanting to point, but unable to disentangle her elbow from Mma Makutsi’s rib cage.

  “That’s the car,” said Charlie, swerving in his excitement. “That’ll be her car, Mma.”

  “Don’t park too close, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “You don’t want her to see us.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought: And how could they possibly avoid being seen? Two women and a young man shoehorned into a cab meant for two, if not one, in a van listing markedly to the left and emitting, she now noticed, a small cloud of steam from its front. That was worrying, she thought, and made a mental note to draw Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s attention to it, although she was loath to do so. He was looking for an excuse, she suspected, once again to urge her to retire the van and replace it with something more modern. She would have to resist that, because one did not lightly retire an old friend, which is what it would seem like to her.

  As luck would have it, Charlie found a spot not far away that was in the process of being vacated by another driver, and the van fitted neatly into that. This afforded them a view of the Mercedes-Benz, but from such a distance that would allow them to slip out without it being too obvious, they hoped, that they were following the driver. Once the van was parked, Mma Ramotswe opened her door, not completely, but sufficiently to allow for a release of the pressure.

  Charlie was gazing across the street, in the direction of the parked silver car. “Why does that sticker say Be Careful?” he asked. “You see it? It says Be Careful. That’s all: Be Careful.”

  “That is good advice,” said Mma Makutsi. “You have to be careful.”

  “About what?” asked Charlie.

  Mma Makutsi was patient. “About everything, Charlie. You have to watch out these days.” She half turned to Mma Ramotswe. It was still a bit difficult to move, even with the passenger door partly open. “That’s good advice, don’t you think, Mma? The sort of advice Charlie should listen to, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I am always careful,” protested Charlie. “Always. Crossing the road. Coming to work. Going home. Careful, careful, careful.”

  “I’m sure you are, Charlie,” Mma Ramotswe said. She stopped. They had parked facing a dry-cleaning depot. This had a door in the front and a large shop window through which they could see the counter and several large machines beyond it. A young woman had emerged from this door, holding a large folded plastic bag in which a dress was stored. As she came out into the light, the young woman blinked, shading her eyes from the low-angled rays of the sun. At that moment, her gaze met Mma Ramotswe’s, and Mma Ramotswe knew that this was Nametso. She had never met her, and had no idea of her appearance, but she knew, almost instinctively, that this was the woman she was there to observe.

  Nametso looked puzzled, evidently wondering about the odd combination in the van: the two women, one of them traditionally built, the other with large round spectacles—far too big for her face—and hints of a troublesome skin; and the young man with the rather loud shirt, staring at her as if he recognised her.

  Mma Ramotswe looked away, whispering to the others, “Don’t stare, don’t stare. Just look somewhere else.”

  “She was staring at me, Mma,” Charlie whispered. “She is the one who was staring.”

  “Now she has seen us,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “How can we follow somebody who has seen us? We are finished, Mma Ramotswe.”

  But Mma Ramotswe was not one to give up so readily. She pointed out that there was no reason to suspect them of taking an undue interest in her. From her point of view, she said, they were just a van full of people who had probably come into town from somewhere out in the bush and were gaping at everything they saw. They could be people who had perhaps never seen a dry-cleaner’s place before and were marvelling at the machinery. Sometimes you saw that in town: people, particularly elderly people from outlying areas, would come into the city and be astonished by what they saw. You noticed them standing on street corners simply staring and wondering how all these people could be living in one place and going about their business like this. And where were the cattle? What was there for the cattle to eat here where the only grass seemed to be that grown in front of houses—which would have been heaven for cattle, if only they were allowed to eat it.

  Nametso crossed the road and, as they expected, unlocked the silver Mercedes-Benz.

  “You see,” said Charlie. “I told you.” He craned his neck. “I know that model. It is very expensive. One hundred and sixty-three horsepower. That’s max. Automatic gearbox, one, two, three—”

  “Yes, yes, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “But just concentrate. We have to get ready to follow.”

  Mma Ramotswe squeezed herself back into her share of the seat and, breathing in, just managed to get the door shut. On the other side of the road, the reversing lights of the silver Mercedes-Benz flicked on.

  “See those lights,” said Charlie. “They come on automatically, of course. And there’s an extra one you can switch on if you really need to see what’s behind you in the dark. There’s a camera in the car too, you know, and—”

  Mma Makutsi cut him short once more. “We do not need to hear all this, Charlie.”

  The Mercedes-Benz reversed out of its parking place. For a few moments it seemed as if the driver was hesitating, uncertain as to which way to go. Then the decision was made, and the car sped off down the road, heading away from the centre of town.

  “Quick,” urged Mma Makutsi. “We must not lose her, Charlie.”

  Charlie struggled with the gears, pushing Mma Makutsi’s legs away from the lever. “It is very hard, Mma, if you are sitting like that.”

  Somehow Charlie managed to get the van under way. The other car, though, had almost disappeared, and Charlie had to coax the van’s badly struggling engine to the limits of its capacity to keep up.

  “Do you think she’s noticed us?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at the back of the Mercedes-Benz. “If she’s looked in the mirror, perhaps. But people often don’t.”

  By the traffic circle near the university gate, Nametso slowed down. It seemed for a few moments as if she was about to turn off to the left, but she did not, and continued to the far end of the road that skirted the university grounds. There were several large blocks of flats there, and it was through the gates of one of these buildings that the Mercedes now swung, braked sharply, and then came to a halt. Charlie slowed the van down to a snail’s pace, keeping to the road outside. From there, they watched as Nametso got out of her car, retrieved her dry-cleaning, and walked the short distance into one of the flats.

  “Now?” asked Charlie.

  Mma Ramotswe told Charlie to park further down the road.

  “This is not where she lives,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Her mother told me she lived with some other people over near the railway station.”

  “So what is she doing here?” asked Charlie.

  Mma Makutsi tapped the window. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Some people have places where they live part of the time. They live there, but they don’t live there all the time.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited.

  “So I think this woman lives here,” Mma Makutsi continued. “She is leading a double life. She doesn’t want anybody to know about her car. She doesn’t want anybody to know about this flat.”

  Charlie whistled. “She is a big thief, then. She is definitely stealing diamonds. You can only have two lives if you’re stealing something.”

  “Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. She paused. “Of course, people who are leading two lives are usually very secretive. One of those lives will be led in the shadows, you know.”

  “So how are we going to find out?” asked Charlie.

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. There were times when it was appropriate to quote Clovis Andersen, but there were also times when it seemed right to quot
e herself. Not that she would do that, of course, but she had always maintained that the best way of finding out about something was simply to ask somebody. There was always somebody who would have the information you needed, and, in just about every case, such a person would be happy to give it to you. It was just a question of finding out whom one should ask and then asking. It was no more complicated than that.

  She smiled at Charlie. “We ask.”

  “Who do we ask, Mma?”

  The answer to that was simple. “Who are the people who see everything that goes on, Charlie? Neighbours. They are the ones. Neighbours know everything, Charlie. And they are also usually the ones who are keenest to talk.”

  Mma Makutsi gestured towards the block of flats. “Over there, Mma?”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are plenty of neighbours over there, and I think that they will be keen to talk to us.” She paused. Windows were open. A smell of distant cooking drifted over from the nearest of the flats. People were home, and of course they would talk—especially about a young woman who appeared to own a silver Mercedes-Benz and who had something to do with diamonds.

  Mma Ramotswe opened her door and began to manoeuvre herself out of the van. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was right about at least one thing: a more modern van would not only be more reliable, but would have more room. “People have been becoming more traditionally built over recent years,” he had pointed out. “And the people who make cars know that. They have made the seats much bigger, Mma. You would find that out if you let me buy you a new van.”

  He was right, but there was more to life than just having more room to spread out in. Having more room did not in itself make you happier; having something you loved did that, and she still loved her van, just as one might love a comfortable pair of shoes, or a scarf somebody gave you—somebody you had in turn loved very much—or a teacup from which you had drunk your tea for years and years. Such love did not go away when something new and shiny came along.

  “We shall all go,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to the people in the flat on the left. Mma Makutsi, you take the neighbours in the flat upstairs, and Charlie…”

  “But what do I say?” asked Charlie. “I can’t just go up to their door and say, ‘Tell me all about your neighbour, please.’ They could say, ‘What business is it of yours?’ and tell me to go away.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “You have a story, Charlie. You say you’re looking for somebody and ask them if that person lives next door.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “Then they’ll say, ‘Oh no, that person doesn’t live there. That is a young woman called Nametso.’ ”

  “And then?” asked Charlie.

  Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles and gave them a cursory wipe. “Then you say, ‘Oh, I think I know her. Is she the one from Molepolole?’ ”

  Mma Ramotswe joined in. “Mma Makutsi is right,” she reassured Charlie. “It is what Clovis Andersen calls routine arm-work.”

  Mma Makutsi corrected her: “Leg-work, Mma. He calls it leg-work.”

  “It is all the same,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Arm-work, leg-work—it is all the same thing. It is what we do, Charlie, and I think you are getting better and better at it.”

  He beamed with pleasure. It was so easy to make Charlie happy, thought Mma Ramotswe. Indeed, it was so easy to make anybody happy. All that was required was a kind word or two—a kind word that cost nothing, and yet could have such a profound effect.

  “Yes,” she said. “You are doing very well, Charlie.”

  His smile broadened. “You are like my mother, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. And then, becoming aware of Mma Makutsi’s gaze upon him, he added, “And you, Mma Makutsi, you are like my auntie.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi—a bit primly, thought Mma Ramotswe, but then he had described her as his aunt, and aunts, of all people, could be allowed to be prim.

  But Mma Ramotswe thought: this young man is not yet there. She was not quite sure where there was, but it was the place that he wanted to get to, a place where he would not be poor, where he would be able to feel proud of himself, a place where he would be something. He might get there, but it would be something of a miracle if he did, given the odds stacked against him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MMA BOKO DISAPPROVES

  MMA BOKO LOOKED at Mma Ramotswe over a pair of tortoiseshell half-moon glasses.

  “I like your glasses, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Boko removed them self-consciously. She giggled. “They are just for reading, Mma. You know how it is? They are printing everything much smaller these days. All the time they are making it smaller.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Or our eyes are changing, Mma. They are becoming tired and they think, This is much smaller now.”

  Mma Boko replaced her glasses. “There are many things I am happy not to see,” she said. “When I look around town these days, I see many things that I think should not be there—many things that I do not like.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew what she meant. “Oh, you are right, Mma—you are very right. There are things that you would never have seen in the past.” And there were things that you would have seen in the past that you would never see today—and thank heavens for that. There had been cruelties and injustices that would never be tolerated today.

  But that was not what interested Mma Boko; disapproval is less effort than approval, and, for those who disapprove, twice as satisfying.

  “I’ll give you an example, Mma,” said Mma Boko. “I’ll give you an example of something that will shock you.”

  Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She wanted to tell Mma Boko that nothing would shock her, as in her profession she had seen just about everything. But then she realised that she had not; the bad behaviour with which the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was concerned was not really all that bad. They saw selfishness and greed; they saw infidelity and other forms of disloyalty; they saw vanity, and its cousin, insecurity. They did not see the major cruelties, nor the great frauds and dishonesties.

  “Tell me, Mma,” she said.

  Mma Boko drew in her breath. “You know that place?” she began.

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “What place, Mma? There are many places.”

  Mma Boko waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the Tlokweng Road. “That place they call River-something. That place where there are shops.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I know the shops. I go there for groceries. That supermarket—”

  Mma Boko raised a finger. “That supermarket, Mma—yes, right there. I was there with my friend Mma Magadi—you’ll know her, I think.”

  Again, Mma Ramotswe frowned. Mma Magadi? Somewhere in the back of her memory, the name chimed with something. But that was the problem: so many names chimed with something, and yet it was impossible to establish what that something was. “I’m not sure, Mma,” she replied. “The name is a bit familiar, but…but, I’m not sure.”

  * * *

  —

  HER HESITATION was in part occasioned by a concern that denying knowledge of somebody might give offence. Mma Ramotswe was reasonably well known in Gaborone—not because she had courted prominence in any way, but because people drove past her business sign on the Tlokweng Road (one could hardly miss it) and they were naturally curious as to who these No. 1 detective ladies might be. And then there had been the occasional article in the paper, including one entitled THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MOST INFLUENTIAL WOMEN IN BOTSWANA (PART ONE). When Mma Makutsi had spotted that one morning as they were drinking tea in the office, she had let out a whoop of delight. “Look, Mma!” she exclaimed. “Look! We are in the list of…” She consulted the article. “The one hundred and fifty most influential women in the world.”

  Mma Ramotswe had peered over Mma Makutsi’s shoulder. “In Botswana, Mma,” she had corrected her.

  �
��Yes, that’s what I said, Mma. The one hundred and fifty most influential women in Botswana.”

  Mma Ramotswe had not pressed the point, but as her eye ran down the columns in the double-page spread, she realised that there were several reasons why Mma Makutsi’s delight might soon turn sour.

  Mma Makutsi pointed to a line in the article. “There it is, Mma. Number ninety-seven. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency…” She trailed off.

  “They always get these things wrong, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said hurriedly. “I’m sure that they meant to mention you too.”

  “Ninety-seven,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe swallowed hard. That was doubly unfortunate. If anybody had the right to the number ninety-seven, then it was Mma Makutsi, with her unassailable claim to have climbed to the heights of ninety-seven in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College. And yet here it was on the printed page: Number Ninety-Seven, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is the creation of Precious Ramotswe, Mochudi-born private investigator and solver of those oh-so-difficult mysteries! Move over, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and let the lady from the Tlokweng Road get to the bottom of things!

  Mma Ramotswe was immediately apologetic. “These journalists,” she expostulated. “They are always getting things wrong! Making things up! Writing such nonsense about things they know nothing about.” She paused, dismayed at the only-too-apparent failure of her words to pour the necessary oil on these troubled waters. “And here they are—forgetting to write about you, when they must have meant to include you.”

  No, Mma Makutsi was not to be that easily pacified. “There is no mention of me,” she said. “I am clearly a person with no influence.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t say that, Mma. This is a ridiculous piece of nonsense. They make these things up to fill the pages when there is no news—when the politicians have all gone back to their villages and nobody is saying anything for the newspapers to write about.” She watched Mma Makutsi, who remained unconvinced.