“You believe that he will marry you?”
“If the Lord approves,” said Mma Boko. “Which I think he does. He has already given signs of that approval.”
“I see.”
“Yes, he approves very firmly, I believe.”
Mma Ramotswe steeled herself. The moment could not be put off much longer. “Mma Boko, may I ask you something? Who told you about the businessman who rents the flat for Nametso? Was it the reverend, by any chance?”
The question took Mma Boko by surprise, and she seemed to struggle with something before she answered. But then she said, “Yes, it was. He told me about it. He disapproved very strongly—as you can imagine.”
Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. He would; he would.
“Do you see him about the place often?” she asked. “Does he go to save Nametso just about every day?”
Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Boko’s hands were shaking. She knew. And of course that should not surprise her; a woman would know these things. She was equally convinced, though, that Mma Boko would have denied any knowledge she had of what the Reverend Flat Ponto was up to. She would have known and not known, both at the same time. That was the way people survived in the face of crushing disappointment.
“Oh, Mma,” Mma Boko suddenly blurted out. “That girl is a Jezebel. She is leading the reverend astray. He knows that his future must be with me, and yet he is being kind to her because she needs support—and saving. But his heart is not in anything that he does with her, Mma. I know that. I know that very well.”
There was nothing more that Mma Ramotswe could say to Mma Boko other than to hold her hand briefly and whisper, “I am sure that he loves you, Mma. But it is good to be careful about loving men back. Think about that, Mma.”
* * *
—
SHE LEFT MMA BOKO and began to look for Poppy. The crowd was now quite large, and there were children running around, squealing and yelling and making everything noisier and more chaotic. Eventually she found Poppy talking to an elderly man in a wheelchair. She drew her aside and a young couple came and wheeled the man off to one of the food tables.
“Are you enjoying the picnic?” asked Poppy. “People love these occasions.”
“It is all very joyful,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“That is the reverend’s influence,” said Poppy. “He spreads light wherever he goes.”
Mma Ramotswe was non-committal. “Well, he’s certainly popular.” She looked at Poppy. Who, she wondered, did Poppy have to pick up the pieces? Were there children, or siblings, who would provide her with a shoulder to cry on? For a few moments she wondered whether she should do this at all, or whether she should walk away and let these people get on with living their lives as they saw fit. But then she thought, No, I shall not do that—because if I don’t do anything there will be more Poppies and more Nametsos and poor Mma Bokos. There were any number of ladies with hearts to break, just looking for a charismatic preacher to break them.
“Mma,” began Mma Ramotswe, “I have found out something that makes me very happy.”
“Oh yes?” asked Poppy.
“Yes. I have found out that the Mercedes-Benz you gave to the reverend is being put to very good use.”
“I know that,” said Poppy. “It is doing the work of the Lord up in Maun. Or somewhere up there.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No, Mma, it is doing good work far closer to home. He has given it to a young woman—a very attractive young woman. She is driving round in it right here in Gaborone.”
Poppy frowned. “I don’t think so, Mma. The reverend told me—it is out in a remote area doing work there.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I’m afraid not, Mma. It is being used by that young woman over there. You see her? Right next to the reverend? He is being very kind to her. He visits her most days, I believe—trying to save her, of course—and he has given her the car for her own use. For getting to work and going shopping too, I think. She has some very nice clothes, and she needs to go off and buy those. A silver Mercedes-Benz is ideal for that sort of thing, you know.”
Poppy listened to this in silence. She pursed her lips. She looked down at the ground, and then up at the sky. Mma Ramotswe reached out and took her hand—the hand of an old friend.
* * *
—
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT happened rather quickly. Mma Ramotswe found Mma Potokwane helping herself to a plateful of sausages from one of the barbecue pits.
“I am helping myself,” explained the matron. “After all, don’t they say that the Lord helps those who help themselves?”
“They do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I think that it is probably true. But, Mma, I have something very important to tell you.”
Mma Potokwane listened gravely as Mma Ramotswe outlined her exchanges with Mma Boko and Poppy. As the tale lengthened and its full implications became clear, she looked around for a table on which to put down her plate of untouched sausages. “This is very shocking, Mma,” she said, wiping sausage fat from her fingers.
“It is the way the world is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think this sort of thing is going on all the time.”
Mma Potokwane straightened the front of her blouse. It was such a gesture as might be made by one setting out for battle—a girding of the chest, a readiness to carry the banner. “I am ready, Mma Ramotswe. I am going to have a word with the reverend.”
“Be careful, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Ha!” snorted Mma Potokwane.
“He has many admirers here,” cautioned Mma Ramotswe.
“Ha!” Mma Potokwane repeated.
Mma Ramotswe watched in fascination as Mma Potokwane strode across the clearing to the place where the reverend was standing, surrounded by a small coterie of ladies. She watched as Mma Potokwane elbowed her way past these women and took the reverend firmly by the arm, leading him away from the circle. Then she watched as the reverend was addressed by Mma Potokwane, who gestured firmly as she spoke, jabbing one index finger into his chest while shaking the other one directly under his nose. The reverend, cowed, took a step backwards, only to be immediately advanced upon by Mma Potokwane. A further step back led to a fresh and even more intrusive advance.
It only took ten minutes, and then Mma Potokwane returned to Mma Ramotswe and her plate of sausages. The matron was smiling broadly.
“Well?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“Simple,” said Mma Potokwane. “All solved.”
Mma Ramotswe was wide-eyed.
“Yes,” Mma Potokwane said. “He’s like many men like that. Lots of hot air and no muscle. No backbone either. One push and they fall to bits.”
“And?”
“Well, I told him that we knew what he was up to. I told him that unless he took certain steps right now, today, then I would be clapping my hands and addressing everybody present. I would tell them that the Lord had spoken to me about the Reverend Flat Ponto and instructed me to tell them all about some of his part-time activities.”
Mma Ramotswe began to smile.
“Yes,” Mma Potokwane went on. “I told him that there were certain things he could do. He could restore to Poppy everything he had taken from her, including the silver Mercedes-Benz. Then he could tell Nametso that he was going back to his wife and that she was to go and see her mother without delay—and be kind to her again, as a daughter should be. I think that young woman will still do anything for that man, and so I suspect she will obey.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered whether he would comply.
“Oh, he will, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “I gave him half an hour to do these things. I also told him that he should watch his step in future, as we would be keeping an eye on him. I told him there was to be no further taking advantage of the members of his church.”
“And do you really think he will do that?” asked
Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwane thought for a few moments. “I think he will,” she said. “There’s a reason why that man will do as I ask.”
Mma Ramotswe waited to hear it.
“I only realised it today,” said Mma Potokwane. “It came back to me. Flat Ponto was one of our children—a long time ago.”
Mma Ramotswe expressed amazement. “A graduate of the Orphan Farm?”
“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “I had forgotten about him, but then I remembered. And so I am sure that he will do as I tell him, Mma. And anyway, he was very ashamed when he saw it was me.”
“I can imagine,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I think he might behave better in future,” Mma Potokwane concluded. “I have seen something today.”
“And what was that, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwane pointed to a group of women standing under a tree. “There is a woman over there who has lost her husband. I happen to know about her—she lives in Tlokweng.”
Mma Ramotswe waited. “That woman over there, Mma? The thin one?”
“That’s her, Mma. And I saw him with her a short while ago. I saw how kind he was being to her. He went over to speak to her, and I watched him reach into his pocket and give her money. That woman is very poor, Mma. He gave her some money—I saw it happen.”
“So he is a kind man, Mma?”
Mma Potokwane smiled. “I think he is. And that’s the biggest thing in my view, Mma Ramotswe—kindness. He’s a kind man who is also a bit weak…But then, what men aren’t a bit weak, Mma Ramotswe?”
“You’re right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not always easy for men.”
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Mma Potokwane. “Flat’s problem is simply a problem that many men have—and reverends are obviously no exception.”
“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. She knew about that problem—the problem that so many men experienced. It was all to do with women and the effect that women had on them. Some men simply could not resist. It was not really their fault, she felt—it was a sort of design flaw in men. But they would have to try, and if Mma Potokwane, or her like, was around to help them try, then that might make it a bit easier for them. Poor men.
Mma Ramotswe’s gaze shifted to Mma Potokwane’s plate of sausages.
“You have these,” said Mma Potokwane magnanimously. “I will get some more for myself.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked her, and took the plate. Then she thought: of course, these sausages are now cold. The next plate of sausages would be warm.
“No, Mma,” she said, handing the plate back to Mma Potokwane. “You are too generous, far too generous. I shall go and get some for myself—it is no bother.”
* * *
—
ON MONDAY MORNING, Mma Ramotswe collected the mail on her way in to the office and had already opened and perused it by the time Mma Makutsi arrived. Mma Makutsi viewed the pile of letters on Mma Ramotswe’s desk with an inquisitive eye. “There are many people writing to us, Mma,” she said. The us was stressed because Mma Makutsi preferred to open everything herself, even if she immediately passed it on to Mma Ramotswe: this ensured that she saw everything, even those letters marked personal or confidential.
There was one letter in particular that Mma Ramotswe had set aside from the rest—a mixed bag of bills, advertisements, and rambling missives from members of the public who wrote, out of the blue, for information on family history, unsolved crimes, and ancient rural jealousies.
“There is a letter I think you should see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is from Mma Mogorosi.”
Mma Makutsi sat down at her desk, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read the letter that Mma Ramotswe had handed her. After she finished, she laid it down and sighed. “Why did he go to all that trouble?” she asked. “Just to impress people?”
Mma Ramotswe said, “Forgiveness is good, Mma. If she can forgive him, then that is a good outcome. And remember, Mma, he is a man—and a man of a certain age. When men get to that age, they sometimes do foolish things—they forget themselves—because they are…well, they become anxious that ladies no longer find them attractive. It is called insecurity, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi snorted. “Men are very fortunate that women are so understanding.” She paused, and smiled with a certain air of satisfaction. “So I was almost right, Mma. I said that man must be up to something—and he was. It’s just that it wasn’t quite the thing I thought he was up to. I did not think that he would just pretend to be having an affair with that mathematics teacher.”
“Who was entirely innocent,” Mma Ramotswe added. She paused as she contemplated innocence. She had suspected Mma Mogorosi of having an affair herself, having seen her with that man in the supermarket, allowing him to pinch her. But if she had been, then why would she have written that note to the teacher? Jealousy perhaps lay behind that, or double standards. She might have expected her husband to remain faithful while she herself had a dalliance with somebody else. Or the man in the supermarket was, indeed, a member of her family and not a lover at all. Or the husband was not making it up—he was having an affair and she was misleading them in saying that it was imaginary on his part. She might do that if she felt guilty about her own conduct and wanted to present him in a better light. That was possible.
Mma Ramotswe sighed. You had to sigh sometimes, because life was so complicated or impenetrable; or because people behaved in a messy way; or because there was simply no ready solution to a human mix-up. What did Clovis Andersen say about it? Anything? Did he not say that you should not expect a resolution of everything because some details in any picture were simply not there, and never would be? Did he not say that—that great man from Muncie, Indiana, who gave the world that singular gift of The Principles of Private Detection? It came back to her. Don’t think you can explain everything, Clovis Andersen wrote, because you can’t.
Mma Makutsi shook her head in wonderment at the foibles of people. “Sometimes you really have to ask yourself: Why do people do the things they do, Mma? That is what you ask yourself.”
“Because they are people,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that is the answer to that.”
The door opened. It was Charlie. He looked at the two women. He smiled. “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “Next Saturday, two o’clock sharp—I am getting married. It will be a small wedding because there is not much time, but you are both invited. And Phuti. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”
Mma Ramotswe stood up. She held her arms open, and Charlie rushed headlong into them. She hugged him to her. He said, “Oh, Mma, oh, Mma…,” and he began to cry.
Mma Makutsi came out from behind her desk. She too opened her arms. “Dear Charlie,” she said. “This is very good news.”
Mma Ramotswe released Charlie, wiping at his tears of joy with the sleeve of her blouse. He turned to Mma Makutsi and she embraced him. Her glasses scraped the bridge of his nose. That did not matter.
Mma Makutsi made tea. They drank it while seated in a circle. They talked about what they would wear and about what Charlie should wear. Mma Makutsi said that Phuti had a suit that was a little bit too small for him but that should fit Charlie perfectly. It was made of a sort of shiny black fabric that was very fashionable these days, she said. Charlie said that he would love to try it. “Even if it is a bit tight, I can hold my stomach in,” he said.
Not much work was done that morning, but there was not much work to do. At midday, Mma Ramotswe suggested that Charlie should take the afternoon off. Mma Makutsi said that he could come with her to her house and try on Phuti’s suit. For her part, Mma Ramotswe had a lunch appointment, on the verandah of the President Hotel, where she was due to meet Poppy and Calviniah and talk about the old days in Mochudi.
They did just that. They talked. And at the end, Mma Ramotswe looked with fondness at her two old friends. Calviniah was
happy because her daughter had returned to her; Poppy was relieved because she had been anxious about what she had done even before Mma Potokwane resolved the situation for her. Her car had been returned, along with other property she had parted with. “I was very foolish,” she said. “It went to my head, I’m afraid.”
“We are all foolish at some time or another,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is no shame in that.”
After their meal they went their separate ways. Mma Ramotswe started to drive back to the office, but thought better of it and made her way back to her house on Zebra Drive. She would spend some time in her garden, she decided, getting it ready for the rain that people said was forecast for the following day—the life-giving rain, the rain they had awaited for so long. And she would think about all the good things she had had in her life—good things given to her by her father, by her friends, by her country, Botswana, that dear and good place—and the good things she still had, which were so many; so numerous, in fact, that it would take far too long to count them.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and of a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
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