“Because the council’s decision was suspended.”
She knew the ways of councillors. There was even one known popularly as Mma Stop-Start, and another as Mr. Green-Light-Red-Light. “They changed their minds?”
“They told the Keboneng people that somebody had raised an issue with them confidentially. This issue, they said, was all to do with the suitability of Mr. Keboneng to have a road named after him.” He paused, as if savouring the dramatic revelation. “There was a scandal in the background, they said. And because of this they were unwilling to go ahead.”
“They said he was not quite the hero people thought he was? Was that it?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. Nobody was perfect—every one of us, she thought, has done something of which we are ashamed. If that were not so, then we would hardly be human. And even if we had not done it, then we had at least thought of how we might do it if given half the chance. The important thing was that such things were few and far between in our lives, and kept that way. We could be weak, of course, but one would not want to be weak all the time.
Mma Ramotswe now guessed why it was that Mma Potokwane had sought the agency’s help. “They want us to refute this allegation? Is that it?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Mma Potokwane had come on her own behalf, as his sister, but she was also representing his supporters. They all want to find out what this allegation is and prove that it is false. That is what they want, Mma.”
That was reasonable enough, she felt: a reputation, even a posthumous one, was a precious thing and people could go to some lengths to protect it.
“Do they know anything about what is being said against him?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. The council will not tell them. They said that it is confidential and that they cannot reveal what the issue is.”
She understood why this should be so. Yet it would be extremely frustrating for the relatives and the friends of the late Mr. Government Keboneng to know that there was something besmirching his memory but not to be able to get to grips with it. It would be like wrestling with smoke.
“I can see that this must be a rather difficult case for Mma Makutsi,” she said. “There’s not much to go on, is there?”
Mr. Polopetsi suddenly looked morose. “That’s why she’s passed it over to me,” he said. “She started to look into it and then she stopped—just like that, Mma—she stopped and said, ‘You must take this case, Mr. Polopetsi. I am far too busy, I’m afraid. You must sort this out.’ That is what she said to me, Mma. She said, ‘You must sort this out.’ ”
Mma Ramotswe found herself at a loss. Why on earth should Mma Makutsi wash her hands of an important case like this? Surely this was exactly the sort of case that she would want to solve herself in a glare of publicity, incurring in the process the gratitude of the client. And yet here she was, passing it over to Mr. Polopetsi, who, although undoubtedly a good man, was only part-time—and a volunteer at that. It did not make sense.
“I can see how it must be very difficult for you, Rra.”
He seemed relieved to know that his plight was understood. “It is very difficult, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “And that is why I’ve come to hand it over to you.”
She had not expected this. “But Mma Makutsi is running the agency,” she said. “I am on holiday. You know what she’s like, Rra. She does not want me to interfere while she is running things. I must respect that.”
“But she need not know,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I will do all the investigations. All I need is for you to tell me what to do.” He hesitated, his morose expression now replaced by something much brighter.
“Oh, Rra, I don’t know…”
“But you must help me, Mma. I do not want to look stupid in Mma Makutsi’s eyes, and that is how I’ll look if I go to her and say that I cannot do this thing. She will laugh at me, Mma—you know what she’s like. You have yourself just said that, I think. Those were your very words, Mma.”
—
SHE TALKED TO MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI about it because she felt that when one is faced with a problem quite so delicate there is nothing better than a heart-to-heart conversation with one’s spouse, particularly if one’s spouse knows the other parties involved.
She raised the subject that evening, when they were sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, the evening meal ready on the plates before them.
“So,” concluded Mma Ramotswe as she finished, “that is where matters stand at present. I have this request from Mr. Polopetsi—actually, it is more of a plea than a request—and frankly, Rra, I am torn. I do not know what to do.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at his plate. “I am worried that my food will get cold,” he said. “This is such a big problem that my food will get cold if I try to deal with it straightaway.”
“But of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “You must eat your food, Rra. First things first.”
He picked up his fork. “While I am eating, I shall think. I find that it is sometimes easier to think when one is eating. Eating and thinking go together.”
She reached for her own fork. “That is certainly true, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.” She was not sure if that was really so; she felt that she did not do her best thinking while eating—that came, in her case, at least, when she was drinking a cup of tea. Had Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said that drinking tea and thinking went hand in hand, then she would have been the first to agree; but he had not said that—he had said something quite different, as husbands and wives often will do: they say the opposite of what they should say.
But this was not the time for such reflections and so she waited—perhaps a little anxiously—until he had finished his beef and vegetables.
“So you have thought about it, Rra?” she asked.
He inclined his head gravely—as a judge might do before passing sentence. “I have thought about it very hard, Mma Ramotswe.”
“And?”
“And it is very clear to me that you must go and see Mma Makutsi,” he said. “You must go and put your cards on the table.” He looked at her for a moment or two before his gaze slipped back to his plate. “There wouldn’t be any more, would there, Mma?”
She fetched a pot from the top of the stove. “There is definitely more, Rra,” she said. “But before you eat, you must tell me why I should go to see Mma Makutsi.”
He repeated himself. “You must go and see your friend.”
“Yes, but why? Is there no other way of handling this?”
“No. You must go and see her and tell her that it is unfair to put Mr. Polopetsi under such strain. He is a thin man, that one, and he will not be able to bear much strain. That is why you must do it. He cannot deal with this—you can.”
Mma Ramotswe was not sure that weight and emotional robustness were that closely linked, but she knew what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni meant: Mr. Polopetsi was a vulnerable man who did not look as if he could tolerate a great deal of strain.
As she pondered, she found herself agreeing with him. “I think you are right, Rra. Although I must say that I’m a bit worried about her reaction: she will not be pleased. She does not want me to interfere while she is in charge.”
“But you’re not questioning her authority,” he parried. “All you are saying is that one of the agency staff appears to need help. That is quite different from saying that she is in any way rubbish. You are not saying that, Mma.”
She began to falter; perhaps it was not all that clear. “I hope that she will not be awkward, but I cannot be sure of that. She is famous for being difficult. If she thinks that I am trying to take over this case, then…” She left the sentence unfinished. She knew that there would be a reaction from Mma Makutsi, but she could not be sure of what it would be.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni held up a finger—his signal for silence and a sign, too, that a good idea was in the offing.
“The point is, Mma,” he began. “The point is that she will have no grounds to think you are trying to take the case away from
her—in fact, quite the opposite. You will be encouraging her to fulfill her obligations rather than to try to offload them onto that poor, harmless Polopetsi.” He paused. “Putting Mr. Polopetsi in charge of the investigation is like putting a rabbit in charge of the airport.”
She was surprised by the analogy. Who would think of putting a rabbit in charge of the airport? And why was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni so dismissive of Mr. Polopetsi? But she wanted to be sure. “I should tell her to carry out her promise to look after things?”
He looked at his plate again. “Of course, Mma. You tell her that—just that.”
She ladled a helping of stew onto his plate.
“Very good stew,” muttered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
She did not hear the compliment—or not fully, as she was still thinking of his advice. Although she entirely understood the argument in favour of openness, there were limits to the extent to which one should speak frankly. She did not agree with the custom that was sometimes followed in Africa of avoiding direct confrontation with those with whom one disagreed—that led to all sorts of failures, she knew—but one should still be careful to avoid hurting feelings by challenging others too openly. Often it was better to be gentle—to say something in such a way that the person criticised did not feel too humiliated. It was all a question of face, she decided: you had to leave room for face to be saved.
She decided to speak to Mma Makutsi, but she would be careful to be gentle. After all, an acting head of anything could well be upset if openly censured.
She sighed. “Being on holiday is not as easy as I imagined,” she said, half to herself, half to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, should he be listening.
He looked up from his stew. “Mma Ramotswe,” he said, “you can do anything. Nothing is too hard for a person like you—nothing. You are very good at doing everything, Mma, and anything you do, Mma—anything at all—will always be the right thing as far as I am concerned.”
She gazed at her husband. Being loved and admired by a man like that—and she knew that this man, this mechanic, this fixer of machines with their broken hearts, did indeed love and admire her—was like walking in the sunshine; it gave the same feeling of warmth and pleasure to bask in the love of one who has promised it, publicly at a wedding ceremony, and who is constant in his promise that such love will be given for the rest of his days. What more could any woman ask? None of us, she thought, not one single one of us, could ask for anything more than that.
CHAPTER TEN
TALKING ABOUT FURNITURE
THE NEXT DAY was a Saturday, when businesses other than shops would be closed. That applied, at one end of the spectrum, to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and at the other to Debswana Diamonds, the Standard Bank, and the Office of the President of Botswana. For the Double Comfort Furniture Store, of which Mma Makutsi’s husband, Phuti Radiphuti, was the owner and managing director, Saturday was an extremely important trading day, as it was then that young couples setting up home together, older couples thinking of home improvements, and even those who simply had nothing better to do would flock to the furniture showroom to view the displays of tables, chairs, sofas, cupboards, and beds.
Mma Ramotswe knew that Mma Makutsi often spent a large part of Saturday in the store, helping her husband with paperwork, or sometimes paging through catalogues and offering her advice on new lines they might order. She took with her the nursemaid she had employed to help with their baby, and this young woman would push Itumelang round the store in a small pram, encouraging and accepting admiring comments from shoppers.
“She is very happy for people to think he is her baby,” Mma Makutsi had confided in Mma Ramotswe. “But I don’t mind, Mma. It gives her pleasure and she has no children of her own. I can share.”
Mma Ramotswe thought it would be easier to speak to Mma Makutsi about Mr. Polopetsi on the neutral ground of the Double Comfort Furniture Store. She could have waited until Monday, of course, and called in at the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, but this could have been far more likely to result in an accusation of interference. To raise the issue on a casual visit to the store would be a different matter altogether.
It was almost midday when she arrived at the store. The car park to the front of the large yellow building was already almost full and such shady parking places as there were had long been filled. A vacant spot appeared near the door, and she took that, leaving her window open to prevent heat building up in the cab. There was nothing of any value inside and no thief with any ambition would think of stealing the van itself. Indeed, when she had last filled in the insurance form, she had been asked to declare the van’s value, and had simply written “Sentimental value” in the relevant box. And that was true, she thought; she loved that van, but she knew nobody else would—to others it was just a rather tired, now dented, piece of increasingly ancient machinery, capable of getting from A to B, but not much further, and not with any dispatch. But to her it was a friend, her faithful companion on more adventures than she could readily remember, the mute witness to hours spent watching some place of interest, to long conversations between herself and Mma Makutsi, to periods of quiet reflection on long drives through the country. All of that was part of the tiny white van’s history, and that was why she would never replace it and, when it would finally go no more, would ask for it to be left somewhere in the bush, some private place, where it might return in due course to the earth from which it had once been created—metal to metal, glass to glass…
As she entered the building she felt, with some relief, the cool touch of the air-conditioning on her skin. Phuti Radiphuti had recently installed a new system that had proved very popular with the customers in the hot season and inclined them, he claimed, to make larger purchases.
She looked about her. The store was busier than she had ever seen it, even in the few days before Christmas, when shopping fever seemed to grip the nation. Immediately in front of her a young couple was inspecting a bedside table, opening each of its three drawers and whispering comments to one another. Beyond them a family was trying out the chairs around a large and highly polished dining-room table. The three children sat at the table wide-eyed with wonder at the momentous nature of the anticipated purchase—could such a table really be for them? The mother ran her fingers over the glossy surface, as one might touch an object of great religious or artistic significance, while the father examined the mechanism by which the table might be extended or folded in upon itself.
She smiled at the sight, remembering how proud she had once been of her father’s purchase of a fine white Brahmin bull. A bull was not a table, but the feeling of satisfaction that a parent could buy something big like that was surely the same. She did not linger, though, and made her way towards the office at the back of the showroom, where Mma Makutsi, if she was in the shop, might be found.
The office door was slightly ajar, allowing Mma Ramotswe to see Phuti Radiphuti standing inside. As she approached, the door opened wider and Mma Makutsi appeared, a clipboard in her hand. She gave a start when she saw Mma Ramotswe, frowned in momentary confusion, but then gave her visitor a welcoming smile.
She spoke warmly. “I did not expect you, Mma, but this is very good timing on your part. I was just about to make tea, and here you are.”
“I can always tell when there is a possibility of tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is a very odd thing, but there it is. I can feel the onset of tea.”
Mma Makutsi beckoned her into the office, but as she did so her smile faded. “Oh, Mma, there is a big problem—a very big problem.”
Mma Ramotswe was quick to say that if they were busy she could return later on. “I know that Saturday is your busy day,” she said. “I can come back, Mma, when you have finished selling sofas and whatnot. It will be no trouble.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Mma Makutsi reassured her. “There are plenty of assistants to do the selling. It’s just that…”
Phuti Radiphuti, who h
ad been standing beside his desk, now came forward. “I think I can guess what the trouble is,” he said. “There is no red bush tea. Is that the problem, Grace?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “We did have it, but one of the people in the office drank it all and I forgot to get some more. It is my fault entirely, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is no problem, Mma Makutsi. I am perfectly happy to drink ordinary tea. Five Roses tea? That will be fine with me.”
“There!” exclaimed Phuti Radiphuti. “That is one problem solved. Nobody makes better tea than you and Five Roses!” He sang the line of the advertising jingle in a slightly croaky voice, causing Mma Makutsi to look at him with undisguised embarrassment.
“Phuti would like to be a singer,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “But unfortunately…”
“He has a fine voice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps he will teach Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to sing a bit better. He is always trying to sing something, but I cannot tell what it is. Perhaps it is the national anthem. Perhaps it is a hymn. Perhaps it is just something he heard on the radio. It is a very great mystery, this unknown song of his.”
Mma Makutsi gestured for Mma Ramotswe to sit down. With the kettle switched on, she joined her guest round a table on which a selection of trade catalogues was stacked. “So,” she began, “what brings you to the store, Mma? Are you thinking of new furniture?”
“I was driving past,” said Mma Ramotswe. That was, strictly speaking, true; she had inadvertently driven past the turning into the Double Comfort Furniture Store and had been obliged to go back. “I was driving past and I thought I might pop in and say hello.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Phuti Radiphuti.
Mma Makutsi said nothing, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe entertained the disturbing thought that she had seen through her claim. “Actually,” she said, “I had been thinking of coming to see you.” This, too, was true—as far as it went. But then she thought: I must be honest with my friend; and, after she had told herself that, the further thought occurred: I must be honest with everybody.
The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine Page 12