“Well,” she began. “It is important to get into the house and listen to what those people are talking about. It is important to watch that woman who is planning to do these wicked things. It is important to look into her heart.”
“Yes,” said the Government Man. “That is what I want you people to do. You look into that heart and find the evil. Then you shine a torch on the evil and say to my brother:See! See this bad heart in your wife. See how she is plotting, plotting all the time! ”
“It wouldn’t be that simple,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Life is not that simple. It just isn’t.”
“Please, Mma,” said the Government Man. “Let us listen to this clever woman in glasses. She has some very good ideas.”
Mma Makutsi adjusted her glasses and continued. “There are servants in the house, aren’t there?”
“Five,” said the Government Man. “Then there are servants for outside. There are men who look after the cattle. And there are the old servants of my father. They cannot work anymore, but they sit in the sun outside the house and my father feeds them well. They are very fat.”
“So you see,” said Mma Makutsi. “An inside servant sees everything. A maid sees into the bed of the husband and wife, does she not? A cook sees into their stomachs. Servants are always there, watching, watching. They will talk to another servant. Servants know everything.”
“So you will go and talk to the servants?” asked the Government Man. “But will they talk to you? They will be worried about their jobs. They will just be quiet and say that there is nothing happening.”
“But Mma Ramotswe knows how to talk to people,” countered Mma Makutsi. “People talk to her. I have seen it. Can you not get her to stay in your father’s house for a few days? Can you not arrange that?”
“Of course I can,” said the Government Man. “I can tell my parents that there is a woman who has done me a political favour. She needs to be away from Gaborone for a few days because of some troubles here. They will take her.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. It was not her assistant’s place to make suggestions of this sort, particularly when their effect would be to railroad her into taking a case which she did not wish to take. She would have to speak to Mma Makutsi about this, but she did not wish to embarrass her in front of this man with his autocratic ways and his pride. She would accept the case, not because his thinly veiled threat had worked—that she had clearly stood up to by saying that she could not hear him—but because she had been presented with a way of finding out what needed to be found out.
“Very well,” she said. “We will take this on, Rra. Not because of anything you have said to me, particularly those things that I did not hear.” She paused, allowing the effect of her words to be felt. “But I will decide what to do once I am there. You must not interfere.”
The Government Man nodded enthusiastically. “That is fine, Mma. I am very happy with that. And I am sorry that I said things which I should not have said. You must know that my brother is very important to me. I would not have said anything if it had not been for my fears for my brother. That is all.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at him. He did love his brother. It could not be easy to see him married to a woman whom he mistrusted so strongly. “I have already forgotten what was said, Rra,” she said. “You need not worry.”
The Government Man rose to his feet. “Will you start tomorrow?” he said. “I shall make the arrangements.”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I will start in a few days’ time. I have much to do here in Gaborone. But do not worry, if there is anything that can be done for your poor brother, I shall do it. Once we take on a case, we do not treat it lightly. I promise you that.”
The Government Man reached across the desk and took her hand in his. “You are a very kind woman, Mma. What they say about you is true. Every word.”
He turned to Mma Makutsi. “And you, Mma. You are a clever lady. If you ever decide that you are tired of being a private detective, come and work for the Government. The Government needs women like you. Most of the women we have working in Government are no good. They sit and paint their nails. I have seen them. You would work hard, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe was about to say something, but the Government Man was already on his way out. From the window, they saw his driver open the car door smartly and slam it shut behind him.
“If I did go to work for the Government,” said Mma Makutsi, adding quickly, “and I’m not going to do that, of course. But I wonder how long it would be before I had a car like that, and a driver.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Don’t believe everything he says,” she said. “Men like that can make all sorts of promises. And he is a very stupid man. Very proud too.”
“But he was telling the truth about the brother’s wife?” asked Mma Makutsi anxiously.
“Probably,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I don’t think he made that up. But remember what Clovis Andersen says. Every story has two sides. So far, we’ve only heard one. The stupid side.”
LIFE WAS becoming complicated, thought Mma Ramotswe. She had just agreed to take on a case which could prove far from simple, and which would take her away from Gaborone. That in itself was problematic enough, but the whole situation became much more difficult when one thought about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. And then there was the question of the children; now that they had settled into her house at Zebra Drive she would have to establish some sort of routine for them. Rose, her maid, was a great help in that respect, but she could not shoulder the whole burden herself.
The list she had begun to compose earlier that morning had been headed by the task of preparing the office for a move. Now she thought that she should promote the issue of the garage to the top of the list and put the office second. Then she could fit the children in below that: she wrote SCHOOL in capital letters and a telephone number beneath that. This was followed by GET MAN TO FIX FRIDGE .TAKE ROSE ’S SON TO THE DOCTOR FOR HIS ASTHMA, and finally she wrote: DO SOMETHING ABOUT BAD WIFE .
“Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I think that I am going to take you over to the garage. We cannot let Mr J.L.B. Matekoni down, even if he is behaving strangely. You must start your duties as Acting Manager right now. I will take you in the van.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I am ready, Mma,” she said. “I am ready to manage.”
CHAPTER SIX
UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
TLOKWENG ROAD Speedy Motors stood a short distance off the road, half a mile beyond the two big stores that had been built at the edge of the district known as the Village. It was in a cluster of three buildings: a general dealer’s shop that stocked everything from cheap clothing to paraffin and golden syrup, and a builder’s yard which dealt in timber and sheets of corrugated iron for roofs. The garage was at the eastern end, with several thorn trees around it and an old petrol pump to the front. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been promised a more modern pump, but the petrol company was not keen for him to sell petrol in competition with their more modern outlets and they conveniently forgot this promise. They continued to deliver petrol, as they were contractually bound to do, but they did it without enthusiasm and tended to forget when they had agreed to come. As a result, the fuel storage tanks were frequently empty.
None of that mattered very much. Clients came to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors because they wanted their cars to be fixed by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni rather than to buy petrol. They were people who understood the difference between a good mechanic and one who merely fixed cars. A good mechanic understood cars; he could diagnose a problem just by listening to an engine running, in much the same way as an experienced doctor may see what is wrong just by looking at the patient.
“Engines talk to you,” he explained to his apprentices. “Listen to them. They are telling you what is wrong with them, if only you listen.”
Of course, the apprentices did not understand what he meant. They had an entirely different view of machinery and were quite incapable of appreciat
ing that engines might have moods, and emotions, that an engine might feel stressed or under pressure, or relieved and at ease. The presence of the apprentices was an act of charity on the part of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was concerned that there should be enough properly trained mechanics in Botswana to replace his generation when it eventually retired.
“Africa will get nowhere until we have mechanics,” he once remarked to Mma Ramotswe. “Mechanics are the first stone in the building. Then there are other people on top. Doctors. Nurses. Teachers. But the whole thing is built on mechanics. That is why it is important to teach young people to be mechanics.”
Now, driving up to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi saw one of the apprentices at the wheel of a car while the other was pushing it slowly forward into the workshop. As they approached, the apprentice who was doing the pushing abandoned his task to look at them and the car rolled backwards.
Mma Ramotswe parked her tiny white van under a tree and she and Mma Makutsi walked over to the office entrance.
“Good morning, Bomma,” the taller of the two apprentices said. “Your suspension on that van of yours is very bad. You are too heavy for it. See how it goes down on one side. We can fix it for you.”
“There is nothing wrong with it,” retorted Mma Ramotswe. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni himself looks after that van. He has never said anything about suspension.”
“But he is saying nothing about anything these days,” said the apprentice. “He is quite silent.”
Mma Makutsi stopped and looked at the boy. “I am Mma Makutsi,” she said, staring at him through her large glasses. “I am the Acting Manager. If you want to talk about suspension, then you can come and talk to me in the office. In the meantime, what are you doing? Whose car is that and what are you doing to it?”
The apprentice looked over his shoulder for support from his friend.
“It is the car of that woman who lives behind the police station. I think she is some sort of easy lady.” He laughed. “She uses this car to pick up men and now it will not start. So she can get no men. Ha!”
Mma Makutsi bristled with anger. “It would not start, would it?”
“Yes,” said the apprentice. “It would not start. And so Charlie and I had to drive over with the truck and tow it in. Now we are pushing it into the garage to look at the engine. It will be a big job, I think. Maybe a new starter motor. You know these things. They cost a lot of money and it is good that the men give that woman all that money so she can pay. Ha!”
Mma Makutsi moved her glasses down on her nose and stared at the boy over the top of them.
“And what about the battery?” she said. “Maybe it’s the battery. Did you try to jump-start it?”
The apprentice stopped smiling.
“Well?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Did you take the leads? Did you try?”
The apprentice shook his head. “It is an old car. There will be something else wrong with it.”
“Nonsense,” said Mma Makutsi. “Open the front. Have you got a good battery in the workshop? Put the leads on that and try.”
The apprentice looked at the other, who shrugged.
“Come on,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have a lot to do in the office. Get going please.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but watched with Mma Makutsi as the apprentices moved the car the last few yards into the workshop and then linked the battery leads to a fresh battery. Then, sullenly, one of them climbed into the driver’s seat and tried the ignition. The engine started immediately.
“Charge it up,” said Mma Makutsi. “Then change the oil for that woman and take the car back to her. Tell her that you are sorry it has taken longer than necessary to fix, but that we have given her an oil change for nothing to make up for it.” She turned to Mma Ramotswe, who was standing smiling beside her. “Customer loyalty is very important. If you do something for the customer, then the customer is going to stay with you forever. That is very important in business.”
“Very,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. She had harboured doubts about Mma Makutsi’s ability to manage the garage, but these were well on their way to being allayed.
“Do you know much about cars?” she asked her assistant casually, as they began to sort out the crowded surface of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s desk.
“Not very much,” answered Mma Makutsi. “But I am good with typewriters, and one machine is very much like another, don’t you think?”
THEIR IMMEDIATE task was to find out what cars were waiting to be attended to and which were booked in for future attention. The elder of the two apprentices, Charlie, was summoned into the office and asked to give a list of outstanding work. There were eight cars, it transpired, which were parked at the back of the garage waiting for parts. Some of these had been ordered and others had not. Once a list had been made, Mma Makutsi telephoned each supplier in turn and enquired about the part.
“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is very cross,” she said sharply. “And we will not be able to pay you for past orders if you do not let us get on with new work. Do you understand that?”
Promises were made, and, for the most part, kept. Parts began to arrive several hours later, brought round by the suppliers themselves. These were duly labelled—something which had not happened before, said the apprentices—and placed on a bench, in order of urgency. In the meantime, their work coordinated by Mma Makutsi, the apprentices busily fitted parts, tested engines, and eventually handed over each vehicle to Mma Makutsi for testing. She interrogated them as to what had been done, sometimes asking to inspect the work itself, and then, being unable to drive, she handed the vehicle over to Mma Ramotswe for a test run before she telephoned the owner to tell them that the work was finished. Only half the bill would be charged, she explained, to compensate for the length of the delay. This mollified every owner, except one, who announced that he would be going elsewhere in future.
“Then you will not be able to take advantage of our free service offer,” said Mma Makutsi quietly. “That is a pity.”
This brought the necessary change of mind, and at the end of the day Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had returned six cars to their owners, all of whom had appeared to have forgiven them.
“It has been a good first day,” said Mma Makutsi, as she and Mma Ramotswe watched the exhausted apprentices walking off down the road. “Those boys worked very hard and I have rewarded them with a bonus of fifty pula each. They are very happy and I’m sure that they will become better apprentices. You’ll see.”
Mma Ramotswe was bemused. “I think you may be right, Mma,” she said. “You are an exceptional manager.”
“Thank you,” said Mma Makutsi. “But we must go home now, as we have a lot to do tomorrow.”
Mma Ramotswe drove her assistant home in the tiny white van, along the roads that were crowded with people returning from work. There were minibuses, overloaded and listing alarmingly to one side with their burden, bicycles with passengers perched on the carriers, and people simply walking, arms swinging, whistling, thinking, hoping. She knew the road well, having driven Mma Makutsi home on many occasions, and was familiar with the ramshackle houses with their knots of staring, inquisitive children who seemed to populate such areas. She dropped her assistant at her front gate and watched her walk round to the back of the building and the breeze-block shack in which she lived. She thought she saw a figure in the doorway, a shadow perhaps, but then Mma Makutsi turned round and Mma Ramotswe, who could not be seen to be watching her, had to drive off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE GIRL WITH THREE LIVES
NOT EVERYBODY had a maid, of course, but if you were in a well-paid job and had a house of the size which Mma Ramotswe did, then not to employ a maid—or indeed not to support several domestic servants—would have been seen as selfishness. Mma Ramotswe knew that there were countries where people had no servants, even when they were well enough off to do so. She found this inexplicable. If people who were in a position to have servants chose not to do so, then wha
t were the servants to do?
In Botswana, every house in Zebra Drive—or indeed every house with over two bedrooms—would be likely to have a servant. There were laws about how much domestic servants should be paid, but these were often flouted. There were people who treated their servants very badly, who paid them very little and expected them to work all hours of the day, and these people, as far as Mma Ramotswe knew, were probably in the majority. This was Botswana’s dark secret—this exploitation—which nobody liked to talk about. Certainly nobody liked to talk about how the Masarwa had been treated in the past, as slaves effectively, and if one mentioned it, people looked shifty and changed the subject. But it had happened, and it was still happening here and there for all that anybody knew. Of course, this sort of thing happened throughout Africa. Slavery had been a great wrong perpetrated against Africa, but there had always been willing African slavers, who sold their own people, and there were still vast legions of Africans working for a pittance in conditions of near-slavery. These people were quiet people, weak people, and the domestic servants were amongst them.
Mma Ramotswe was astonished that people could behave so callously to their servants. She herself had been in the house of a friend who had referred, quite casually, to the fact that her maid was given five days holiday a year, and unpaid at that. This friend boasted that she had managed to cut the maid’s wages recently because she thought her lazy.
“But why doesn’t she go, if you do such a thing?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
The friend had laughed. “Go where? There are plenty of people wanting her job, and she knows it. She knows that I could get somebody to do her job for half the wages she’s getting.”
Mma Ramotswe had said nothing, but had mentally ended the friendship at that point. This had given her cause for thought. Can one be the friend of a person who behaves badly? Or is the case that bad people can only have bad friends, because only other bad people will have sufficient in common with them to be friends? Mma Ramotswe thought of notoriously bad people. There was Idi Amin, for example, or Henrik Verwoerd. Idi Amin, of course, had something wrong with him; perhaps he was not bad in the same way as Mr Verwoerd, who had seemed quite sane, but who had a heart of ice. Had anybody loved Mr Verwoerd? Had anybody held his hand? Mma Ramotswe assumed that they had; there had been people at his funeral, had there not, and did they not weep, just as people weep at the funerals of good men? Mr Verwoerd had his people, and perhaps not all of his people were bad. Now that things had changed over the border in South Africa, these people still had to go on living. Perhaps they now understood the wrong they had done; even if they did not, they had been forgiven, for the most part. The ordinary people of Africa tended not to have room in their hearts for hatred. They were sometimes foolish, like people anywhere, but they did not bear grudges, as Mr Mandela had shown the world. As had Seretse Khama, thought Mma Ramotswe; though nobody outside Botswana seemed to remember him anymore. Yet he was one of Africa’s great men, and had shaken the hand of her father, Obed Ramotswe, when he had visited Mochudi to talk to the people. And she, Precious Ramotswe, then a young girl, had seen him step out of his car and the people had flocked about him and among them, holding his old battered hat in his hand, was her father. And as the Khama had taken her father’s hand, her own heart had swelled with pride; and she remembered the occasion every time she looked at the photograph of the great statesman on her mantelpiece.
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