He noticed that Queenie-Queenie was staring at him. Was she expecting a response? Was she trying to say something other than to list the requirements of the ideal husband? But then he saw that she was not so much staring at him, but beyond him. He half-turned in his seat. Queenie-Queenie muttered something, and he turned back to look at her.
“What, Queenie?”
Now her voice was clearer. “My brother.”
Charlie twisted around again, just as Hercules reached their table. He rose to his feet, awkwardly and uncertainly, bringing himself up against the slightly taller, but considerably more muscular, figure of Hercules. He glanced down at Queenie-Queenie, who had shifted unhappily in her seat. Hercules was looking at his sister too, an eyebrow raised in unambiguous puzzlement. Eventually Queenie-Queenie broke the silence. “This is Charlie,” she said. “Charlie, this is my brother, Hercules.” And then to Hercules, “You can sit down, Hercules. You can have coffee with us.”
Charlie shot her an agonised glance. He did not want Hercules to join them for coffee. Everything was ruined now, ruined utterly. Hercules, though, did not hesitate to accept the invitation. “I’m glad I was passing,” he said. “It is good to see you, sister.”
Queenie-Queenie nodded. “It is good to see you, brother.”
The formalities over, Hercules turned to Charlie. “So, Charlie,” he said. “So what brings you here?”
Charlie frowned. What sort of question was that? What right had one person to ask another person, met in a public place, what brought him there? He was as entitled as anybody, he felt, to be sitting in that coffee bar, drinking coffee. He did not have to answer the question, What brought you here? He decided that a light-hearted response would be the best.
“A minibus,” he said.
It took Hercules a few moments to deal with that answer. Then he said, “So, a minibus.”
Charlie grinned nervously at Queenie-Queenie. “Yes, I took a minibus from my work. Along the Tlokweng Road. I got off on the other side of that road over there, and then I walked.”
Hercules pursed his lips. “So, you walked?”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “I walked.” He grinned again at Queenie-Queenie, who said nothing.
Now Hercules said, “You’re a friend of my sister’s, then?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, I hope so.” He looked at Queenie-Queenie. He felt it was time for her to become involved in this conversation, but she remained silent.
Hercules was still staring at him, his outward expression one of interest rather than hostility. But, just beneath that, Charlie detected a current of antagonism: this was clearly not a friendly encounter, in spite of the outward civility.
Hercules now asked a different question. “Your work, Rra—you mentioned your work. What work do you do?”
Charlie took a deep breath. “I’m a detective.”
The effect on Hercules was immediate. The truculent tone in which the question had been asked was replaced with a note of admiration. “A detective! So you are police then, Rra? CID?”
Charlie shook his head. “Private,” he said. “None of that police business. Private investigator.”
Hercules let out a low whistle. “Here in Gaborone? There are private detectives here in town? Right here? True as God?”
Charlie’s manner was nonchalant. “Of course. There are many people who have problems, you know. They come to us.”
Queenie-Queenie appeared to be reassured by her brother’s change of tone. “It’s very important work,” she said. “He is with the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”
Charlie nodded. “I am a partner there.”
He said this without thinking, and immediately regretted it. He looked away. I should be a partner, he thought. And then he thought: We are all partners in the business—in a sense. Everybody who works with others is a partner in the thing they did together. That was common sense.
But this was not what interested Hercules. “Ladies?” he said. “No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency?”
Charlie made a careless gesture. “Oh, that is just the name. We have always used that name so that ladies will come to us for help with their problems.” He leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence. “You know how it is with ladies, Rra? They worry about many things. Is their husband behaving himself? Has he got a secret girlfriend? Is he giving money to somebody and not bringing it home? There are many problems in a lady’s life, Rra—many big problems.”
Hercules frowned. “So you only help ladies?”
Charlie explained that this was far from the case. “We have many men who come to us too. They come because they think that anybody who can solve the problems that ladies have will be able to solve men’s problems too.”
“So the people who work there are not just ladies, then?”
Charlie shook his head. “I have some lady colleagues,” he said. “But…”
Hercules finished the sentence for him. “But you are the manager, and the ladies work for you?”
Charlie laughed. “We all work together, Rra. That is the modern idea, isn’t it? This business of men being the boss and the ladies being the secretaries is long gone. We all work together now—and the ladies have a big part to play.”
“But you must have a secretary,” Hercules persisted. “There must be somebody to type the letters and open the mail, and so on. My father has such people in his business.”
Charlie was confused. Did a truck driver need a secretary? And then there was the reference to such people. This suggested more than one secretary. Even if a truck driver had one secretary—which was unlikely—he would certainly not have need of two or more. But there was Hercules’ question, which needed answering, and so Charlie, having dug the beginnings of a hole for himself, burrowed deeper. “A secretary, Rra? Yes, we have a secretary. There is a lady called Mma Makutsi, who is a trained secretary. She does all the filing and so on…” His voice dropped away as he added, “…for me.”
Hercules appeared satisfied. “Every good business needs a Mma Makutsi,” he said. “There is nothing worse than having papers filed in the wrong place. True as God.”
“Yes,” said Charlie enthusiastically. “There is nothing worse than that.” And nothing worse than telling big lies, he thought.
Hercules looked pensive. “We sometimes have problems in the business,” he said. “My father gets very worried if he thinks that somebody is cheating us. Maybe we should come to your place, Rra, and get you to sort things out for us. Should I come around tomorrow? Where exactly is your office, Rra?”
Charlie froze. He looked mutely at Queenie-Queenie, but she was looking at her nails, having seemingly lost interest in what Hercules was saying.
“Well, Rra? How far down the Tlokweng Road is it?”
Charlie swallowed. “We are very busy at present,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strangled. “We cannot take on any new cases right now.” He paused, before adding lamely, “Perhaps some time in the future, Rra. I’ll let you know.”
Hercules looked disgruntled. “You shouldn’t turn away business,” he said gruffly. “If my father had done that, then where would we be today?”
Charlie was relieved that an immediate crisis had been averted. He could afford to be magnanimous now. “You’re right, Rra. I shall raise that with my colleagues. Perhaps we need to expand.”
“Expansion is the thing,” said Hercules. “That’s right, isn’t it, Queenie?”
Queenie-Queenie abandoned her study of her nails. “Yes, brother, that’s right. Expand, expand, expand.”
A mug of coffee had now been delivered for Hercules, and he swallowed this in a single draught. Then he looked again at Charlie. “Arm-wrestle?” he said.
Charlie was confused.
“He wants you to arm-wrestle with him,” explained Queenie-Queenie. She looked at Charlie with concern.
“I have to warn you: he’s very strong.” She turned to her brother and admonished him. “Don’t hurt Charlie. He’s not used to it.”
“Of course I won’t hurt him,” Hercules reassured her. “Nobody gets hurt in an arm-wrestle. True as God. Okay, Charlie? Arm-wrestle?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AN ASSISTANT TO AN ASSISTANT
THE FOLLOWING DAY Mma Ramotswe made one of her lists. These were sometimes entitled Things to be done today; on other occasions they were headed Things to be done soon, and, rather more rarely, simply Things to be done. The descending order of urgency was matched by a descending rate of fulfilment. Things to be done tended to be merely aspirational—catalogues of things that would be done if conditions were right or if there was nothing else more pressing to be done. Things to be done today were, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni once wryly observed, those tasks that should have been done yesterday but which, not having been done, were now weighing heavily on Mma Ramotswe.
“Perhaps you might have another list altogether, Mma,” he suggested. “This could be called Things I’ll never do. You would not feel uncomfortable reading that list, as you will have already admitted that these are things you do not want to do—and will not do.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “It would include many wishes,” she said. “It would have all those things that it would have been nice to do.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni warmed to the theme. “And you could have yet another list,” he said. “Things that other people should do, but don’t seem to be doing.”
Mma Ramotswe thought for a while. “That could be a very long list,” she said. “There are many people who do not do what they should be doing.”
“They probably have no lists,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “If they did, then they might do some of the things they should be doing but are not.”
But now, on that particular day, she set off to the office from her house on Zebra Drive, her tiny white van coughing and spluttering in the cool air of morning, like a person clearing his or her throat of the furriness of the night. The van was due for a service, and she would speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about that, although she always dreaded raising the subject with him. Her husband, although tolerant of just about everything, had limited understanding of why anybody should wish to drive an aged and ailing vehicle when there were modern vehicles looking for a home. He had heard the argument about character—and he could go along with that to an extent. He readily agreed with those who said that modern cars lacked individuality—he understood exactly what they meant—but at the same time his view as a mechanic could hardly be anything other than that when the time came for a car to be put down, it had to be put down. That was what vets did with animals that had no chance of recovery: to save them suffering, they would be painlessly eased out of this world. A mechanic, he thought, should do the same thing with a vehicle that had reached the end of its natural span of years. The owner might be attached to it, just as people were attached to their pets, but there was a point at which the heart should be stilled and the hard decision be made. It was the last kindness an owner could show an animal or a machine. As she drove into work, Mma Ramotswe made a mental note to talk to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about a service for the van, but did not dwell on the matter. Her thoughts were focused rather on the two items that topped her current Things to be done today list. Indeed, these two tasks were the only items on that list, and each of them, in their own particular way, was weighing heavily on her mind. Neither required much expansion. First there was Election: notify council of withdrawal. That, surely, was clear enough. Then came: Marang case: think of something (anything). That, too, was unambiguous, and yet, like the first task, it was easier said than done.
The election issue would probably have to be put off until the afternoon, when, as she had found out, the relevant council official, who only worked part-time, would be in her office. She would seek an appointment and explain that regretfully she had decided to withdraw from the council election. Since signing the paper, she had been thinking—it had kept her awake last night—and she had become more and more certain that she had made a grave error of judgement. She was really not the right person for this important and very public role. She felt uneasy about changing her mind, but it was her life, after all, and, although she had always been prepared to do her civic duty, she now felt that there must be others who would have more time for council affairs. She understood the danger of a Violet Sephotho victory, but surely there would be others who would step forward once they realised that Violet was the alternative. She hoped that they would understand, but, even if they did not, there was not much they could do about it. A person could not be forced to stand for office—that would be absurd. She imagined the scene. An official might call on some poor unfortunate citizen and say to her: I’m terribly sorry, but you have been elected President of Botswana. I know you don’t want to do it, but there you are: this is a democracy, and that is how democracies work.
She allowed herself a smile at the thought. How would Mma Potokwane react if that happened to her? Would she be able to excuse herself on the grounds that she had quite enough to do in running the Orphan Farm, without taking on the country as well? That would be a cogent and powerful excuse: the children relied on Mma Potokwane, as did the housemothers who looked after them. If she were to go off to live in State House, then who would make the duty rosters, who would order the food for the kitchens, and who would cajole local businesses into sending out the support they gave—the surplus equipment, the spare food, the blankets and toys—all of that? Of course, Mma Potokwane might be delighted to accept, and might come up with some substitute matron from somewhere. She would make, Mma Ramotswe was sure, a very fine president, if perhaps a little bit—just a touch—on the bossy side. With Mma Potokwane installed in the president’s office, she would be able to go and visit her and talk about how things were going in the country. They would eat Mma Potokwane’s fruit cake, which would be delivered from the presidential kitchens—wherever they were—in a police car, with its lights flashing…And woe betide any politician who broke ranks on Potokwane policy: he would be given a dressing-down that he would not forget in a hurry—oh, yes, he would. There were many politicians, come to think of it, who could do with such treatment right now, and it would be a fine spectacle for the country as a whole to watch.
But then she stopped thinking these satisfactory thoughts and turned her mind to the other pressing matter—the Marang case. The problem there was that she had no idea at all how even to start that investigation. There were no witnesses to whom she could speak, no physical evidence of any sort; and, in the absence of these, she could not see what she could do. Perhaps she could go up to Mochudi—as she thought she certainly would have to do at some point—and speak to people. But what would she say? She imagined going to the market there and asking people whether they had seen a blue car being driven suspiciously. She could do that easily enough, but the problem with such a question was that it was most likely to provoke either a look of bafflement or, more likely, a gale of laughter. A blue car being driven suspiciously, Mma? What do you actually mean by that? Driven slowly, by somebody wearing dark glasses? Creeping along the side of the road as if the car knew that it had no business being there? Going everywhere in reverse rather than in forward gear? That last would surely be suspicious, unless, of course, it was a car that could only go backwards rather than forwards. She had heard Charlie and Fanwell talking about such a car some time ago but had assumed that it was just part of their usual nonsensical chatter—and anyway, that was a mechanical issue rather than anything bearing upon guilt.
She reached her destination—the acacia tree at the back of the agency office. Under the shelter of its delicate grey-green foliage she parked the van, switching off the ignition with a deeply felt sigh. And the van, as if in sympathetic response to its owner’s burden of cares, gave a few final splutters before its engine became silent. “Don’t wo
rry, old friend,” she muttered, “I shall never allow them to scrap you.” She looked at the van, and it looked back at her with its small, rather lopsided headlights, mute in its gratitude, as old and trusty machinery could be. Such machinery was happy to serve, and did, until at last its valiant heart could serve no longer.
Mma Makutsi was already in the office, as was Charlie, who had his arm in a sling. Mma Makutsi was examining the injury and asking him how it had happened.
Mma Ramotswe could tell that Charlie was embarrassed. He glanced at her as she came in, and then quickly looked away again.
“See this, Mma?” said Mma Makutsi. “Charlie’s got his arm in a sling.”
Mma Ramotswe crossed the room to her desk. “So I see.” She put her bag down on the floor. “Poor you, Charlie. I hope you’re all right.”
Charlie nodded. “I only have to wear it for a day or two,” he said. “That’s what they told me at the clinic.”
“I was just asking Charlie what did it,” said Mma Makutsi. Turning to him, she asked again. “So, Charlie, why is your arm in this sling?”
“I hurt it,” Charlie replied tersely. “It’s nothing serious. Just a pulled muscle maybe.”
“Picking something up?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Lifting something? You have to be careful about that sort of thing, you know. Phuti had somebody at the shop who thought that he could lift a sofa all by himself.” She turned to face Mma Ramotswe as she described the incident. “Not a small sofa, Mma. Not one of those two-person sofas—the ones that Phuti calls a starter sofa. Not one of those, but a four-seater, one that we call an executive sofa. He picked up one of those—silly man—and pulled something in both his shoulders, his back, and somewhere down in his legs—the bit that makes your legs go backwards and forwards, that bit. He couldn’t move for weeks, and Phuti had to pay him all the time he was off work because it was an industrial injury.”
The Colors of All the Cattle Page 9