The Colors of All the Cattle

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Charlie said nothing; he was adjusting the white cloth of his sling. Mma Ramotswe was silent too; sometimes these stories of Mma Makutsi’s went off at a tangent.

  “I don’t think,” Mma Makutsi continued, “that people should be able to get compensation for doing something stupid. If you do something stupid—like try to pick up an executive sofa—then I think you can’t go to your boss and say, It’s all your fault, Boss. I don’t think that at all. You shouldn’t get compensation for doing something stupid, and nor should you get compensation for being stupid.” She paused. “You wouldn’t have done anything stupid, would you, Charlie?”

  As Mma Makutsi asked this question, and as Charlie reacted to it, Mma Ramotswe realised that in all probability Charlie had indeed done something stupid. But this realisation only made her want to defend him. Of course young men did stupid things—it was part of being a young man—and if you saw a young man with an arm in a sling, then you had every reason to assume that his injury was the result of some act of folly. But even if you reached that entirely feasible conclusion, you might still wish to spare the young man his embarrassment, and she wanted to do that for Charlie.

  “I’m sure that Charlie has not done something stupid, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I think that we—”

  She was not allowed to finish. “Oh, I’m not so sure, Mma. How did you get it, Charlie? Why won’t you tell us?”

  “I twisted my arm,” muttered Charlie. “I hit it on something.”

  Mma Makutsi was quick to sense a contradiction. “Twisted it? Or hit it? You can’t do two things at the same time, can you?”

  “Twisted it,” Charlie replied.

  “How?” pressed Mma Makutsi.

  “Let’s not worry about that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Spilt milk is spilt milk. It doesn’t matter how you spill it.”

  “That’s right,” said Charlie, relieved at the support he was receiving.

  “But I don’t see why you won’t—”

  It was Mma Ramotswe’s turn to cut Mma Makutsi short. “Mma Makutsi,” she said, raising her voice slightly, “I think we should have tea. And then we can talk about this Marang business. I have some important news to give you.” She did not have any important news, but she thought that this at least would get Mma Makutsi off the subject of Charlie’s arm, saving the young man further interrogation.

  * * *

  —

  “YOUR TEA,” said Mma Makutsi, placing Mma Ramotswe’s mug on the desk in front of her. “Red bush for you, Mma, and special English Breakfast for me and Charlie.” She placed Charlie’s mug on a filing cabinet where he could take it with his good arm.

  “English Breakfast,” mused Charlie. “Why do they call it that, Mma Makutsi?”

  Mma Makutsi made a gesture to suggest that everybody should know the answer to that. “Because that is what they drink for their breakfast over there,” she said. “English people are always drinking tea. That is something they brought to Africa. They said, Why don’t you drink tea like us? And we said, Yes, that’s a good idea, we’ll drink tea.”

  “And then we said, Go back to your place and drink tea there,” said Charlie. “That’s what people like Nkrumah said to the English people, way back. I learned about that at school.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a sip from her mug. “There is enough tea for everybody,” she said. “There is enough tea for everybody in the world, if we share it properly.”

  “Yes, if we share it properly,” said Charlie. “But do we? There are some people who take too much tea, Mma. I learned about that too.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi, lifting her mug to her lips. “There are. There are people who want more than their fair share of tea.” She looked out of the window, and the sun briefly caught the lenses of her large round spectacles. If ever there were a warning to those who would take more than their fair share of tea, then this was it. She put down her cup. “Now, Mma,” she said, “what was this news you have for us?”

  Mma Ramotswe had to think quickly. “It’s news that there’s no news,” she said. “The news is…” She faltered. She should have tried to distract Mma Makutsi in some other way—now it was too late. “The news is, I’m afraid, that I have no news. In other words, I cannot think of what to do in the Marang enquiry. I have thought and thought, but no ideas have come to me. That’s the news, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi frowned. “That is not very helpful, Mma. Forgive me for saying that, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to a solution.”

  Charlie, who had gulped down his tea, as he usually did, suddenly raised a finger of his undamaged hand. “I have an idea,” he announced.

  They both turned to look at him.

  “I have a friend in Mochudi,” he said. “He and I go back a long, long way. Six years—maybe more. He works for a cattle-feed company.”

  They waited.

  “He’s always been very keen on cars,” Charlie continued. “He wanted to be a mechanic, but he wasn’t accepted for training, and so he became one of those people who fix the bodywork of cars when they have an accident. He takes out dents. He spray-paints cars.”

  Mma Makutsi pointed out that Charlie had said that his friend worked for a cattle-feed company. Where did cars come into it?

  “He fixes cars in his spare time,” said Charlie. “There was nowhere up there to have dents taken out. His uncle has a workshop, and my friend does it with his uncle. It’s cheaper than bringing your car down to Gaborone.”

  Mma Ramotswe broke into a broad smile. “I can see where this is going, Charlie. Well done. You think that if the car was damaged in the accident—even just a small dent where it hit poor Dr. Marang, then…”

  Charlie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, then the driver would have wanted the evidence covered up. He’d want the dent fixed, wouldn’t he?”

  Mma Makutsi clapped her hands together. “Very clever, Charlie!” she exclaimed. “Very, very clever!”

  Charlie basked in the admiration of the two women. “It’s just an idea, of course,” he said. “He may not be able to tell us anything, but he could, you know.”

  “It’s just an idea,” echoed Mma Ramotswe, “but it’s the only idea we have at the moment. It gives us something to work on.” She paused. “I think that you should go to see this friend of yours up in Mochudi, Charlie. You could go today, if he’s there.”

  Mma Makutsi agreed. “I could go with him,” she said. “I could go with him to supervise.”

  Mma Ramotswe was tactful. “It’s very good of you to offer, Mma, but I think maybe we should give Charlie the chance to conduct an independent investigation. You would be able to do it much more quickly than he would, Mma, because you are so senior—and generally so successful. But I think it would be good for Charlie to spread his wings a bit, don’t you think?”

  Flattered at the tribute, Mma Makutsi was quick to agree that Charlie should go to Mochudi by himself.

  “Take my van,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’ll go home with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

  Charlie smiled. “I will be very careful, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “Of course you will be, Charlie,” she said. “And Mma Makutsi will give you some expenses money out of the petty cash.”

  Charlie’s face suddenly fell. “My arm, Mma. I’d forgotten about my arm.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. “How about Fanwell? I can see whether Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will give him the afternoon off. He can be your driver—your assistant, so to speak.”

  Charlie thought this a very good idea, as did Fanwell when he was approached. “I will be an assistant detective for an afternoon,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Assistant to an assistant to a detective,” corrected Mma Makutsi. It was important, she felt, to get terminology right, especially when it came to job descriptions and positions. You had to watch people—if you were not carefu
l, all sorts of people would promote themselves well above their real station in life, causing nothing but confusion and uncertainty. That this principle should apply to her as well was not something she had given much thought to—in fact, she had given it none, which was just as well, given her own record.

  Talk about criticising others for the things you do yourself! remarked her shoes, but in a voice so muted, a tone so reedy and slight, that it might have been the sound of the wind in the acacia, the sound of dust blowing over the land, the sound made by the beating of a bird’s wing on the yielding air.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE REAL VOICE OF BOTSWANA

  MMA RAMOTSWE had planned to go to the council offices at three that afternoon. Her mind was now firmly made up: she would hand in her letter of withdrawal, explain herself to the official, and then telephone Mma Potokwane and tell her that, much as she appreciated the faith the matron had shown in her, a political career was just not for her. She would present Mma Potokwane with a fait accompli, and thus prevent her friend from exercising any of her undoubted persuasive powers. She told Mma Makutsi of her decision shortly before lunch. “I have thought very hard about this,” Mma Ramotswe said. “I have gone over all the pros and cons, Mma, and I feel that on balance I should not do this.”

  Mma Makutsi stared at her in disbelief. “But you said you would, Mma. You said so. I was there. I heard you.”

  Mma Ramotswe acknowledged that this was so, but pointed out that a person had a right to change her mind. “You’ve changed your mind in the past, Mma—we all have. If we aren’t allowed to change our minds, then where would we be?”

  But Mma Makutsi was not to be put off. “Yes, we can change our minds, Mma, but not in very important matters. There are times when, if you change your mind, all will be lost. This is one of them.”

  “All will not be lost,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to calm her down. “The world will go on. The council will get by without me.”

  Mma Makutsi’s voice rose. “But what about Violet Sephotho? What about her? If she wins, then we may as well all pack up and leave.”

  “Oh come now, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Even if Violet wins—which she may not do—there are many other people on the council. They won’t all be like her. She won’t end up as mayor.”

  This was an unfortunate tack. “Mayor!” screamed Mma Makutsi. “Violet Sephotho as mayor of Gaborone! Oh, Mma, we are lost; we are completely lost. It is the end. The end. I shall move to Francistown. I’ll get Phuti to transfer the business…”

  Mma Ramotswe struggled to be heard. “Nobody said Violet would be mayor, Mma. Nobody. So, please calm down.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at her reproachfully. “It’s all very well for you to ask me to calm down, Mma, but it’s not every day that you’re…” She paused, and there was now another reproachful look. “It’s not every day that you’re betrayed.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I have not betrayed you, Mma. I have not betrayed anybody. I am simply saying that I do not want to be on the council. That is my decision.”

  “Then we need not discuss it any further, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall try to get over my disappointment—my deep disappointment. I shall try not to mention this very sad thing ever again.” She busied herself with a pile of papers on her desk. “I shall not talk about it again, even though I am very, very upset.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’d never want to upset you, Mma Makutsi.”

  Mma Makutsi sniffed. “We need to deal with some correspondence, Mma Ramotswe. There are bills to be sent out. Life has to go on in spite of things like this—in spite of major setbacks and defeats. We have to ignore those things—those betrayals and what-not—and look forward. That is the only way, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed again. “Let’s start with the bills,” she suggested.

  * * *

  —

  MMA POTOKWANE arrived at two-thirty, just as Mma Ramotswe was putting the final touches to an important business letter. The matron usually gave them some warning of her visits by telephoning to check up that they were free to see her, but on this occasion she was unannounced. “Ko, ko!” she called as she pushed open the door. “I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

  Mma Makutsi looked up from the pile of envelopes she was addressing. Then she glanced across at Mma Ramotswe. This was going to be interesting.

  Mma Ramotswe did her best to conceal the fact that she was considerably put out by this unexpected visit. It could not have come at a worse time: her plan had been to visit Mma Potokwane and present her with a done deed; now she would have to explain her change of mind without having the assurance of a signed-and-sealed withdrawal. But she tried not to show her dismay, welcoming Mma Potokwane warmly and gesturing for her to sit down in the client chair.

  “I thought we could have a preliminary planning meeting,” Mma Potokwane began as she lowered herself onto the chair. “There is a great deal to do, Mma Ramotswe.” She turned to face Mma Makutsi, whom she had greeted perfunctorily. “And it’s good that you’re here too, Mma Makutsi. There will be an important role for every one of us. Even Charlie, if he wants to be involved.”

  Mma Potokwane laughed as she referred to Charlie and his possible involvement. She was surprised, though, when neither Mma Ramotswe nor Mma Makutsi seemed to be amused. For Mma Ramotswe, of course, an initial difficulty was that of getting a word in edgewise; once Mma Potokwane got the wind in her sails, it could be difficult to stop her, and they might be well into the meeting before she had the chance to disabuse her friend of the fundamental assumption that she was still standing for election. She would have to act—and she would have to act quickly.

  “Mma Potokwane,” she began, “I have been thinking very hard—”

  She did not have the chance to finish. “So have I, Mma Ramotswe,” interjected Mma Potokwane. “I have been thinking of little else, in fact, and I have come up with a plan. I hope you will—”

  Mma Ramotswe tried again. And she would raise her voice. “I have changed my mind, Mma,” she all but shouted. “I have decided that—”

  Mma Potokwane brushed the attempted intervention aside. “No, Mma, let’s not reach any firm decisions until we have looked at the various possibilities. So if you’ve changed your mind about strategies, that is something we can talk about a bit later on.”

  “Not about strategies…,” Mma Ramotswe struggled to say, but it was hopeless: Mma Potokwane had extracted a page from her notebook and was beginning to talk about an agenda.

  It was left to Mma Makutsi to bring matters to a head. “Mma Potokwane!” she said, her glasses flashing as she spoke. “You have not been listening. Mma Ramotswe is trying to tell you something, and you are not giving her the chance to speak.”

  The reproof struck home. Mma Potokwane, momentarily taken aback, assured Mma Ramotswe that she had been listening all along—it was merely her own excitement over the campaign ahead that had made her a bit too enthusiastic. “But now I’m listening very carefully, Mma Ramotswe. Now I am going to let you say exactly what it was you wanted to say. After all, you are the candidate, and your views are more important than anybody else’s.”

  Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “I have decided not to stand,” she said. “And perhaps I should repeat that, just in case there is any misunderstanding. I have decided not to stand after all.”

  Mma Potokwane’s eyes widened. “But you said, Mma—”

  It was Mma Ramotswe’s turn to interrupt. “I know I said I would, Mma, and I’m very sorry that I have misled people. But I feel that on further consideration I just cannot do this, Mma. I cannot. I am just an ordinary person, you see, and there is a limit to what I can take on.”

  Mma Potokwane lapsed into silence.

  “I am very sorry, Mma,” repeated Mma Ramotswe. “Very sorry.”

  Mma Potokwane tur
ned to Mma Makutsi in mute appeal, but Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I tried to persuade Mma Ramotswe to change her mind,” she said. “I pointed out the danger of Violet Sephotho becoming mayor, but I’m afraid she has decided.”

  Mma Potokwane turned back to face Mma Ramotswe again. Her hands were folded together in her lap, and she lowered her gaze to stare at them. Now, almost imperceptibly, her not-inconsiderable frame began to heave as she started to sob.

  “My Botswana,” she muttered through her tears. “My Botswana. What can we do to stop it falling into the wrong hands? What can we do to stop those greedy men who want to make everything into a place where they make money? What can we do to stop our country being sold?”

  Mma Ramotswe did not know what to say.

  “Because,” continued Mma Potokwane, wiping her eyes, “if good people like you, Mma Ramotswe, will not stand up to those people, then they will win. They will win hands down and our town will be run by people who will not think of others, who will not care what they do, who will allow all sorts of people to build whatever they want, wherever they want, as long as it makes them money. Money, Mma. Money. Money. Everything will be judged by money—not by what people want, or what they feel, or what they believe in—just by money.”

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and put an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

  “Can’t we find somebody else?” she asked. “Isn’t there anybody who could stand instead of me?”

  Mma Potokwane shook her head. “There is nobody, Mma, who would stand a chance of winning. Violet will go out and get all her young men to vote for her. She will bribe the rest. You are the only person who is well enough liked to defeat that sort of thing. People trust you, Mma Ramotswe; they know that, when you speak, it is the real voice of Botswana speaking. They can hear that. You can always tell when it is the real Botswana speaking—always.”

  “Oh, Mma Potokwane,” wailed Mma Ramotswe. “I do not want to let anybody down—it’s just that I am not a person who wants to spend years and years on committees arguing about things.”