Blue Shoes and Happiness tn1lda-7

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I shall eat your share of fruit cake,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I do not need to go on a diet.”

  Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was already beginning to feel hungry, and the diet had only been going for a few minutes. Perhaps she should have just a little bit of the stew—there was still some left in the pot in the kitchen. She rose to her feet.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Is that you going into the kitchen to help yourself to stew in secret?” he asked.

  Mma Ramotswe sat down. “I was not going into the kitchen,” she said hotly. “I was just adjusting my dress. It’s feeling rather loose, you see.”

  She looked up at the ceiling. She had heard that dieting was not easy. Some time ago, before any question of a diet had arisen, she had seen an article in the paper about how diets encouraged people to become dishonest with others—and with themselves. There had been a survey conducted at one of the places where people went to diet, and it was revealed that just about everybody who went on the course took with them a secret supply of snacks. She had found that funny; the idea of adults behaving like children and smuggling in sweets and chocolate had struck her as being an amusing one. And yet now that she herself was on a diet, it did not seem so funny after all. In fact, it seemed rather sad. Those poor people wanting to eat and not being allowed to. Dieting was cruel; it was an abuse of human rights. Yes, that’s what it was, and she should not allow herself to be manipulated in this way.

  She stopped herself. Thinking like that was nothing more than coming up with excuses for breaking the diet. Mma Ramotswe was made of sterner stuff than that, and so she persisted. As the others ate the pudding she had prepared for them—banana custard with spoonfuls of red jam in the middle, she sat as if fixed to her seat, watching them enjoying themselves.

  “Are you sure you won’t have some of this custard, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “No,” she said. And then said, “Yes. Yes, I am sure that I won’t. Which means no.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “It is very good,” he said.

  This is how we are tempted, thought Mma Ramotswe. But at least some of us are strong.

  She closed her eyes. It was easier to be strong, she thought, if one had one’s eyes closed; although that would only work to a limited extent. One could not go around indefinitely with one’s eyes closed, especially if one was a detective. Quite apart from anything else, that was in direct contradiction of the advice which Clovis Andersen gave inThe Principles of Private Detection , one chapter of which was entitled “The Importance of Keeping Your Eyes Open.” Had Clovis Andersen ever been on a diet? she wondered. There was a picture of him on the back cover, and although Mma Ramotswe had never paid much attention to it, now that she brought it to mind, one salient feature of it leapt out. Clovis Andersen was traditionally built.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MR POLOPETSI TRIES TO BE HELPFUL

  MMA MAKUTSI was already in the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency when Mma Ramotswe arrived there the following morning.

  “So, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, after formal greetings had been exchanged. “So, there you are chasing after our friend, Mr Cedric Disani. What have you managed to uncover today?”

  Mma Makutsi picked up a piece of paper and brandished it. “There is a small farm down near Lobatse. I have the details here. It is meant to be the property of his brother, but I have already spoken on the telephone to the people down there who sell cattle dip. They say that it is always Mr Cedric Disani who comes to buy the dip and it is always his name on the cheques. The lawyers will be interested to hear this. I think they want to show that he is really the owner.”

  “They will be very pleased with your work,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “And Mr Disani will be very displeased.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed. “We cannot please everybody.”

  They chatted for a few minutes more before Mma Makutsi offered to make Mma Ramotswe a cup of tea.

  “I have brought in some doughnuts,” she said. “Phuti gave me some last night. He has sent one for you and one for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s face lit up. “That is very kind of him,” she said. “A doughnut …” She trailed off. She had remembered about her diet. She had eaten one slice of toast that morning, and a banana, and her stomach felt light and empty. A doughnut was exactly what she wanted; a doughnut with a dusting of coarse sugar on the outside, enough to give a bit of a crunch and to line one’s lips with white, and a layer of sweetened oil soaked into the dough itself. Such bliss. Such bliss.

  “I don’t think that I shall have a doughnut, Mma,” she said. “You may eat mine today.”

  Mma Makutsi shrugged. “I will be happy to have two,” she said. “Or should I give it to the apprentices to share? No, I don’t think I’ll do that. I will eat it myself.”

  Mma Makutsi rose from her chair and began to walk across the room towards the kettle. Mma Ramotswe noticed immediately that she was walking in an unusual way. Her steps were small and she appeared to totter as she put one leg before the other. The new shoes, of course; she had collected her new shoes that morning.

  Mma Ramotswe leaned forward at her desk and looked. “Your new shoes, Mma!” she exclaimed. “Those beautiful new shoes!”

  Mma Makutsi stopped where she was. She turned round to face Mma Ramotswe. “So you like them, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “Of course I do,” she said. “They look very good on you.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled modestly. “Thank you, Mma. I am just breaking them in at the moment. You know how that takes a bit of time.”

  Mma Ramotswe did know. And she knew too, but did not say anything, that there were some pairs of shoes that would never be broken in. Shoes that were too small were usually too small for a reason: they were intended for people with small feet. “You’ll get used to them,” she said. But her voice lacked conviction.

  Mma Makutsi continued her journey to the kettle—painfully, thought Mma Ramotswe. Then she went back to her desk and sat down, with relief. Watching this, Mma Ramotswe had to suppress a smile. It was her assistant’s one weak point—this interest in unsuitable shoes—but, as failings went, this was not a great one; how much more dangerous was an interest in unsuitable men. And Mma Makutsi did not show any sign of that. In fact, she showed herself to be very sensible when it came to men, even if her last friend had been misleading her. He had not been unsuitable in any way, apart from the fact that he was already married, of course.

  Once the kettle had boiled, Mma Makutsi made the tea—Tanganda tea for her and red bush tea for Mma Ramotswe—and she took Mma Ramotswe’s cup over to her. Mma Ramotswe suppressed the urge to offer to help her by getting the tea herself, in view of the obvious pain which walking now caused Mma Makutsi. It would not be helpful, she thought, for Mma Makutsi to know that she realised how uncomfortable she was. It would be difficult enough for her to acknowledge her mistake to herself, let alone to others.

  The doughnuts were then produced from a grease-stained paper bag, and Mma Makutsi began to eat hers.

  “This is very delicious,” she said as she chewed on a mouthful. “Phuti says that he knows the baker at that bakery up in Broadhurst, and he always gives him the best doughnuts. They are very good, Mma. Very good.” She paused to lick the sugar off her fingers. “You must have had a big breakfast today, Mma Ramotswe. Either that or you’re getting sick.”

  “We don’t have to eat doughnuts all day,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are other things to do.”

  Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. It was a bit extreme of Mma Ramotswe to suggest that doughnuts were being consumed all day. Two doughnuts in one morning was not excessive, surely, and Mma Ramotswe would not normally turn up her nose at the possibility of a couple of doughnuts. Unless … Well, that would be an extraordinary development. Mma Ramotswe on a diet!

  Mma Makutsi looked across at Mma Ramotswe. “You’d never go on a diet, would you, Mma Ramotswe?” The question
was asked casually, but Mma Makutsi knew immediately that she had guessed correctly. Mma Ramotswe looked up sharply, with exactly that look of irritation mixed with self-pity that people in the early stages of a diet manifest.

  “As a matter of fact, Mma, I am on a diet,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And it doesn’t make it any easier for me if you eat doughnuts like that in front of me.”

  It was an uncharacteristically sharp retort from Mma Ramotswe, who was normally so kind and polite, and for that reason Mma Makutsi did not take it to heart. Short temper was a known hazard of dieting—and who could blame people for being a bit irritable when they were constantly hungry? But at the same time, normal life had to go on around dieters, and doughnuts were just a part of normal life.

  “You can’t expect everybody else to stop eating, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Makutsi pointed out.

  Nothing more was said on the subject, but it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that this was exactly the sort of question one should put to Aunty Emang. She imagined the letter: “Dear Aunty Emang, I am on a diet and yet the lady in the office with me insists on eating doughnuts in front of me. I find this very difficult. I do not want to be rude, but is there anything I can do about this?”

  Aunty Emang would come up with one of her rather witty responses to that, thought Mma Ramotswe. She reflected on Aunty Emang. It must be strange having people write to one about all sorts of problems. One would end up being party to so many secrets … She stopped. An idea had come to her, and she noted it down quickly on a scrap of paper so that it might not be lost, as was the fate of so many ideas, brilliant and otherwise.

  SHORTLY BEFORE LUNCH, Mr Polopetsi knocked on the office door. They had not seen him that morning, but this was not unusual. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had discovered that Mr Polopetsi was a safe driver—unlike the apprentices, who broke the speed limit at every opportunity—and he had decided to use him to collect spares and deliver the cars of customers who could not manage to get in to the garage to collect them. Mr Polopetsi did not mind walking back from the customers’ houses, or taking a minibus, whereas the apprentices insisted on being collected by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in his truck. But all this was time-consuming for him, and sometimes Mr Polopetsi would be out of the garage for hours on end.

  “Mr Polopetsi!” said Mma Ramotswe. “Have you been off on one of your long errands, Rra? All over the place? Here and there?”

  “He is known all over the town,” said Mma Makutsi, laughing. “He is the best-known messenger. Like Superman.”

  “Superman was not a messenger,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was …” She did not complete her sentence. What exactly did Superman do? She was not sure if that was ever made clear.

  Mr Polopetsi ignored this talk of Superman. He had noticed that sometimes these ladies got into a silly mood and talked all sorts of nonsense, which was meant to be funny. He did not find it particularly amusing. “I have been collecting some spare parts for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” he explained patiently. “I had to get some fuses and we had run out of fan belts and …”

  “And blah blah blah,” said Mma Makutsi. “All this garage business. It is of no interest to us, Mr Polopetsi. We are interested in more serious matters on this side of the building.”

  “You would find fan belts serious enough if yours broke halfway to Francistown,” retorted Mr Polopetsi. He was about to continue with an explanation of the importance of mechanical matters, but he stopped. Mma Makutsi had risen from her desk to take a file back to the filing cabinet, and he now saw her new blue shoes. And he noticed, too, the odd way in which she was walking.

  “Have you hurt yourself, Mma?” he asked solicitously. “Have you sprained an ankle?”

  Mma Makutsi continued on her tottering journey. “No,” she said. “I have not hurt myself. I am fine, thank you, Rra.”

  Mr Polopetsi did not intercept the warning glance from Mma Ramotswe, and continued, “Those look like new shoes. My! They are very fashionable, aren’t they? I can hardly see them, they’re so small. Are you sure they fit you?”

  “Of course I am,” mumbled Mma Makutsi. “I am just breaking them in, that’s all.”

  “I would have thought that your feet were far too wide for shoes like that, Mma,” Mr Polopetsi went on. “I do not think that you would be able to run in those, do you? Or even walk.”

  Mma Ramotswe could not help but smile, and she peered down at her desk with intense interest, trying to hide her expression from Mma Makutsi.

  “What do you think, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr Polopetsi. “Do you think that Mma Makutsi should wear shoes like that?”

  “It is none of my business, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Makutsi is old enough to choose her own shoes.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi defiantly. “I don’t comment on your shoes, and you should not comment on mine. It is very rude for a man to comment on a woman’s shoes. That is well known, isn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Mma Ramotswe loyally. “And anyway, Mr Polopetsi, did you want to see us about something?”

  Mr Polopetsi walked across the room and sat in the client’s chair, uninvited. “I have something to show you,” he said. “It is out at the back. But first I will tell you something. You remember when we went out to Mokolodi? There was something wrong there, wasn’t there?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded, but was non-committal. “I do not think that everything was right.”

  “People were frightened, weren’t they?” pressed Mr Polopetsi. “Did you notice that?”

  “Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Well, I certainly noticed it,” said Mr Polopetsi. “And while you were talking to people, I did a bit of investigating. I dug a bit deeper.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. It was not for Mr Polopetsi to dig deeper. That was not why she had taken him down to Mokolodi. He was a perceptive man, and an intelligent one, but he should not think that he could initiate enquiries. Not even Mma Makutsi, with her considerable experience in the field, initiated investigations without first talking to Mma Ramotswe about it. This was a simple question of accountability. If anything went wrong, then it would be Mma Ramotswe who would have to bear responsibility as principal. For this reason she had to know what was going on.

  She composed herself to talk firmly to Mr Polopetsi. She did not relish doing this, but she was the boss, after all, and she could not shirk her duty.

  “Mr Polopetsi,” she began. “I do not think …”

  He cut her off, brightly raising a finger in the air, as if to point to the source of his inspiration.

  “It was all to do with a bird,” he said. “Would you believe it, Mma Ramotswe? A bird was responsible for all that fear and worry.”

  Mma Ramotswe was silenced. Of course it was to do with a bird—she had found that out eventually, had winkled the information out of that girl in the restaurant. But she had not expected that Mr Polopetsi, who had no contacts there, would have found out the same thing.

  “I did know about the bird,” she said gravely. “And I was going to do something about it for them.”

  Mr Polopetsi raised another finger in the air. “I’ve done it already,” he said brightly. “I’ve solved the problem.”

  Mma Makutsi, who had been listening with increasing interest, now broke into the conversation. “What is all this about a bird?” she asked. “How can a bird cause all this trouble?”

  Mr Polopetsi turned in his chair to face Mma Makutsi. “It’s not just any ordinary bird,” he explained. “It’s a hornbill—a ground hornbill.”

  Mma Makutsi gave an involuntary shudder. There were ground hornbills up in the north, where she came from. She knew that they were bad luck. People avoided the ground hornbill if they could. And they were wise to do so, in her view. One only had to look at those birds, which were as big as turkeys and had those great beaks and those old-looking eyes.

  “Yes,” went on Mr Polopetsi. “This bird had been brought to the Mokolodi animal sanctuary. Somebody had found it lying on the road up north a
nd brought it down. It had a broken wing and a broken leg, and they bound these up and kept it there to recover. And everybody was very frightened because they knew that this bird would bring death. It would just bring death.”

  “So why did they not say something?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “Because they were embarrassed,” said Mr Polopetsi. “Nobody wanted to be the one to go and tell Neil that the people did not want that bird about the place. Nobody wanted to be thought to be superstitious and not modern. That was it, wasn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded, somewhat reluctantly. Mr Polopetsi had reached exactly the same conclusion as she had. But what had he done about it? She had considered the issue to be of such delicacy that she would have to think very carefully about what to do. Mr Polopetsi, it would seem, had blundered right in.

  “You said that you had solved the problem,” she said. “And how did you do that, Rra? Did you tell the bird to fly away?”

  Mr Polopetsi shook his head. “No, not that, Mma. I took the bird. I took it away at night-time.”

  Mma Ramotswe gasped. “But you can’t do that …”

  “Why not, Mma?” asked Mr Polopetsi. “It’s a wild creature. Nobody owns wild birds. They had no right to keep it there.”

  “They would release it once it was healed,” said Mma Ramotswe, a note of anger showing in her voice.

  “Yes, but before that, what would happen?” Mr Polopetsi challenged. “Somebody could kill the bird. Or some awful thing might happen out there and everybody would then blame Neil for allowing the bird to come. It could have been a terrible mess.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. What Mr Polopetsi said was probably right, but it still did not justify his taking matters into his own hands. “Where did you let it go, Rra?” she asked. “Those birds don’t live down here. They live up there.” She pointed northwards, in the direction of the empty bush of the Tuli Block, of the Swapong Hills, of the great plains of Matabeleland.