The Double Comfort Safari Club

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “This lady was very pleased. She was making me feel very proud and happy and when she said, ‘It would be safer to put the house in my name,’ I did not bother to ask why. I had read that this is what people sometimes did—they put the house in their wife’s name so that if the bank came chasing after them they would not be able to take the house away. I went to see an attorney and we had everything fixed up. We were very pleased. ‘We can have many children now,’ said this lady, ‘because we have somewhere to put them all.’

  “I was such a happy man, Mma. I walked on my toes and my head was held high—like this. I started to talk to my friend about wedding dates. She said, ‘All in good time. There will be plenty of time for these details once we have moved in and have started to be happy in our new house.’

  “Oh, Mma, I can see that you can tell what is coming. And you are right. You are very right. We stayed in this house for two months, and then she invited her mother to come and stay with her. That was bad enough, but then she invited two aunts to live with us as well. I said, ‘Where are we going to put all the children, with all these aunties about the place talking all day and making a big noise?’ She said, ‘They are my aunties, and a man who cannot accept the aunties of his wife had better not get married after all.’ That was when I realised that she had never wanted to marry me, that she did not even like me, and that the whole thing was a trick to get the house out of me.

  “I shouted at her and I threatened to call the police. She said, ‘And what crime will you report to the police? Will you tell them that you have changed your mind about a present you gave to a lady? They will say, What crime is that, Rra? You tell us.’

  “I went to see the attorney I had used to buy the house. He said to me that as far as he could make out, I had given the house to this lady and that there was nothing I could do about it. So I went back to the place I was staying in before—the house of an uncle of mine, who had allowed me to stay there as a lodger. Now I had no money left—just my salary. The manager of the bottle store had stolen most of my inheritance and this lady had taken what was left. I was very sad. I need to sell the house, you see, as I have been offered the chance to buy a small agricultural laboratory—it is my big chance. Then somebody said to me, ‘You should go and see this Mma Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. If there is one person in Botswana who can help you, then it is her.’ That is what they said, Mma, and that is why I am here.”

  Mr. Kereleng stopped. His hands folded in his lap, he looked down at the floor. Mma Ramotswe watched him; he was utterly dejected. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, but she could not do that with every client who came with a story of misfortune. She wanted to cry for him, but she could not do that either. There were not enough tears to shed for every story she heard of human foolishness and the unhappiness it brought in its wake.

  So she simply said, “I am very sorry to hear this story, Rra. I am truly sorry.”

  “I am sorry too,” said Mr. Polopetsi from the other desk. “It is sad to hear that there are such wicked women in Botswana.”

  Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “I am not sure what I can do for you, Rra. I shall have to think about what you have told me and see if I can come up with a suggestion. But it sounds as if the lawyer was right—you have given something away, and it is usually impossible to get a gift back once it has been made.”

  Mr. Kereleng sighed. “That is what everybody says, Mma. I thought that maybe you …”

  “I shall see if I can think of something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that sometimes I have to warn people right at the beginning that their case sounds very difficult, and that it may not be possible to help them. That is all.”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Kereleng, his voice filled with defeat. “Thank you, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe moved the papers on her desk. She picked up a pencil. “I need a bit of information,” she said, sounding more businesslike. “You should give me the name of this lady and the address of the house.”

  Mr. Kereleng looked up. He was weary, with the look of one who knows that his case is no case. “She is called Violet,” he said. “Violet Sephotho.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE LADY OF THE AFTERNOON

  MMA RAMOTSWE was as capable as anyone else of containing herself, but there were some situations—and this was one of them—where nobody could be expected to resist the urge to speak about something. After the departure of the unfortunate Mr. Kereleng, she and Mr. Polopetsi sat for almost half an hour discussing this latest story of Violet Sephotho’s perfidious behaviour. Both were quite shocked; they knew of Violet’s treacherous fiancé-stealing plans; they knew of her utter ruthlessness when it came to any men, fiancés or others; but now she was revealed as a downright thief and trickster, and that was something new.

  It was all very well talking to Mr. Polopetsi about it. He knew all about Violet and disapproved of her strongly, but talking to a man about something like this, although satisfying, was not quite as good as a discussion with another woman, and with Mma Makutsi in particular. She had been Violet’s victim on more than one occasion, and would naturally be most interested to hear all about this new instance of her rival’s wickedness.

  Mma Ramotswe had not intended to bother her assistant during her compassionate leave, but by four o’clock that afternoon she could no longer bear to leave the news unconveyed.

  “I am going to check up on Mma Makutsi,” she announced to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage workshop. “I am closing the agency for the day.”

  Charlie, who was leaning against the side of a car wiping a car part with an oily rag, looked up.

  “Are you going to check up that she is not having a party?” he asked. “You know her, Mma. Compassionate leave? Passionate leave!”

  “Do not say such things,” snapped Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “That was not very kind, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Charlie looked wounded. “I was only joking, Mma! Just a joke!”

  “Can you see Mma Ramotswe or me laughing?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Are we laughing at your joke?” He turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Tell her that I hope that Phuti is doing well and will be back on his feet soon.”

  “He has only got one foot now,” muttered Charlie.

  “What was that, Charlie?” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Did you say something?”

  “Charlie is only trying to be helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe, giving the apprentice a sideways look. “And remember this, Charlie: there but for the grace of God go you. Remember that.”

  She got into her van—the new blue van that drove so smoothly—and made her way over to Mma Makutsi’s house. It was possible that she was at the hospital, she thought, but if she had been there in the morning—as she said she would be—then she might be home by now. And turning into Mma Makutsi’s street, a street of modest houses occupied, she imagined, by people for whom reaching even this level of prosperity and comfort had been a battle, she pictured Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this piece of news about Violet. It was an odd thing, thought Mma Ramotswe, that we take such pleasure in hearing news of some piece of bad behaviour on the part of one of whom we have come to disapprove. Such news should sadden us, as any news of human failings should do, but it tended to do the opposite. Why? Because it confirmed the view we had of such people, and laid to rest doubts about our judgement. So, you see, I was right about her!

  Which is more or less what Mma Makutsi said when Mma Ramotswe found her at home. “I am not surprised at all,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have always said that she was a bad woman, right from the first time I saw her at the beginning of our course at the Botswana Secretarial College. You should have seen her, Mma, looking out of the window with such an expression of boredom on her face. Why go to a secretarial college if you are not going to pay attention to what is being taught you? Why bother? Why not just go straight to one of those bars and become a lady of the afternoon?”

  “Lady of the night,” correc
ted Mma Ramotswe gently. “Mind you, we have no proof that Violet was ever involved in that sort of thing. We must be fair to her.”

  “Fair to her!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “Was she being fair to me when she got a job at Phuti’s shop for the only reason that she wanted to take him away from me? Was that fair, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. “Maybe not. All I am saying is that we should not accuse her of things that she has not done. As far as we know, she has never been one of those girls who sit about in bars.”

  “But you yourself said that this Mr. Kereleng person met her in a bar. Did he not tell you that? What was she doing in the bar in the first place, Mma? That’s what I want to know.”

  Mma Ramotswe felt that there was little point in further discussion of this aspect of the matter. “Whatever else she may have done, Mma, the issue is this: How do we help this poor man? Have you any ideas?”

  Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “He is a very foolish man,” she said. “Imagine putting your house in somebody else’s name, especially when that somebody is Violet Sephotho! How stupid can you be!”

  It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that this did not help. Mma Makutsi may not be herself after all the strain of Phuti’s accident and operation, but she should know by now that this was not how one spoke of one’s clients, most of whom were vulnerable in some way, or afraid. “Whether or not he was stupid,” she began, “that is …”

  “Very stupid,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not just ordinary stupid—very stupid.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Maybe. But what about my question, Mma? Can you think of any way of helping this man?”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “I do not see what we can do. I have no ideas at all. None.”

  “So Violet Sephotho will get away with it?”

  Mma Makutsi grimaced. “That is a very bad thought, I admit. But I’m afraid, Mma, that you are right. Sometimes wickedness prevails.”

  Sometimes wickedness prevails. The succinct words echoed in Mma Ramotswe’s ears. It was probably true—there were times when wickedness seemed to be so firmly entrenched that any attempt to dislodge it, any rebellion against it, appeared futile. That had happened; many people had led their whole lives under the shadow of wickedness in its manifold guises—under oppression or injustice, under the rule of some grubby tyranny. And yet people often managed to overcome the things that held them down because they refused to believe that they could not do anything about it, and acted as if they could do something. It had happened before and it would happen again. In her short career as a private detective, Mma Ramotswe had encountered relatively few instances of evil, but she had seen some, and in each case she had seen the wings of wickedness clipped. Violet Sephotho had now stepped over a boundary that separated mere nastiness from real wickedness. She could not be allowed to prevail; she could not, and Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi as much. But Mma Makutsi still doubted if anything could be done; although she now conceded that she would at least try to think of something, she held out little hope of coming up with a solution.

  That issue put aside, they went on to talk of Phuti. “He is going to be discharged in a few days,” said Mma Makutsi. “The doctor says that he has rarely seen an amputation that went so well.”

  The gist of this message was positive, but the word amputation hung in the air between them. There was an awful finality about it; an amputation might be treatment, but it had a ring of desperation to it, a sense of last resort.

  Mma Makutsi went on bravely. “They have already measured him for a temporary leg,” she said.

  “That is good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Then he will get a permanent leg later on?”

  Mma Makutsi nodded. “I think that is the plan. Temporary leg, then permanent leg.”

  “I am very sorry about all this,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You know that, don’t you, Mma? You and Phuti did not deserve this thing. You have been so good to him, and he is such a fine man. But we cannot control the things that happen, can we?”

  Mma Makutsi considered this. “We cannot. And thank you, Mma, for saying that you are sorry. That makes my heart feel a little bit better.”

  They drank tea together. Then Mma Ramotswe left to return home. She was no longer worried about Mma Makutsi; her assistant, she was sure, had deep wells of strength and character to draw upon. If you came from Bobonong, if you came from nothing and nowhere and got to where she had got to, then you were capable of dealing with most forms of adversity; she was sure of that.

  THE NEXT DAY, with Mma Makutsi still on compassionate leave, Mma Ramotswe decided to start work on the case of Mrs. Grant. It would be a good case, she thought—there were few duties in life that were more enjoyable than that of informing another person of some piece of good fortune. Occasionally it fell to her during the course of her work to do just that—to give somebody the news of an unexpected inheritance from a forgotten relative, or to tell them of an insurance payout, or even a reward. Individual reactions to this sort of news varied; there were those who were frankly ecstatic, who ululated with delight; others were more controlled and pensive about why this stroke of good luck had come to them; others were greedy, and eager to find out whether the money they were about to receive could in any way be increased. If there was one legacy, might there be another? Might the insurance company be persuaded to pay out just a little bit more? For the most part, though, people were simply human in such circumstances, and behaved like children to whom a large bag of sweets had suddenly been dispensed. And why not? For most people, life was hard, and either uneventful or composed of the wrong sort of event; these little moments of material pleasure were harmless enough in the grand scheme of things.

  She knew how to break the news of Mrs. Grant’s gift. She would tell the guide that his kindness was about to be rewarded. Then she would ask him what he would really like to do with an unexpected windfall. He would think of sensible things to do—people always did when asked that question—and then she would tell him that he would be able to do what he wanted. Finally, she would talk about the Standard Bank, and the various sorts of accounts that they offered to new customers. And with that, her duty would be done. It would be a simple, open-and-shut case, except for one thing, and she thought of it now as she prepared to leave the office and begin her inquiry. That thing was this: very few matters were simple—if they involved human beings, that is—and nothing, in her experience, was open-and-shut.

  But the very beginning of an inquiry was not the time to entertain such doubts, and so she put them out of her mind. This stage of the case, at least, would be straightforward. She would go and speak to her friend Hansi, who ran a safari agency in town. He would be able to identify the safari camp in question on the basis of the one bit of information they had—the name involved a bird, or perhaps an animal. That done, she would get the name of the manager from him and after that a simple telephone call … She paused. The safari camp would be somewhere up near Maun, as most of them were, in the Okavango Delta. It was a part of the country with which she was not familiar, and she had been waiting for a chance to go there. And it would be better to find the guide in person, and be absolutely sure that he was the right man …

  Then there was the question of Mma Makutsi. It was clear to her that her assistant had been under considerable stress, which was, of course, entirely understandable; she could imagine how she would feel if it had been Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni who had been injured and who had lost part of a leg. And if she were in that position, then a trip to Maun would be exactly the sort of thing to lift her spirits. Yes, that was exactly what they both needed. She herself needed a short break—Mma Ramotswe never took a holiday—and Mma Makutsi needed something to take her mind off what had happened. Maun it would be.

  By the time she had parked her van in the car park behind the President Hotel, and agreed with the young man who appeared at her window that he could look after it, she was already planning the trip in her mind. She would have to look at her wardrobe to dec
ide what to wear—visitors who went up there all wore khaki, with many of the women, even those of traditional build, wearing khaki trousers equipped with multiple pockets. That was a mistake, thought Mma Ramotswe; women of traditional build were fortunate in having comfortable built-in seating arrangements, but that did not mean to say that they should draw attention to this fact by wearing trousers. The appropriate garment for the traditionally built woman was a long skirt, or a large dress, which could flow around her in a way that enhanced her traditional figure.

  And Mma Ramotswe did not see herself in khaki, either. Not only was that not a colour for ladies, but it did not achieve the objective of disguising the wearer from wild animals. Lions and the like, she thought, were not so stupid as to think that people wearing khaki were not there; such creatures knew full well that people in khaki were just people dressed in brown, and therefore every bit as dangerous to the wild animals as people in blue or red or some other bright colour. And if one wanted to be camouflaged, then the best garb, surely, would be something in green, which might make one look like a tree, if one was a tall person, or a shrub if one was not so tall.

  There were other things, apart from the issue of dress, that would have to be thought about before they left for Maun. There was the issue of where to stay: the camps themselves were for visitors, with prices that only visitors could afford; but this did not present a problem for local people, who would have recourse to the hospitality of relatives or at least friends, or possibly relatives of friends, or friends of relatives’ friends. In Mma Ramotswe’s case there was Mr. H.B.C. Matekoni, a cousin of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had stayed with them on his last visit to Gaborone—an eight-day stay, while he was attending a training programme for aircraft mechanics, which was what he was. Mma Ramotswe was not one to keep a tally when it came to favours, but his eight-day stay would surely entitle her and Mma Makutsi to beds for the two or three days that their mission would need. She had not met Mr. H.B.C. Matekoni’s wife, who was a primary-school teacher in Maun, but she had heard good reports of her, and the cementing of family relationships was another good reason for making the trip.