Mr Polopetsi was in a talkative mood, and gave them his views on a speech which Chief Linchwe had recently given in Gaborone and which had given rise to a lot of discussion in the papers. Was Chief Linchwe right in what he had said? Mr Polopetsi thought he was. He had a lot of respect for Chief Linchwe, he said, and he thought that more attention should be paid to his views. Then he moved on to the issue of what should be done about people who dropped litter. There had been some talk about this out at Tlokweng, where he lived, and some people had suggested that those who abandoned litter should be made to go on litter picking-up squads. Either that, or they should be obliged to wear large signs on their backs saying DIRTY PERSON. That would soon stop littering, in Mr Polopetsi’s view.
Mma Ramotswe was not sure about that. “Shame can be a very strong way of encouraging people to behave well,” she said. “Yes, I can see that. But you couldn’t put signs on people saying DIRTY PERSON because that would make others think that those people did not wash. But they might wash quite a lot.”
“I think that signs are a good idea,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You could put signs on cars too. DANGEROUS DRIVER, for example, or SPEEDER. That would make people drive more safely, I think.”
“But it would look a bit silly, wouldn’t it?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Everybody would eventually have some sort of sign. I would have a sign saying MMA RAMOTSWE on my back, or DETECTIVE perhaps. That would be silly.” And then she thought, but did not say it: And Mma Makutsi would have a sign on her back which said 97 per cent.
“I did not suggest that,” said Mr Polopetsi, rather peevishly. “All I said was that people who drop litter could have a sign. That is all.”
It was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni who brought the discussion to an end. “We are almost there,” he said. “Is this not the turning that you said you took?”
They slowed down, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cautiously headed the truck down the track. By daylight the potholes and rifts in the ground looked far worse than they had at night. It was no surprise to Mma Ramotswe that the tiny white van had been damaged in these conditions; stones, exposed by the movement of soil, reared up in jagged points and at places there jutted onto the track the fallen limbs of trees, plastered now in dried red mud by energetic white ants. Beside the track, watching the truck with mournful eyes, was a small herd of cattle, standing listlessly under the shade of a tree.
“Those cattle are not in good condition,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Look at the ribs on that one.”
Mma Ramotswe cast an expert eye over the light grey beast and agreed. “It is ill,” she said. “My father would have known what to do about that.”
“Yes, he knew about cattle,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He had never met Obed Ramotswe, of course, but he knew of his reputation as a fine judge of cattle. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was always prepared to listen to stories about Obed Ramotswe, although he had heard them all from Mma Ramotswe many times over. He had heard the story of how Obed Ramotswe had met Seretse Khama once when he had come to Mochudi, and had shaken the great man’s hand. He had heard the story of his hat, and how it had once been left near the kgotla and carefully placed on a wall where he might find it again. He had also heard about how the hat had been blown off his head once in a dust storm and had ended up in a tree. There were many such stories, and he understood just how important they were, and listened with patience and with respect. A life without stories would be no life at all. And stories bound us, did they not, one to another, the living to the dead, people to animals, people to the land?
They drove slowly down the track. After a while, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned to Mma Ramotswe. “You said that it happened very close to the turn-off,” he said. “But it must have been further than you thought.”
Mma Ramotswe cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. She was sure that it was about there, at that bend, where the track went off in a different direction. Yes, it must have been that spot, but there was no sign of the van.
She looked at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “We must stop here,” she said. “I am very sure that it was here.”
Mr Polopetsi, who was sitting between Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe, now leaned forward in his seat. “It has been stolen!” he exclaimed. “Your van has been stolen!”
“We’ll see,” said Mma Ramotswe. She feared that he was right, even though she felt cross with him for saying it. If her van had been stolen, then it was for her to make the announcement, not Mr Polopetsi.
They alighted from the truck and Mma Ramotswe walked over the edge of the track, a few yards behind the place where they had stopped. Looking down at the ground, she saw what she had been looking for, a patch of oil in the sand. The patch measured only six inches or so across, but it was dark and obvious, and there was now no doubt in her mind. She was looking at the place where she had had her last sight of the tiny white van, and it was undoubtedly no longer there.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni joined her and followed her gaze, down towards the sand. “Ah!” he said, and then, turning to face her, “Ah!” again.
“It has been taken,” she said, her voice cracking. “My van. It is gone now.”
Mr Polopetsi now came to stand beside them. “Somebody must have fixed it and driven it away.”
“Very strange,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “But that means that your engine can’t have seized. It must have been something else. They would not have been able to drive it away if it had seized.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “We will have to go to the police and report it. That is all we can do. They will have driven it far away by now.”
“I’m afraid that you’re right,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gently. “When a vehicle is stolen, it disappears very quickly. Just like that. It’s gone.”
Mma Ramotswe turned away and began to walk back to the truck, followed by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Mr Polopetsi, though, stood where he was.
“We must get back,” called Mr J.L.B. Matekoni over his shoulder.
Mr Polopetsi looked down at the place where the van had been, and then out into the bush beside the track, through the trees and the shrubs and the termite mounds, as if he might see something other than the brown of the grass and the red, red earth and the thorn trees; as if he might hear something other than the screech of the cicadas and the call of birds.
“Leave me here,” he said. “I want to look for clues. You go back to town. I’ll get a minibus from the main road later on. You leave me here.”
Mma Ramotswe turned and stared at him. “There will be no clues,” she said. “They have come and gone. That is all.”
“Just let me try,” said Mr Polopetsi.
“If he wants to,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “There is no harm. There is not much for him to do at the garage this morning.”
They climbed into the truck and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni manoeuvred it back to face up the track. As they drove slowly past him, Mr Polopetsi raised a hand in farewell. Mma Ramotswe noticed that he looked excited, and remarked on this a little later to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“He is playing the detective,” she said. “But there is no harm in that. He is very keen to do some detective work.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “He is a good man,” he said. “And you did the right thing when you asked him to join us.”
The compliment pleased Mma Ramotswe, and she touched him gently on the forearm. “You have been good to him too,” she said.
They travelled on in silence. A few minutes later, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at Mma Ramotswe, and he saw that she was crying, silently, but there were tears on her cheeks.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry. My white van. I loved it very much. It had been my friend for many years.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shifted in his seat. He found it difficult when women became emotional; he was a mechanic, after all, and these things were awkward for mechanics.
“I will find a new one for you,” he said gently. “I will find you a good van.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. It was k
ind of him, she knew, but the finding of a new van was not the point. She wanted only that tiny white van that had driven her all over Botswana. That was all she wanted.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DOUBLE COMFORT FURNITURE STORE
I T WAS THAT MORNING, while Mma Ramotswe was finding out about the loss of the tiny white van, that Mma Makutsi made a discovery of her own. The matter of the missing Zambian financier was proving frustrating. Letters had been sent out to no avail, and telephone calls had taken them no further. Mma Ramotswe had suggested a few personal calls on prominent members of the Zambian community in Gaborone, and that was what she was proposing to do. They had three names—a dentist with a long list of patients, many of them Zambians, a minister of religion, and a businessman who ran a thriving import-export agency. Looking at the list that morning, she had decided not to try to speak to the dentist, as she knew that dentists were usually very busy and she would be unlikely to get past the receptionist. Of course she could make an appointment to see him—she had not had her teeth checked for some time and it might be a good idea to have that done—but it would be difficult to ask questions while one’s mouth was full of dental equipment. It was for this reason, perhaps, that conversations with dentists were often somewhat one-sided.
She had telephoned the minister of religion but had been spoken to by his answering machine. I am not in, but you may leave a message, a careful voice had announced, and in the meantime, my prayers are with you. Mma Makutsi had been momentarily taken by surprise when she heard this message, and she put down the receiver without saying anything. How could his prayers be with her if he did not even know who it was who had called? It would be different, she thought, if he had said that his prayers would be with her in the future, once he had heard that she had called. That, at least, would have been honest. Of course, he was only trying to be kind—she understood that—but it was important, she felt, that one should always speak the truth, and ministers of religion, more than others, should understand that.
Mma Makutsi thought about this for a few minutes, and the more she pondered it, the crosser she became. Eventually, picking up the telephone she dialled the number again and listened, with irritation, to the insincere message. Then, after hearing the tone which indicated that she could leave a message, she spoke. “This is Grace Makutsi of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency here. I am calling you about some important matters. But how can your prayers be with me until you have heard who I am? Should you not say that you will pray for people after you find out who they are? Shouldn’t you do that? Thank you very much, Reverend, and goodbye.”
She felt better for having struck a blow for truth-telling and accuracy. She would tell Mma Ramotswe about that when she came back with the van; she would approve of it, she imagined, as she was a very truthful woman and did not like people who made false claims. She would certainly approve of this … or would she? Suddenly Mma Makutsi was visited by doubts. It occurred to her now that Mma Ramotswe might think it rather unkind to give a lecture of this sort—and a recorded lecture to boot—to a minister of religion who was only trying to be helpful to the people who telephoned him. Might not Mma Ramotswe say something like, “Well, Mma, many of the people who call that man will be troubled in some way. Maybe they will have somebody who is late and they will be phoning him about that. Maybe that is why he is trying to make them feel better.”
Mma Makutsi thought a little longer and then picked up the telephone and dialled the number again. She had decided to leave another message saying that she had not quite meant what she had said, but this time the telephone was answered by the minister.
For a few moments, Mma Makutsi was unsure what to say, and even considered putting down the receiver, like a child who is caught playing with the telephone.
But better judgement prevailed. “It is Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I left a message a few minutes ago and …”
“I have listened to your message, Mma,” the minister interrupted her. “And you are right. I was not thinking when I said ‘in the meantime.’ I shall re-record the message and say, ‘When I hear your message, I shall put you in my prayers.’ That is what I shall say.”
Mma Makutsi felt a flush of shame. “I did not mean to be rude,” she said hurriedly.
“I know that,” said the minister. “And you did not sound at all rude. You were very polite about it.”
A short silence ensued before the minister continued. “But you said that you had something to say to me. May I ask what that was?”
Mma Makutsi told him of her business with him, and when she had finished, he said, “What exactly are you asking of me, Mma? Are you asking me to tell you whether any such person, any businessman from Zambia, has spoken to me? Is that what you are asking?”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “You will know many of your countrymen down here. They come to ask you for help. I thought that perhaps this man had done that too.”
The minister was silent. At the other end of the line, sitting at her desk in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi watched a small white gecko climb expertly and effortlessly up a wall. The creature’s head moved from side to side as it made its journey, watchful for predators and prey.
Then the minister cleared his throat. “I cannot speak about these things, Mma,” he said, his tone now reproachful. “When people come to me in their sorrow and their difficulties, they do not expect me to talk to other people about that. They do not think that I shall discuss their affairs with the first private detective who telephones.”
Mma Makutsi felt her embarrassment increase at the rebuke. What would he think of her? Not only had she left an unsolicited lecture on his answering machine, but now she had quite improperly asked him to disclose a confidence. She would have to apologise and bring the conversation to an end before the reputation, in his eyes, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency suffered even further.
“I am very sorry, Reverend,” she began. “I did not mean …”
“People think,” interrupted the minister, “people think that ministers sit in judgement on them. They think that we sit here and think, now that’s a very bad thing to do, or that’s a very wicked person. But we do not do that, you know. We recognise that all of us are weak and that we all do things that we should not. There is not one of us who is not a sinner, you know. Not one. And so when this poor man came to see me with his troubled soul, I did not sit here and think you should not have taken that money. I did not think that. Nor did I tell him that he should not go running off to Johannesburg, to his cousin, who works in a big hotel there, as he was intending to do. I did not do that. But I did tell him that he could speak to me in complete confidence and that I would not go to the police. And I have not gone to the police, because that would be to break the secrecy of the conversation that a minister has with one of his flock, whoever he might be. So, you see, Mma, I cannot talk to you about this man. I just cannot do that.”
Mma Makutsi sat bolt upright at her desk. In front of her, on a small piece of paper, she had written the words: Gone to Johannesburg. Cousin. Hotel.
She smiled to herself. “You have been very kind,” she said to the minister. “I am sorry for asking about these private matters.”
“And I am sorry that I cannot help you,” said the minister.
“But you have been most helpful,” said Mma Makutsi. And with that, the conversation came to an end, as did the case of the missing Zambian financier. The problem could now be passed on to somebody else, but passed on in a useful way, and with some positive information attached to it. Their quarry was now in Johannesburg, which was a very large place, of course, but there were not all that many big hotels there, and now those who were after this man would know precisely where to start looking.
They had enough information now to report back to the attorneys, and to do so with their heads held high. Their report would be well worth their fee, she thought; and from her point of view, she was eagerly awaiting the chance to tell Mma
Ramotswe about what she had discovered. It was always satisfying to be able to make a positive report.
When she heard the truck come back, she got up from her desk and went outside. She had expected, of course, to see Mma Ramotswe’s van ignominiously tied to the truck with a tow-rope, and was dismayed when she saw only the truck and a disconsolate-looking Mma Ramotswe getting out of the passenger seat.
Mma Ramotswe told her what had happened, and Mma Makutsi let out a wail of sorrow, for a moment quite forgetting the good news which she had intended to welcome her back.
“Ow, Mma!” she cried. “Your van! They have stolen your van! Ow!”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back from the two women, looking miserable. He tried to calm them, saying, “We will find another van. There are many vans … ,” only to be hushed by Mma Makutsi, who felt that this was not the moment for sensible male advice.
Later, when she and Mma Ramotswe were sitting down together in their office for a quickly brewed cup of bush tea—which Mma Makutsi had now decided that she liked—it was Mma Ramotswe who set out to calm her assistant.
“I suppose that it had to go sometime,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has often said that cars and vans do not last forever. We have to face that. And he’s right, isn’t he?”
Mma Makutsi had to admit that this was so. But that did not make this monstrous misfortune any easier to bear. “You are being very calm about it. I would be very angry if this had happened to me.”
“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I have felt that anger. I felt it when I saw that the van had gone. I felt it a bit in the truck on the way back. But what is the point of anger now, Mma? I don’t think that anger will help us.”
Mma Makutsi sighed. “You are right about anger,” she said. “There is no point in it.”
“So tell me what has been happening here,” said Mma Ramotswe.
At this invitation, Mma Makutsi sat up in her chair and grinned. At least here was something to make up, even in small part, for the news of the van. “I have solved a case,” she said modestly. “That Zambian …”
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies Page 18