“I am very sorry to be late, Rra,” she said, as she sat down at the table. “But as Mma Ramotswe says, it is better to be late than to be the late.”
Oteng Bolelang looked at her in puzzlement. “What is this? Who is this Mma Ramotswe?”
He spoke with an unusually high-pitched voice, which caught Mma Makutsi unawares. She had imagined that footballers—and especially midfield attackers—would speak with deep, masculine voices. This man, however, spoke with a rather thin, reed-like voice, the voice of a bird, she thought, or the voice of one of those thin dogs howling at the top of its register.
“Mma Ramotswe is the woman who owns the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency,” she said. “That is who she is.”
Oteng gave a shrug. “I do not know her.” His tone was peevish.
Mma Makutsi smiled pleasantly. “Well, maybe one day you will meet her, Rra. She has asked me, though, to speak to you. You will know that Mr. Molofololo wants you all to speak to us.”
“He told us that,” said the footballer. “He thinks that we have nothing better to do than to talk to wo … talk to people.”
Women, thought Mma Makutsi. That is what you were about to say, but you stopped yourself. You do not like women, I think, Rra. You do not like us.
“I am sure that you are very busy, Rra,” she said. “You told me on the telephone that you are a salesman. What do you sell?”
“Fridges,” said Oteng. “Fridges and freezers.”
“That is very important in a hot country,” observed Mma Makutsi. “Where would we be without fridges?”
“We would still be in Botswana,” said Oteng, looking again at his watch.
You are a very rude man, thought Mma Makutsi.
“Tell me, Rra. What is wrong with the team? Why is it always losing?”
Oteng looked at her as if he had been asked a completely unexpected question. “That is a very strange question,” he said.
“Why is it strange?”
“Because it's so obvious that nobody should have to ask it.”
She waited for him to continue, but he did not, turning instead to catch the attention of the waiter who was hovering near the door. “I need coffee,” he said.
Mma Makutsi was not going to let him derail her, and she repeated her question, adding, “It may be obvious to you, Rra. But it is not obvious to me. The Swoopers used to win—now they lose. How would you explain that?”
“The goalie,” said Oteng. “If the other side scores goals, then it is because the goalie lets them in. It is Big Man's fault.”
Mma Makutsi listened carefully. “He's letting goals in?” she asked. “He does that deliberately?”
Oteng burst out laughing—a superior, contemptuous laugh. “No,” he said. “It's much simpler than that. It's his eyesight.”
The waiter came to the table and Oteng ordered coffee. Almost as an afterthought, he asked Mma Makutsi whether she would like some too. You are very, very rude, she said to herself.
“What is wrong with his eyesight?” she asked.
“He needs glasses,” Oteng said. “You can't have a goalie in glasses. It would look odd.”
Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “How do you know that he can't see very well? Has he told you?”
Oteng laughed again. “Big Man Tafa doesn't speak to me much. He's jealous of me, of course. I'm a midfield attacker, you know.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I have heard that.”
“I saw him trip over something once,” he said. “He didn't see it. I'm sure of it. And I threw him something once in the dressing room—just to test him. I threw him a pencil. I said, Here, Big Man, catch this. And he couldn't see it.”
“So that's the reason why the team isn't doing well?”
Oteng hesitated for a moment. “Maybe.”
Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. “There are other reasons, Rra?”
The high voice increased in volume, becoming shriller as it did so. “Molofololo doesn't help. He keeps changing things. He changes tactics. He changes practice times. He changed all our kit when he got some new sponsor. We wanted to talk to him about that, but he won't listen—the problem is that the sponsor pays for us to wear these things. He changed the club's telephone number and then changed it back again. You change things and everybody gets mixed up.”
The coffee arrived, and Oteng became taciturn. Mma Makutsi tried a few more questions but felt that she was getting nowhere. She too became silent. She did not offer to pour a second cup.
“You have been very helpful, Rra,” she said.
“Pleasure,” he said.
IT WAS UNUSUAL for Mma Ramotswe to play any role in the running of the garage. She saw, though, Mr. Polopetsi and the younger apprentice leaning against the side of a car; she saw that Fanwell was drinking a cold drink out of a can and Mr. Polopetsi was fiddling with what looked like a transistor radio—and she decided that Fanwell could be spared.
“You don't look very busy,” she said as she joined them. “Are you fixing radios now, Rra?”
Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “This radio is almost finished,” he said. “My wife said that we should throw it out, but I am trying to save it.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at the apprentice. “And you, Fanwell?”
“I have done all my work, Mma.” He gestured to the car behind him. “This was much easier than we thought. All I had to do was …”
She did not need an explanation. Since things were so slack, she said, Mr. Polopetsi could look after the garage and her office for a few hours, could he not? And Fanwell could come with her. “You can drive my new van, Fanwell,” she said, dangling the keys in front of him. “And you can help me with something.” She did not need to say what it was; a look sufficed.
Fanwell was particularly pleased to drive the van. “This is very good, Mma,” he said as they pulled out into the traffic. “Listen to that engine. It is like a bee. Bzz bzz. Like a very happy bee.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “My old van made such interesting noises,” she said. “Sometimes I thought that the engine was talking to me.”
Fanwell glanced at her. “Yes, Mma. I think I understand how you feel.”
She returned his glance. A year ago she would never have imagined that either of the young men—Charlie or Fanwell— would understand such feelings. They liked speed and noise and loud music; they liked talking about girls and bars and football teams. Now it was different, and she realised how easy it is to misjudge the young, to imagine that they share none of the more complex emotions that shape our lives as we grow older. Well, they do, she said to herself; they have those feelings too, and suddenly they become capable of seeing them in others.
“Thank you, Fanwell,” she said. “I miss that van. I miss it here.” She touched her chest, where her heart was.
He said nothing for a moment, but then half turned to face her.
Mma Ramotswe tapped his shoulder before he could say anything. “You must watch the road while you're driving, Rra. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni says that most accidents happen when people are eating or trying to do something else while they drive.”
“I'm watching. I just wanted you to remember, Mma, what I said yesterday. I said that I couldn't guarantee anything. I might not be able to fix your van.”
She knew that, and reassured him that she did not expect a miracle. But as they approached Harry Moloso's scrapyard, she found her heart beating noticeably faster. It was only two days since the van had been towed away, and she did not imagine that there was much that could have happened to it in that time. Yet it was possible. The van might already have been crushed in one of those machines that transformed a car body into a cube of compressed metal. That would be hard to bear—to see a tiny white cube where once there had been a living van.
“There's Harry Moloso's place,” said Fanwell, pointing at an untidy-looking yard with a corrugated-tin fence. “See it? It's a big place—it stretches all the way back there. Full of old cars, tractors, trucks—everything.”
&nb
sp; They stopped at the gate, which was controlled by an elderly security guard in a khaki uniform. He came over and listened while Fanwell explained who they were and the nature of their errand. A barrier was raised—a gum-pole painted in red and white stripes—and they were in the yard.
“It is like the elephants' graveyard,” said Fanwell. “You know that place where elephants go to die. All those white bones. Here it is the skeletons of cars.”
Fanwell was drawing up beside the office, a small breeze-block construction painted in lime green and with a large sign attached. Harry Moloso, Mr. Metal Magnet. Metal Resurrection-Miracles Daily.
“He calls himself Mr. Metal Magnet,” said Fanwell, pointing to the sign. “That is a good name for a scrap merchant.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled weakly. She was gazing around the yard, looking for the tiny white van. At the back of the yard there were several old buses, wheel-less and listing heavily, their windows gaping holes; there were things behind them that she could not see from where she was standing. The tiny white van could easily be concealed there.
They walked up to the half-open door of the office.
“Ko, ko!” Mma Ramotswe called out.
A voice came from within. “I'm in here. Come in, Mma.”
They pushed at the door, which moved back on protesting hinges. For a rich man, as everybody said Harry Moloso was, he had not spent much money on his office. Here and there on the floor, some in small pools of oil, were engine parts, wrenched from old engines, wires and pipes, like discarded innards; elsewhere there were piles of papers, of trade directories and spare parts manuals, unfiled letters. It was like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's office in the old days, before she and Mma Makutsi had jointly tackled it, but considerably worse than that.
“Dumela, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are Harry Moloso?”
The man sitting on a bench seat salvaged from an old car rose to his feet when they entered. He had been reading a newspaper, which he now folded and tossed down on a desk.
“I am Harry Moloso himself,” he said. He looked at Fanwell and winked. “And you're the young man who works with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, aren't you? You've been round for spares recently I think.”
“I brought an old van round,” said Fanwell. “I brought it along with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”
Harry Moloso nodded. “Of course you did. A funny old white van. Ancient. Belonged to some fat lady, you said—suspension was shot on one side.”
Mma Ramotswe did not look at Fanwell. “Traditionally built,” she whispered, just loud enough for the young man to hear.
Harry Moloso heard too. “Yes, they built them very well in those days.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. Yes, they built vans and people well in those days.
“This lady is wanting to buy it back, Rra,” said Fanwell.
Harry Moloso looked surprised. “Back? It was yours was it, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “It was my van, Rra. I'd like to try to have it fixed now. Fanwell here said that he could try.”
Harry Moloso looked at Fanwell. “Quite a job, I'd say, Mr. Big Mechanic.”
“Yes, Rra,” said Fanwell. “But I'd like to try.”
Harry Moloso turned to Mma Ramotswe. “I'm very sorry, Mma. You're too late. I sold that van almost immediately. Somebody came in.”
“Who bought it, Rra?” asked Fanwell quickly.
“No idea,” said Harry Moloso. “Never seen him. He said that he came from Machaneng. He paid cash. Not very much, of course. He said he might try to fix it up.”
Mma Ramotswe hardly dared speak. “And he … he …”
“Towed it away,” said Harry Moloso. He spoke gently, as if he realised that what he said was the end to a hope. “He was taking it all the way up there. Four hours of towing, I'd say. Rather him than me.”
Fanwell thanked him, and they returned to the blue van. “So,” the apprentice began, “that looks like the end of the road for the white van, Mma. I'm very sorry.”
Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window, away from Fanwell, across the bleak field of broken metal. “There is another road,” she said quietly. “There is a road that leads to Machaneng.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THERE ARE ALWAYS RED HERRINGS
MMA RAMOTSWE knew that she would worry about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni no matter how hard she tried not to. Concern for those whom one loved was an inescapable feature of this life— and it was impossible to imagine a world without such concern. But she did wish that he would not come home from Lobatse so late; that he would put his foot down and refuse to work beyond, say, five o'clock, which would mean that he would be back by half past six, well in time for his dinner, and she would not have to sit there and imagine what might have happened to him on the road home. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would not change, though, and if a friend needed him to work late, then he would always do it.
When she got back to the office that day, she had not only paid a visit to Harry Moloso's scrapyard, but, having dropped Fanwell at the garage, she had gone on to interview one of the names on the list. This was the newest member of the team, the physical education teacher. The interview had left her none the wiser, and she was keen to hear what Mma Makutsi had discovered in her conversation with Oteng Bolelang. She felt that this investigation was not going to get anywhere, and she needed to talk to Mma Makutsi about it. Her assistant had expressed doubts—and perhaps these were better placed than she had imagined.
The solution to both the anxiety and the need to discuss the case was neatly provided by an invitation to dinner.
“I am going to be eating by myself this evening,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The children are both staying with friends tonight— they like to do that, you know. They like to sleep over at their friends' houses. I think that they like to try different beds!”
“I remember that as a child,” Mma Makutsi said. “I had a friend whose house was better than ours. I always liked going to sleep there. The food was better too.”
“Everybody else's food always is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Especially when you are a child. Everybody else always has a better life than your own. Their parents are nicer. Their house has more comfortable furniture. And so on.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. In her case, of course, everybody else's house really had been better, as the Makutsis did not have much money and this meant their home contained very little furniture. Now, of course, it was different; she had her salary and the money which Phuti gave her. And when she married—if that ever happened—then she would be even more comfortable. Perhaps Mma Ramotswe could come and sleep at her house then. They would have a large guest room with a big double bed and red curtains and …
“I wonder if you would like to eat with me tonight,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I could make some nice stew, and we could talk. You could bring Phuti if you wanted.”
“He cannot come,” said Mma Makutsi quickly—rather too quickly? Mma Ramotswe asked herself—”but I would like that very much.” She was pleased to receive this invitation from Mma Ramotswe, as there was now no food at all left in the house. Yesterday the choice had been between shoes and groceries, and she had chosen shoes. As a consequence Phuti had enjoyed a very frugal meal—”Is there going to be a main course?” he had asked at the end, and she had been obliged to report that the kitchen cupboard was bare. “I almost bought more food,” she said, “but …” The but presaged a story of temptation and fall— a shoe story, in fact—but Phuti had not pressed her and the tale remained untold.
The two women agreed on a time and Mma Ramotswe dropped in at the supermarket on the way home to make sure that she had the necessary supplies. She knew what Mma Makutsi's favourites were, and she would make sure these were on the menu. Mma Makutsi liked chicken, especially if it was smothered in garlic, and she enjoyed ice cream served with tinned South African pears. Mma Ramotswe did not particularly like either of these—certainly she avoided garlic and she found that the slightly grainy texture of pears set her teeth on edge. But she would pr
ovide both for Mma Makutsi's sake.
Mma Makutsi arrived at the house early. She had been invited for six o'clock, and arrived at ten to six. “It is always polite to arrive early,” she said. “I have read that ten minutes is about right.”
Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. She read the same magazines as did Mma Makutsi, and she was sure that the advice she had seen was the direct opposite of what Mma Makutsi had just claimed. She would have to be careful, though, as Mma Makutsi did not always welcome contradiction or correction. In fact, she never welcomed either of these.
“I am not sure,” said Mma Ramotswe as she ushered her visitor into the kitchen. “Are you certain that it's not, perhaps, a little bit the other way round? I'm not sure, of course, Mma. But why would they tell you to arrive early?”
“Because it's polite,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is why, Mma. There are some things that are polite, and there are some things that are rude. It is polite to arrive ten minutes early.”
Mma Ramotswe pursed her lips. Mma Makutsi might be a person of firm views, and she might be somebody whom one would normally treat with great care, being slightly given to explosive reactions, but was it right to allow her to go through life believing something so clearly misguided as this? Mma Ramotswe thought not.
“Well, Mma, perhaps we should just think about it a bit.”
“No need,” said Mma Makutsi firmly, lowering herself onto a chair at the kitchen table. “The rules of good behaviour are firm, Mma, as you well know. We know that it is wrong to take a present with one hand—we know that. It is just there, that rule, at least in Botswana. There may be countries where they have not heard of this—I know that—but I am not talking about such places. I am talking about Botswana. We cannot question these things.”
Mma Ramotswe took a pan down from the shelf. “Yes,” she said. “You are right, Mma, about these things. I would never say that you are wrong.”
“Good,” said Mma Makutsi.
“But at the same time,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “it is possible to look at these rules and see what lies behind them. That tells us why they exist. The reason for the rule against taking a present with one hand is that it looks as if you don't really appreciate the present—that you can only be bothered to use one hand to take it. That is why that one is there.”
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