The House of Unexpected Sisters

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She took a deep breath. “I have been thinking, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I think it would be very helpful if you came too.”

  Mma Makutsi was cautious. “Me as well, Mma? All three of us?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes. Because I think you have a very good nose…” She paused as it occurred to her that this might not be the most tactful of expressions; Mma Makutsi’s nose had slightly enlarged pores at the side—hardly noticeable, but there nonetheless, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe imagined her colleague applying red bush tea to her nose, dabbing it on gently with that lace-edged handkerchief she loved so much. “You have a very good nose for these things, Mma. When it comes to judging people…”

  It had worked. Mma Makutsi, visibly enlarged by the praise, was smiling broadly. “Thank you, Mma. I would very much like to come and see this poor woman. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Then that’s settled,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mr. Polopetsi will be coming in at nine—he’s not teaching today. Then all three of us can go to that lady’s house and speak to her about what happened.”

  “I think I shall be able to tell pretty quickly,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Tell what, Mma?”

  “I’ll be able to tell whether she’s rude. You can always see these things, Mma. A rude person trying to be polite is always polite in a rude sort of way. You can always tell.”

  Mma Ramotswe finished her tea. “Well, since we have a bit of time to wait until Mr. Polopetsi arrives, perhaps…”

  Mma Makutsi foresaw the request. “A very good idea, Mma. I shall refill the kettle straightaway.”

  —

  CHARITY MOMPOLOKI’S HOUSE was neatly kept. On each side of the front door was a planter made from a sawn-in-half oil drum, and in these grew two flowering aloe plants, their blossom the same colour as the red tin roof.

  “A very pretty house,” said Mr. Polopetsi, as they drove up in Mma Ramotswe’s somewhat overloaded van. The size of the van was an issue: Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had long ago installed an old-fashioned bench seat that would allow the seating of two passengers, along with the driver—or, rather, would allow that where all three were of moderate size. Mma Ramotswe, however, being traditionally built, required slightly more room than the average driver—in fact, a full eight inches more room, and this meant that she overflowed—in the nicest possible sense—into the space that would be occupied by the passenger in the middle. In this case that was Mr. Polopetsi, who, being the smallest, had been invited to sit between Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, in which position he was inevitably pushed over into the portion of seat occupied by Mma Makutsi.

  As they approached Charity’s house and Mma Ramotswe began to turn the steering wheel, Mr. Polopetsi found himself being pushed inexorably in Mma Makutsi’s direction. The upper part of his leg was now pressed firmly against Mma Makutsi’s own leg, which, rather than yielding, seemed to be being pushed back against the intrusion.

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi, looking sideways at her neighbour. “Yes, the house is certainly very pretty. But Mr. Polopetsi, would you mind moving over a bit—there is not much room in this van and we must all keep to our allotted place.”

  They were words of unmistakable censure, and Mr. Polopetsi, who at the same time admired and feared Mma Makutsi, struggled to find the right response. Eventually he said, “I am doing my best, Mma. It is very difficult sometimes to keep upright.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed. “Hah! That’s a very good remark, Rra. Don’t you think so, Mma Ramotswe? ‘It is very difficult sometimes to keep upright.’ That could be a motto for many people. How do you keep upright when there are so many bad things happening in the world?”

  “And temptations too,” added Mma Ramotswe, reaching for the handbrake. “There are many people who simply cannot keep upright when they are faced with a strong temptation.”

  “That’s right,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is particularly hard for men.”

  Mr. Polopetsi bit his lip. There certainly were many men who were weak, but surely that did not justify saying that all men yielded to temptation.

  Mma Ramotswe switched off the ignition. “I do not think we should be too hard on men, Mma,” she said.

  “I am a man,” began Mr. Polpetsi. “And I think…”

  He did not finish; Mma Makutsi had dug him in the ribs playfully. “So you are a man, Rra,” she said, with a laugh. “Perhaps you can tell us why men give in to temptation so easily.”

  “Come now, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know many women who give in to temptation just as readily as men. I know how I feel when Mma Potokwane offers me a slice of her fruit cake. Do I give in to temptation? I’m afraid I do, Mma. Every time.”

  “There you are,” said Mr. Polopetsi mildly. “We are all weak—all of us.”

  “And what about you, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe continued. “I believe you find it hard to resist new shoes.”

  The question had not been posed in any hostile way, but the temperature in the car suddenly seemed to fall. “I need shoes,” said Mma Makutsi reproachfully. “We all need shoes, Mma Ramotswe. Unless I’m missing something; unless there are people who are happy to walk about barefoot, as if they were out in the bush.”

  Trapped between the two women, Mr. Polopetsi did his best to bring the discussion on temptation to an end. “I think we should go in now. Somebody has come to the door. We cannot sit here and talk about temptation and such things while that lady is waiting for us.”

  They got out of the car and made their way up the short path that led to Charity Mompoloki’s gate. Politeness required that they call out before entering, even if the householder was standing, as she was, at the front door.

  “Ko! Ko!” called Mma Ramotswe. “We are here to see you, Mma—may we come in?”

  Charity came out to meet them. She shook hands first with Mma Ramotswe, then with Mma Makutsi, and finally with Mr. Polopetsi, then gestured for them to follow her into the house. “It is cooler inside,” she said. “I have a fan and I shall turn it on.”

  It suddenly occurred to Mma Ramotswe that this was a house in which the electricity bill might be an issue. “I’m sure that we shall be cool enough once we’re inside,” she said.

  “A fan will make us even cooler,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe shot Mma Makutsi a glance. This was intercepted by Mr. Polopetsi, who immediately understood. “I would prefer not to have the fan on,” he said. “Please do not bother, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi frowned. “You like to sit near the fan in the office,” she pointed out. “You always turn it on.”

  Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “I’m hoping there’ll be some more rain soon,” she said. “I know we’ve had some good rains, but there’s always room for more. The cattle will like it.”

  In Botswana, that was the most uncontroversial of comments. Nobody would disagree with any sentiment in favour of rain, nor could they express anything but sympathy for cattle. Cattle had no vote, nor the words to express a view, but their feelings ranked above just about everything else in the country.

  “I will give you water,” said Charity. “You must be thirsty.”

  Again this was the practice of politeness. In a hot country, not to offer water would be impolite.

  As she raised her glass of water to her lips, Mma Ramotswe glanced at the room into which they had been led. It was a combined kitchen and living room, furnished simply, but comfortably. While there was no sign of luxury, it was clean and tidy: it was not the room of one who had no resources at all—poverty, as everybody knew, had a very recognisable smell.

  Mma Ramotswe spoke first. “I should explain who we are, Mma,” she began. “I am Mma Ramotswe and this is Mma Makutsi, and this is Mr. Polopetsi.”

  Charity nodded. “I know who you are, Mma. My sister told me that you would be coming.”

  “I see,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And I am very grateful to you,” Charity continued. “This thing that happened to me is the worst thing I ha
ve ever experienced in my life—ever.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on her visitors. Then she continued, “That is why I am so glad that you’ll be able to get my job back.”

  Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Mma Makutsi.

  “Excuse me, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, turning to face Charity. “We cannot guarantee that, Mma. At the moment we have no idea whether or not we’ll be successful.”

  Charity’s face fell. “But I heard that you always manage to sort things out,” she said. “That is why you’re number one—the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. They told me that you have never failed.”

  Mma Ramotswe put down her glass of water. “I wish that were true, Mma,” she said. “But we are only human, and there have been many times when we have not been able to find out what we needed to find out.”

  Charity appeared to interpret this as modesty. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. I mean, what you say is not true; what other people say is true.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head vigorously. “No, Mma, what I said about what they said—that’s true, I’m afraid. What they said is not true, even if it’s very kind of them to say it.”

  Mr. Polopetsi, who had been silent up to this point, now intervened. “Mma Ramotswe’s right,” he said, raising a finger to emphasise his point. “She’s right about being wrong.”

  Charity looked at him blankly. “I didn’t say anybody was wrong, Rra.”

  “No,” replied Mr. Polopetsi. “You did not say that, Mma. I did not say that you said it. I said that Mma Ramotswe was right in saying that sometimes she gets things wrong.”

  This was too much for Mma Makutsi. “Mr. Polopetsi, I don’t want to say that you’re wrong, but I think that you are wrong here. Mma Ramotswe very seldom gets things wrong.” She fixed him with a challenging stare. “I should know, Rra. I have worked with Mma Ramotswe since the very beginning, since the first day. I have been there at her side in all these investigations, right from the beginning.”

  Mr. Polopetsi looked confused. “But I thought you were just the secretary in those days.”

  Even if he had tried, Mr. Polopetsi could not have chosen a more dangerous form of wording. Mma Makutsi stiffened, and her glasses caught the light from the room’s only window. “Just…,” she muttered. “Just the secretary…”

  Mma Ramotswe took matters in hand. “Let’s not get tied up with something that isn’t really at all important. Let’s not bother about whether the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency does this thing or that thing.” She paused, giving Mma Makutsi a discouraging look. Then, turning back to Charity, she said, “The point is this, Mma: we shall do our best to help you, but you must understand that we cannot work miracles. Detective work is not like that—it is the slow uncovering of information; it is talking to people; it is thinking about the meaning of what you know—and what you don’t know. It is all of those things, Mma.”

  Mr. Polopetsi agreed. “That is what it is,” he reassured Charity. “Very slow—like a tortoise.”

  Charity understood. “I can imagine that. Small facts, big facts; looking here, looking there; listening to what the wind is saying.”

  Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mma!” she exclaimed. “That is a very good way of putting it. ‘Listening to what the wind is saying.’ Yes! That is just what you have to do.”

  Not to be outdone, Mma Makutsi revealed that this was what she had always thought. “The wind hears everything,” she said.

  “That’s true,” said Mma Ramotswe, and then, to Charity, “But now, Mma, we need to know what happened.”

  Charity sighed. “I lost my job. I had worked in that place for over six years, Mma. I started just after my boys were born.”

  Mma Ramotswe had seen the signs of children; the crayon drawing pinned to the wall—a picture of that universal childhood vision: a house, a tree, a smiling sun above. It was how they saw the world, she thought; it was how we wanted the world to be, what we wanted of it, at whatever stage in life we were at. “You have two boys, I hear, Mma,” she said. “I hear they are twins.”

  Charity smiled with pleasure. “Two little boys. They are with their grandmother for a few days. She lives out at Mochudi.”

  The mention of Mochudi brought an exclamation of surprise from Mma Ramotswe. “That is my village, Mma. That is where I come from.”

  “My mother is from there, too, Mma. She was a nurse in the hospital when it was the Dutch Reformed place. She worked with Dr. Moffat.”

  “I know him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I sometimes have tea with his wife, now that they are living in Gaborone.” She paused. “I do not think I’ve met your mother. There are so many people in Mochudi these days.”

  “Everywhere is larger today,” contributed Mma Makutsi.

  Charity turned to her. “Are you from Mochudi too, Mma?”

  “Bobonong,” Mma Makutsi replied.

  “That is a very nice place,” said Charity.

  No encomium could have been better chosen. “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi, “Bobonong is a good place.”

  “So,” said Mma Ramotswe, steering the conversation back to Charity’s problem. “So, you worked there for six years and then this thing happened.”

  Charity closed her eyes briefly, as if reliving a painful moment, and then opened them to look directly at Mma Ramotswe. “I’ve never been rude to customers,” she said quietly. “I have never, ever spoken to them sharply. I’ve always, always tried to give them the best possible service. That is what I am like, Mma Ramotswe. That is the way I have done the work that God called me to do. When God called me to sell office furniture, I said to myself, ‘I shall do this to the best of my ability.’ That is what I said, Mma, and I hope that you believe me when I tell you that is what I did.”

  Mma Ramotswe assured her that she believed every word she had said. That led to the conclusion that somebody had lied.

  “The customer lied,” said Charity. “That is the only possibility.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mr. Polopetsi, who had been staring out of the window while Charity spoke, now turned round. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at him accusingly. “I don’t think you’re getting it, Rra. If Mma Charity said that she wasn’t rude—and we know that she’s telling the truth—then it must have been the customer who lied.”

  Mr. Polopetsi shook his head. “No, Mma. There is another possibility.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled mockingly. “I don’t think so, Rra. I think—”

  Mr. Polopetsi, who rarely, if ever, interrupted anybody, now cut Mma Makutsi short. “The employer might be lying, Mma Makutsi. Have you thought of that? The boss may have made the whole story up as an excuse to get rid of Mma Charity.”

  Mma Ramotswe, who had of course already considered this possibility, turned to Charity and asked her how she had got on with her boss during those six years.

  “There were no problems,” said Charity. “My boss never had any reason to be dissatisfied with my work. I was given a bonus every year—my sales record, you see, was very good. I could sell office furniture to…to people who didn’t even have an office. That’s what they said about me, Mma: I’m not making that up.”

  “Then why would he tell those lies about you?” asked Mr. Polopetsi.

  Mma Makutsi was still smarting from having been contradicted—convincingly—by Mr. Polopetsi. “We don’t know that he told lies, Rra,” she admonished. “There is no proof of that.”

  Mr. Polopetsi looked to Mma Ramotswe for support. He himself was surprised that he had openly disagreed with Mma Makutsi, and he had no stomach for further argument with her.

  “You are both right,” said Mma Ramotswe tactfully. “We don’t know who’s telling the truth here.” She stopped, and then corrected herself quickly. “Except Mma Charity, of course. She is obviously telling the truth.”

  “Whoever is not telling the truth,” said Mr. Polopetsi, “the end result is the same, isn’t
it? This poor lady has lost her job although she did not deserve to lose it.”

  “What will you do now, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Is there another job you can do until this is all settled?”

  Charity made a gesture of helplessness. “What can I do, Mma? You know how difficult it is to get jobs. I’m forty-six, and that is not an easy age if you want to get a new job. People say, ‘Oh, I see you’re forty-six, Mma, and there are many twenty-year-olds after this job. I hope you’ll understand, Mma.’ ”

  This struck a chord with Mr. Polopetsi. “It is very unfair,” he said. “I encountered the same thing when I was looking for a job. They never told me to my face, but I knew that they wanted a much younger person.”

  “Soon the whole world will be run by teenagers,” said Mma Makutsi. “We will be allowed to work, but only if the teenagers are in control. We shall all be working for the teenagers.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “We think they should be working for us, do we?”

  Mma Makutsi saw nothing amusing in that. “But of course, Mma. We know so much better than they do.”

  Mma Ramotswe raised, as delicately as she could, the issue of money. There were so many people who seemed to survive even if they had no job; somehow they made do, supported by friends and family, caught in the invisible nets that people create for one another. Was that how it would be with Charity? “It will be hard for you,” she said. “Without a job, will you be able to—”