Mma Ramotswe was pleased that there was no awkwardness. “I was wondering, Mma,” she said. “I was wondering when Mingie will be back.” She pointed to Mingie’s house. “Is she off at one of the clinics?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, she went off yesterday. Usually, it’s two or three days at the most.”
“Do you know her well?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
The woman finished the hanging up of a child’s brightly coloured dress and then turned to face Mma Ramotswe again. “I know her better than many,” she said. “So, yes, you could say I know her quite well.”
It was a strange reply. Better than many…What was implied by this? That Mingie kept to herself?
“She doesn’t have many friends, then?” said Mma Ramotswe.
The woman reached for a handful of clothes pegs. “She has her friends,” she said evenly. “But some people don’t like her, I think.”
Mma Ramotswe allowed a few moments to pass. A hoopoe, its russet crest topped with dots of black, had alighted on the grass not far away and was watching them. The woman noticed it and remarked that the same bird often presented itself when she was hanging out the washing. “I know somebody who believes that the birds are our ancestors,” she said. “She thinks that ancestors come back to watch over us, and they take the form of birds, especially hoopoes and hornbills. I don’t believe that, Mma—do you?”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And sometimes I think it’s a pity that we can’t believe things that would make us feel much better.” She paused. “But what you said interests me, Mma—why do some people not like Mingie?”
The woman started to hang out a shirt, separating the arms with pegs to allow the cloth to dry more evenly. “I don’t know, Mma. People are strange. That lady—Mingie Ramotswe—is one of the kindest ladies I know. She is a very good woman, Mma.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said the woman. “My husband is late, you see, Mma. When he became late, she did so much for me, Mma—I can’t tell you how much, because her kindness was like a very deep well. There was so much of it. And I know she’s helped other people too, Mma. She is a very good woman.”
Mma Ramotswe felt relieved. This was the sort of informal, sincere testimonial that was infinitely more useful than any muttered reservations or cryptic remarks. When somebody lost a wife or a husband, then the true colours of others came out. She was sure now: if Mingie Ramotswe was some sort of relative, then she would be proud to have her.
She looked at her watch. “I must be going, Mma,” she said. “I shall leave her a note.”
“I can tell her you called,” said the woman. “I’ll see her when she comes back. I can tell her then.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe quizzically. “What did you say your name was, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “Precious Ramotswe,” she said.
The woman expressed surprise. “What relation are you?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe waved a hand vaguely. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I think I’d like to find out.”
She said goodbye to the woman and returned to the van. There she took a leaf out of her notebook and wrote a message in pencil. “Mingie Ramotswe,” the note began. “My name is Precious Ramotswe and I run the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency on the Tlokweng Road. Would you like to come to see me when you are next in Gaborone? Thank you.”
She wondered whether she should write more, but what more was there to write? She had issued the invitation and now all there was to do was to wait and see what happened. Some invitations, she reflected, bore fruit, while others did not. And with that in mind, she crossed the road and slipped her note under the front door of Mingie’s middle-income house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHILDREN ARE ALWAYS EATING
MMA RAMOTSWE had left a note for Mingie Ramotswe and in turn she had been left a note by Mr. Polopetsi. It had been placed on her desk in an envelope, on which he had written, in his careful, excessively small script, For the eyes of Mma Ramotswe only. Mma Ramotswe had to strain to read the minute inscription, but smiled as she did so. Mma Makutsi was not in the office at the time, but had she been, she knew what a battle with temptation she would have had to face. To write on an envelope “for the eyes only” of somebody was surely an invitation to others to at the very least scrutinise the envelope, to hold it up to the light—in short, to do everything humanly possible to determine its contents. Had Mma Makutsi seen Mr. Polopetsi’s note, it would have been as a red rag to a bull. Although she would have stopped short of steaming open the envelope, she certainly would have posed a series of probing questions in an effort to find out what the highly confidential note said. These questions would be indirect to begin with, but would gradually become more explicit, until she would eventually ask: “What has Mr. Polopetsi written in that note, Mma? Not that I am trying to pry, of course, and I would never expect you to betray a confidence, but if it’s not too confidential, then it would be interesting to know what he thinks is so very secret.” The question would be followed by a careless laugh, the meaning of which would be: Mr. Polopetsi could not possibly be party to anything really confidential; he is clearly overstating matters, as he often does.
But now there was nobody else in the office, as it was late afternoon, and so Mma Ramotswe could slit the flap of the envelope and extract the handwritten note within. Again it was in Mr. Polopetsi’s small handwriting and required close examination in order to be read. It was not long—no more than two sentences—and told Mma Ramotswe that he had a very important matter to talk to her about and that this matter could not be discussed in the presence of any other person, especially of one in particular. No name was given, but Mma Ramotswe was able to assume that this person was Mma Makutsi. Having sounded that warning, Mr. Polopetsi asked Mma Ramotswe whether she could call at his house on the way home from the office, and there, he promised, a highly sensitive matter would be revealed.
Mma Ramotswe had been to the Polopetsi house once before, on the occasion when Mr. Polopetsi’s wife had held a birthday party for her husband. She had been impressed by its neatness, which is how she had imagined it would be, given Mr. Polopetsi’s rather precise manner, but she had not been prepared for the range of cleaning equipment she found on her visit to the bathroom. Not only was there a whole rail of cleaning cloths, but there was a shelf groaning under the strain of cleaning fluids, disinfectants, and scouring powders. Cleanliness was a worthwhile goal, thought Mma Ramotswe, but there had to be limits to the amount of time and energy devoted to it. She belonged to the school that held that yards should be swept, stoeps and kitchen floors should be polished with that red polish appropriate for such surfaces, and that baths and sinks should from time to time be sprinkled with that sharp-smelling white powder that claimed to destroy all known household germs; but beyond that one should not worry too much about dirt and germs. Some dirt, and some germs, were inevitable, and did we not need these for our immune systems to be kept in training, ready to deal with greater dangers that might be lurking about?
When she had parked the van immediately outside his gate, Mr. Polopetsi was already at the front door. He had witnessed her arrival from the living-room window and was ready to welcome her.
“You haven’t been here for a long time, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Not since that birthday party of mine, I think.”
“It was a very good party, that one,” she said. “I remember it very well.”
Mr. Polopetsi beamed with pleasure. “We shall have another party some day,” he said. “You can never go to enough parties, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe looked dubious. “I’m not sure about that, Rra. I think one wouldn’t want to go to too many. You’d get a bit tired of parties, wouldn’t you, if you went to a party every night?”
Mr. Polopetsi nodded his agreement. “You’re quite right, Mma Ramotswe. What I meant to say was that you can’t have enough parties if you don’t go to many in the first place—if you see what I mean.”
She was not s
ure that she did, but she did not want to prolong that aspect of the discussion. So she made a complimentary remark about the garden and waited for Mr. Polopetsi to lead her into the house.
“This way, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “We’ll sit in the living room, I think.”
She followed him into a scrupulously tidy room furnished with four easy chairs. The chairs were covered with transparent plastic covers, as was the low-level table at the centre of the room. Mma Ramotswe sat down, feeling the chair’s plastic cover crinkling uncomfortably beneath her.
Mr. Polopetsi sat opposite her, his hands clasped together; he looked uneasy. She decided to start the conversation herself. “So, Rra,” she said. “What is this important matter you wanted to raise with me?”
Mr. Polopetsi was looking fixedly at the wall, at a picture of the late Sir Seretse Khama, hanging beside a framed photograph of a proud and beaming Mr. Polopetsi holding a diploma. He looked much the same, she thought; he was one of those on whom the passage of years appeared to make little impact. She glanced again at the graduation photograph; she had no such certificates herself, but did not resent those who did have them. Had she something to display, of course, she would perhaps be a little bit more circumspect than Mma Makutsi and her ninety-seven per cent, but in the scale of human failings, moderate pride in one’s achievements surely occupied a low enough place.
Mr. Polopetsi dragged his gaze away from the wall. “It’s a delicate matter, Mma,” he began. “I needed to talk to you in the absence of…”
She made it easier for him: “…of Mma Makutsi. But of course, Rra. I understand. Mma Makutsi sometimes has strong views and isn’t afraid to express them. That can be a good attribute, as I’m sure you know, but there are times when it is better to talk more calmly.”
Mr. Polopetsi made it clear that the force of Mma Makutsi’s opinions was not the problem. “This affects her directly,” he said. “I’ve learned something, Mma, that could affect Phuti Radiphuti’s business.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “Very badly, Mma; in fact, to the point of ruining it.”
Mma Ramotswe had not expected this. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Mr. Polopetsi. And take your time, Rra—I am in no hurry.”
She sat back as Mr. Polopetsi told his tale. “You know that we went to The Office Place to talk to the staff about Charity’s firing?”
“Mma Makutsi told me you were going, Rra.”
“Well, there are two sales ladies there, Mma. There used to be three, before Charity was fired by Gopolang. He’s the boss.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then?”
“Well, I spoke to one of the ladies, Mma, and Mma Makutsi spoke to the other. As it happened, I knew the lady I spoke to—not very well, but a little bit. You see, I teach her son at the Gaborone Secondary School.” He paused. “Chemistry.”
She nodded. “I know that, Rra. Chemistry. So you knew this lady?”
Mr. Polopetsi drew a deep breath. “Her name is Gloria, Mma. They have a long surname that the other boys laugh at, so I’ve got used to not using it. I just call her son Sam, and that means he’s not ridiculed.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Our names have a lot to answer for,” she said. “Our names can decide the way our lives work out.”
“You’re right, Mma,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I’m glad that I’m called Polopetsi and not something ridiculous. But this lady, this Gloria, Mma, is a nice lady, but she has not had an easy life recently. Her husband is late, you see. He was struck by lightning.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent. It was not as unusual a cause of death as people might imagine it to be. In a broad, wide country with few hills, lightning could be a real danger, and each year there were people who happened to be out in the open when a sudden electrical storm brewed up.
“He worked for the railway,” explained Mr. Polopetsi. “He was inspecting some track down by Kgale Siding and lightning struck the rail right next to where he was standing. Apparently he was thrown twenty feet or so. He did not stand a chance, Mma: you can’t argue with lightning.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. There was a list of things you could not argue with: lightning, lions, black mambas, crocodiles…
“It was very sad,” Mr. Polopetsi continued. “That lady has four children—three by the late railway engineer and one by a former husband who was no good. They are nice children, Mma, but you know how it is with children: they are always eating, they are always needing new clothes and new shoes. If you have children, you must have something in your pockets.”
“That is very true, Rra.”
“So this lady had to find a job, and she found one in The Office Place. She is a hard worker, and I think she makes enough there to keep her children. There is some kind person somewhere who helps with the school fees of that boy, Sam. And he is a hard worker, too, that boy. He is very good at remembering chemical formulae. He is a star pupil of mine, in fact.”
Mma Ramotswe tried, as tactfully as she could, to nudge the story on. “So what did Gloria tell you, Rra?”
“Well, she told me, Mma, that Charity was an easy person to work with. She said that Charity had been kind to one of her daughters and has passed on some clothing she did not need. She said she was surprised when she was dismissed, but she did not really have much to say about that. She did, however, say something about Gopolang himself. She said that she did not like him very much, although she could not fault him as a boss. She said that he is a ladies’ man—or thinks he is.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “There are so many men who think that. You are not like that, of course, Mr. Polopetsi, because you are a very polite man when it comes to ladies. But there are so many other men who have not learned yet to behave themselves.”
Mr. Polopetsi said that he thought Gopolang might be one of these. “She told me that he’s married but that she’s seen him with another woman. She said that she went into his office one day—she thought he was away—and found him at his desk, with this woman sitting on his lap. He was very embarrassed and he told her that he was just testing the chair to see if it would take the weight of two people. He said he was concerned that some of the customers were too”—Mr. Polopetsi hesitated for a moment, but then continued—“too traditionally built for office chairs these days and there could be injuries.”
Mma Ramotswe gave a snort. “Who would believe something like that, Rra?”
“Gloria didn’t,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “She left him to get on with his weight experiment and went back to work. But later that day, this Gopolang came to her and said that he hoped she understood never to talk to anybody about the experiment she had seen him conducting. He said that it was a valuable commercial secret and that it was most important that nobody should hear about it. Of course he meant that he didn’t want his wife to hear.”
“Of course he didn’t,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Gloria told him that she would never talk about things she saw at work, and he appeared to be relieved. But she herself felt very unhappy because his warning had made her think that her job was at risk. She feared that he was the sort of man who might not want somebody who was working for him to know that he had ladies sitting on his lap in his office. And then, Mma, Charity lost her job and she thought that this might be because she had seen something too.”
It was at this point that Mma Ramotswe stopped him. This was a possibility that she had not considered, and she needed to think about it. “Do you think it likely, Rra?” she asked.
Mr. Polopetsi scratched his head. “I don’t know, Mma. If Charity knew something that he didn’t want others to know, then surely he would have been worried that if he fired her she would go straight off and tell somebody.”
Mma Ramotswe considered this. She thought the point was a reasonable one, but then she reminded herself that people who are ashamed of something often feel threatened by the presence of those who know their secret. It was perfectly credible, she thought, that Gopolang would feel threatened in some way by an
employee who knew that he was having an affair and would want her out because of shame or embarrassment.
“We shall have to think about this,” she said. “But tell me, Rra, what has this got to do with Mma Makutsi’s husband?”
He raised a finger. “Ah, well, Mma Ramotswe, it is not that that has a bearing on Phuti’s business. Gloria told me something else—and that is far more sensitive.”
She waited.
Mr. Polopetsi now told the rest of his story, punctuating the tale with an occasional emphatic gesture. “You know that The Office Place only sells office furniture,” he began. “Most of the time they sell desks and chairs, and filing cabinets, and things like that. They sell a small amount of stationery—printer paper and drawing pins and so on—but their main business is furniture for the office.” He paused. “Now, Mma, if you were wanting to buy some furniture here in Gaborone, where would you go? If you wanted it for your office, then obviously The Office Place has the best selection. But”—and here a very definite gesture underlined the qualification—“but if you wanted home furniture, then you would go to the Double Comfort Furniture Store, to Phuti Radiphuti’s place. They have all the best beds and dining-room tables and such things.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed that they had the largest selection of such items. “And it’s good furniture,” she said. “It is none of this Chinese rubbish. It is good African wood.”
Mr. Polopetsi nodded his head in vigorous agreement. “They buy a lot of it from a factory up in Bulawayo,” he said. “They make a lot of it out of mukwa wood and Zambezi teak. They make some very fine chairs, I think, and big tables too.”
Mma Ramotswe had heard Phuti talking about his mukwa chairs. He had told her that some of them had been bought for State House itself back in the days of President Mogae, and this made him particularly proud. And the American embassy, too, had bought occasional tables of the same wood and was said to be pleased with them.
The House of Unexpected Sisters Page 14