Blue Shoes and Happiness

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She looked towards the kitchen building. There was an open door at one end and a large window, through which she could just make out the shape of a cupboard and an overhead fan turning slowly. There were people in it too; a head moved, a hand appeared at the window, briefly, and was withdrawn. That was the office, she thought, and she could always just go up to it, knock on the door, and ask for Mma Tsau. Mma Ramotswe had always believed in the direct approach, no matter what advice Clovis Andersen gave in The Principles of Private Detection. Clovis Andersen seemed to endorse circumspection and the finding out of information by indirect means. But in Mma Ramotswe’s view, the best way of getting an answer to any question was to ask somebody face-to-face. Experience had shown her that if one suspected that there was a secret, the best thing to do was to find out who knew the secret and then ask that person to tell it to you. It nearly always worked. The whole point about secrets was that they demanded to be told, they were insistent, they burned a hole in your tongue if you kept them for too long. That was the way it worked for most people.

  For her part, Mma Ramotswe knew how to keep a secret, if the secret was one which needed to be kept. She did not divulge her clients’ affairs, even if she felt that she was bursting to tell somebody, and even Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would not be told of something if it really had to be kept confidential. Only very occasionally, when she felt that the burden of some bit of knowledge was too great for one person to shoulder, would she share with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni some hidden fact which she had uncovered or which had been imparted to her. This had happened when she had heard from one client that he was planning to defraud the Botswana Eagle Insurance Company by making a false claim. He had told her this in a matter-of-fact way, as if she should not be surprised; after all, was this not the way in which practically everybody treated insurance companies? She had gone to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to discuss this with him, and he had advised her to bring her professional relationship with that client to an end, which she did, and was crudely threatened for her pains. That had resulted in a trip to the Botswana Eagle Insurance Company, which had been most grateful for the information Mma Ramotswe had provided, and had taken steps to protect its interests.

  But the direct approach would not work now. If she went to the office, there was every chance that she would see Poppy, and that would lead to difficulties. She had not warned Poppy that she was coming to speak to Mma Tsau, and she would not want the cook to suspect that Poppy had consulted her. No, she would have to make sure that she spoke to Mma Tsau by herself.

  A small group of students emerged from a building beside the kitchen. It was the end of a class, and they stood in groups of two or three outside the classroom, talking among themselves, laughing at shared jokes. It was the end of the month for them too, Mma Ramotswe assumed, and they would have their allowances in their pockets and thoughts of the weekend’s socialising ahead of them. What was it like, she wondered, to be one of them? Mma Ramotswe herself had gone from girlhood to the world of work without anything in between and had never known the student life. Did they know, she wondered, just how fortunate they were?

  One of the students detached herself from a group and started to walk across the patch of ground that separated the van from the kitchen building. When she drew level with the van, she glanced in Mma Ramotswe’s direction.

  “Excuse me, Mma,” shouted Mma Ramotswe through the open window of her van. “Excuse me, Mma!”

  The young woman stopped and looked across at Mma Ramotswe, who was now getting out of the van.

  “Yes, Mma,” said the student. “Are you calling me?”

  Mma Ramotswe made her way over to stand before the young woman. “Yes, Mma,” she said. “Do you know the lady who works in the kitchen? Mma Tsau? Do you know that lady?”

  The student smiled. “She is the cook,” she said. “Yes, I know her.”

  “I need to speak to her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I need to speak to her out here, in my van. I do not want to speak to her when there are other people about.”

  The student looked blank. “So?” she said.

  “So I wonder if you would go and tell her, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could you go and tell her that there is somebody out here who needs to speak to her?”

  The young woman frowned. “Could you not go yourself, Mma? Why do you need me to do this for you?”

  Mma Ramotswe looked searchingly into the face of the young woman before her. What bond was there between them? Were they strangers, people who would have no reason to do anything for one another? Or was this still a place where one might go and speak to another, even a complete stranger, and make a request for help, as had been possible in the past?

  “I am asking you,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “I am asking you …” And then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before she continued, “I am asking you, my sister.”

  For a moment the young woman said nothing, but then she moved her head slightly; she nodded. “I will do that,” she said. “I will go.”

  MMA TSAU, a squat, rather round woman, appeared from the door of the kitchen office, paused, and looked out over the grounds of the college. Her gaze fell upon the tiny white van and she hesitated for a moment. Within the van, Mma Ramotswe raised a hand, which Mma Tsau did not see, but she saw the van, and the young woman had said, “There is a woman who needs to see you urgently, Mma. She is outside in a small white van. She is too big for that van, if you ask me, but she wants to see you there.”

  The cook made her way across the ground to the van. She had a curious gait, Mma Ramotswe observed; a slight limp perhaps, or feet that pointed out to the side rather than forwards. Mma Makutsi was slightly inclined to do that, Mma Ramotswe had noticed, and although she had never said anything about it, one day she would pluck up the courage to suggest that she should think about the way she walked. One had to be careful, though: Mma Makutsi was sensitive about her appearance and might be demoralised by such a remark, even if it was meant helpfully.

  Mma Tsau peered into the van. “You are looking for me, Mma?” The voice was a loud one, surprisingly loud for one of such small stature; it was the voice of one who was used to shouting at people. Professional cooks had a reputation for shouting, Mma Ramotswe recalled. They shouted at the people who worked for them in their kitchen, and some of them—the really famous ones—threw things too. There was no excuse for that, of course. Mma Ramotswe had been shocked when she had read in a magazine about a famous chef somewhere overseas who threw cold soup over the heads of his junior staff if they did not measure up to his expectations. He swore at them too, which was almost as bad. To use strong language, she thought, was a sign of bad temper and lack of concern for others. Such people were not clever or bold simply because they used such language; each time they opened their mouths they proclaimed I am a person who is poor in words. Was Mma Tsau one of those chefs, she wondered; this round little person with the blue spotted scarf tied round her head like a doek? It seemed unlikely that she would throw cold soup over somebody’s head.

  “Yes, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to put to the back of her mind the sudden mental picture which had come to her of Mma Tsau tipping a pot of soup over … Charlie. What a picture! And it was replaced immediately by an image of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, frustrated by some piece of sloppy work, doing a similar thing to the apprentice; and Mma Makutsi pouring soup over … She stopped herself. “I would like to talk to you, please.”

  Mma Tsau wiped her brow. “I am listening,” she said. “I can hear you.”

  “This is private,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We could talk in my van, if you don’t mind.”

  Mma Tsau frowned. “What is this private business?” she asked. “Are you trying to sell something, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe looked about her, as one might do if about to impart a confidence. “It is about your husband,” she said.

  The words had their desired effect. When her husband was mentioned, Mma Tsau gave a start, as if somebody had poured … She moved her head back
and squinted at Mma Ramotswe through narrowed eyes.

  “My husband?”

  “Yes, Mma, your husband.” Mma Ramotswe nodded in the direction of the passenger door. “Why don’t you get into the van, Mma? We can talk in here.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Mma Tsau was going to turn around and go back to her office. There was a moment of hesitation; the eyes moved; she continued to stare at Mma Ramotswe. Then she started to walk round the front of the van, slowly, her eyes still on Mma Ramotswe.

  “You can wind down that window, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe as the other woman lowered herself into the seat beside her. “It will be cooler that way. It is very hot today, isn’t it?”

  Mma Tsau had folded her hands on her lap and was staring down at them. She did not respond to Mma Ramotswe’s remark. In the confines of the van, her breathing was audibly laboured. Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment, allowing her to get her breath back. But there was no change in Mma Tsau’s breathing, which sounded as if the air was working its way through a small thicket of leaves, a rustling sound, the sound of a tree in the wind. She turned and looked at her visitor. She had been prepared to dislike this woman who had been stealing food from the college; this woman who had so unfairly threatened the inoffensive Poppy with dismissal. But now, in the flesh, with her laboured breathing and her odd walk, it was difficult not to feel sympathy. And of course it was always difficult for Mma Ramotswe not to feel sympathy for another, however objectionable his conduct might be, however flawed his character, simply because she understood, at the most intuitive, profound level what it was to be a human being, which is not easy. Everybody, she felt, could do evil, so easily; could be weak, so easily; could be selfish, so easily. This meant that she could understand—and did—which was not the same thing as condoning—which she did not—or taking the view—which she did not—that one should not judge others. Of course one could judge others, and Mma Ramotswe used the standards of the old Botswana morality to make these judgements. But there was nothing in the old Botswana morality which said that one could not forgive those who were weak; indeed, there was much in the old Botswana morality that was very specifically about forgiveness. One should not hold a grudge against another, it said, because to harbour grudges was to disturb the social peace, the bond between people.

  She felt sorry, then, for Mma Tsau, and instinctively, without giving it any thought, she reached out and touched the other woman gently on the forearm, and left her hand there. Mma Tsau tensed, and the breath caught in her throat, but then she turned her head and looked at Mma Ramotswe, and her eyes were moist with tears.

  “You are the mother of one of those girls,” Mma Tsau said quietly. It was not a question; it was a statement. Her earlier confidence was drained from her, and she seemed even smaller now, hunched in her seat.

  Mma Ramotswe did not understand, and was about to say so. But then she thought, and it came to her what this other woman meant. It was a familiar story, after all, and nobody should be surprised. The husband, the father, the respectable citizen; such a man might still carry on with other women in spite of everything, in spite of his wife’s pain, and many did. And some of these men went further, and picked up girls who were far younger than themselves, some still at high school. They felt proud of themselves, these men, with their youthful girlfriends, whose heads they turned because they had money to throw around, or a fast car, or power perhaps.

  “I hear what you say, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe began. “Your husband. I did not mean …”

  “It has been going on for many years,” Mma Tsau interrupted her. “Just after we were married—even then, he started this thing. I told him how stupid he looked, running after these young girls, but he ignored me. I told him that I would leave him, but he just laughed and said that I should do that. But I could not, Mma. I could not …”

  This was a familiar story to Mma Ramotswe. She had come across so many women who could not leave unworthy men because they loved them. This was quite different from those cases where women could not leave because they were frightened of the man, or because they had no place to go; some women could not leave simply because, in spite of everything that had been done to them, in spite of all the heartbreak, they stubbornly loved the man. This, she suspected, was what was happening here. Mma Tsau loved Rra Tsau, and would do so to the end.

  “You love him, Mma?” she probed gently. “Is that it?”

  Mma Tsau looked down at her hands. Mma Ramotswe noticed that one of them had a light dusting of flour on it; the hand of a cook.

  “Eee,” said Mma Tsau, under her breath, using the familiar, long-drawn-out Setswana word of assent. “Eee, Mma. I love that man. That is true. I am a weak woman, I know. But I love him.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. There was no cure for such love. That was the most basic thing one found out about human affairs, and one did not have to be a private detective to know that simple fact. Such love, the tenacious love of a parent or a devoted spouse, could fade—and did—but it took a long time to do so and often persisted in the face of all the evidence that it was squandered on an unworthy choice.

  “I was going to say that I hadn’t come about that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I do not know your husband.”

  It took Mma Tsau a few moments to take in what Mma Ramotswe had told her. When she did, she turned to look at her. She was still defeated.

  “What have you come about?” she asked. There was no real curiosity in her voice now. It was as if Mma Ramotswe had come about the supply of eggs, or potatoes perhaps.

  “I have come because I have heard that you have threatened to dismiss one of your staff,” she said. She did not want to suggest that Poppy had complained, and so she said, quite truthfully—in the strictest sense—that nobody had asked her to come. That was not a lie. It was more what Clovis Andersen called an indirect statement; and there was a distinction.

  Mma Tsau shrugged. “I am the head cook,” she said. “I am called the catering manager. That is who I am. I take on some staff—and push some staff out. Some people are not good workers.” She dusted her hands lightly, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe saw the tiny grains of flour, like specks of dust, caught in a slant of sunlight.

  The sympathy that Mma Ramotswe had felt for her earlier was now being replaced by irritation. She did not really like this woman, she decided, although she admired her, perhaps, for her loyalty to her philandering husband. “People get dismissed for other reasons,” she said. “Somebody who was stealing food, for example—that person would be dismissed if it were found out that government food was being given to her husband.”

  Mma Tsau was quite still. She reached her hand out and touched the hem of her skirt, tugging at it gently, as if testing the strength of the seam. She took a breath, and there was the rattling sound of phlegm.

  “Maybe it was you who wrote that letter,” she said. “Maybe …”

  “I did not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And nor did that girl.”

  Mma Tsau shook her head. “Then who did?”

  “I have no idea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it had nothing to do with that girl. There is somebody else who is blackmailing you. That is what this is, you know. This is blackmail. It is normally a matter for the police.”

  Mma Tsau laughed. “You think I should go to the police? You think that I should say to them: I have been giving government food to my husband. Now somebody is threatening me? I’m not stupid, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s voice was even. “I know that you’re not stupid, Mma Tsau. I know that.” She paused. She doubted that Mma Tsau intended now to do anything more about Poppy, and that meant that she could regard the matter as closed. But it left the issue of the blackmail unresolved. It was a despicable act, she thought, and she was offended that somebody might do such a thing and get away with it. She might look into it, perhaps, if she had the time, and there were always slack periods when she and Mma Makutsi had nothing to do. Perhaps she could even put Mma Makutsi on the case and see what she made of it.
No blackmailer would be a match for Mma Makutsi, assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and graduate of distinction of the Botswana Secretarial College—Mma Ninety-Seven Per Cent, as Mma Ramotswe sometimes irreverently thought of her. She could imagine a confrontation between the blackmailer and Mma Makutsi, with the latter’s large round glasses flashing with the fire of indignation and the blackmailer, a wretched, furtive man cowering in the face of female wrath.

  “What are you smiling at?” asked Mma Tsau. “I do not think this is funny.”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe, bringing herself back to reality. “It is not funny. But tell me, Mma—do you still have that letter? Could you show it to me? Perhaps I can find out who this person is who is trying to blackmail you.”

  Mma Tsau thought for a moment. “And you won’t do anything about … about my husband?”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am not interested in your husband.” And that was true, of course. She could just imagine Mma Tsau’s husband, a lazy womaniser, being fed by his devoted wife and getting fatter and fatter until he could no longer see the lower part of his body, so large had his stomach become. That would serve him right, thought Mma Ramotswe. Being a traditionally built lady was one thing; being a traditionally built man was quite another. And it was certainly not so good.