‘But I did.’
‘So what happened next?’ asked Mma Potokwani.
‘I bought a new magazine and took it to the waiting room. I told the receptionist that I had bought a present for the waiting room. It was so that other people could enjoy the magazine while they waited to have their teeth looked at. I said that it would take their minds off what lay ahead.’
Mma Potokwani thought that this would have been a great comfort for those facing the dentist’s drill. Mma Ramotswe, though, had more to tell.
‘The receptionist laughed,’ she continued. ‘She said: you must be another of those people who take our magazines and then regret it.’
‘Oh,’ said Mma Potokwani. Then she added, ‘That lady is not very sympathetic, Mma. That was not a kind thing to say to somebody who had stolen a… borrowed a magazine and then felt bad about it.’
With orphans, cake and guilt all disposed of, it was time for Mma Potokwani to broach the subject of Mma Makutsi. ‘Mma Makutsi,’ she said simply, ‘has, I believe, some café or other.’
Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘She is very proud of it,’ she said. ‘We went there for a meal the other day. She has a chef —’
Mma Potokwani interrupted her. ‘A chef called Disang.’
Mma Ramotswe was cautious. ‘I think he’s called Thomas.’
‘Yes, Thomas Disang.’
Mma Ramotswe looked down at her cup. She feared where this was going. ‘Isn’t Mma Makutsi’s lawyer called Disang?’
‘Yes,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘That is his name. But it’s also the name of the chef. And of the waiter. And the waitress, for that matter.’
A fresh pot of tea arrived, and Mma Potokwani raised her cup to take a deep draught. She was a quick drinker of tea, and always managed two or three cups to Mma Ramotswe’s one. ‘Yes. They are all Disangs – and they are all relatives of that lawyer of hers.’
‘It is a common name,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There are hundreds of Disangs.’
‘It is certainly a common name,’ agreed Mma Potokwani. ‘But I can tell you this, Mma – those Disangs in that restaurant are all one family. The chef is the lawyer’s brother. The waiter is the chef’s son, and the waitress is the son’s wife.’
Mma Ramotswe reflected on this. It was not uncommon for people to look after their relatives – it was a very African thing. If your cousin was in need, for instance, why not help him? Surely it was wrong, according to the old traditions, to let somebody close to you suffer need. Yes, but… and that but was a very big one. That desire to help was one of the roots of the vine of corruption that had smothered so much of Africa.
‘Does Mma Makutsi know all this?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwani shook her head. ‘I do not think she knows. And there is another thing she doesn’t know: that Disang man cannot cook.’
Mma Ramotswe remembered their dinner. ‘But he can cook, Mma. He’s very good. He cooked for us the other night.’
Mma Potokwani shook her head slowly. ‘He did not cook, Mma. That meal was cooked by somebody else.’
‘But he was there in the kitchen,’ protested Mma Ramotswe. ‘They served it to us directly from the kitchen. He was there. I saw him.’
Mma Potokwani poured herself another cup of tea. ‘It was cooked by one of my housemothers,’ she said. ‘She told me.’
Mma Ramotswe stared at her friend. She remembered what Fanwell had said about seeing a woman in the kitchen. She groaned inwardly. ‘You may as well tell me everything, Mma,’ she said.
Mma Potokwani put down her cup. ‘She mentioned it to me casually,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t trying to hide anything. I had gone to inspect her kitchen and had complimented her on her cooking. Then she said that she had recently cooked a meal for some people in a restaurant. She is the aunt of that chef. She said that she was very surprised that he had found a job in a restaurant as he is one of the worst cooks she knows. She also said that he is a good-for-nothing who never sticks at any job.’
‘Oh,’ said Mma Ramotswe. It was all she could think of to say.
‘So I’m afraid those Disangs are taking advantage of Mma Makutsi,’ continued Mma Potokwani. ‘It will end in disaster, I’m afraid.’
Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘I’m afraid it will, too.’
‘And it gets worse,’ said Mma Potokwani.
‘How can it get worse, Mma?’
Mma Potokwani refilled her teacup. ‘That waiter – the chef’s son – he’s even more hopeless than his father. Apparently he spilled a whole plate of stew over one of the customers yesterday. I heard about it from our infant teacher, who was there. She said there was a terrific row and the waiter stormed off without apologising. The poor customer was covered in stew and had to clean himself up as best he could.’
‘That is not good,’ sighed Mma Ramotswe.
‘And it gets even worse than that,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘Did you see the Botswana Daily News? They had something on the front page. It said: Read our restaurant reviewer’s assessment of a new café – in tomorrow’s Daily News.’
Mma Ramotswe tried to be positive. ‘That can help sometimes,’ she said. ‘Often these places really want a review. It can be an advertisement.’
‘Except for one thing,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘Do you know who has recently become their restaurant reviewer?’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘She signs her reviews with her initials: VS.’
‘VS?’
Mma Potokwani let her friend work it out for herself. A louder sigh came, and that sigh was more of a groan. ‘Violet Sephotho?’ ventured Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwani nodded. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘That is very bad.’ She paused. ‘What does that woman know about restaurants?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘But then many people who write about things know nothing. As you yourself might say, Mma Ramotswe – that is well known. How does Violet get any of her jobs, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe knew the answer but did not want to spell it out. The two women looked at one another – they understood.
‘She must know a journalist,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘She must know one of those journalists very well.’
Nothing more needed to be said. Violet Sephotho, sworn enemy of Mma Makutsi and graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College with barely fifty per cent in the final examinations, was incorrigible. There was no low to which she would not stoop in pursuit of her ambitions, which were money and men, in either order. The two goals, in fact, were intertwined: men brought money, or if they did not, they were not the sort of men in whom Violet was interested.
Mma Ramotswe stared out of the window of the Equatorial Café as this new piece of information sank in. Gaborone, although a city, was really a small town, as most cities were. Everybody read the Botswana Daily News and bad publicity in that quarter would kill Mma Makutsi’s restaurant stone dead. People believed what they read – for the most part – and few, if any, of them would know that the initials VS stood for Violet Sephotho. And even if they did, not everybody knew about Violet’s track record and would assume that a restaurant review would be written by somebody who had all the necessary experience and judgement to write such a thing. VS… that could stand for Very Suspect, thought Mma Ramotswe, or perhaps Very Spiteful.
Mma Potokwani shook her head sorrowfully. ‘She will be writing something very bad, I think.’
Mma Ramotswe was deep in thought. There had been no indication from Mma Makutsi that things were going wrong, although now that she came to think about it she had seemed a bit subdued over the last day or two since the restaurant opened. She was not sure how hands-on Mma Makutsi was planning to be with her restaurant – she had many other things in her life, after all. It was possible that she was intending to leave the whole thing to Mr Disang, and if that were the case, she might not have heard of these disturbing incidents and might be assuming that everything was going well. That was unlikely, though: what was the po
int of having a restaurant if you were not going to take a reasonably active interest in it? It was not as if Mma Makutsi needed a business purely to make money; since her marriage to Phuti she had been in the fortunate position of not having to worry much about money – the Double Comfort Furniture Store was doing well, by all accounts, and then there were all those Radiphuti cattle. No, the restaurant had not come into existence simply to make money.
She turned her gaze away from the window and back to Mma Potokwani. ‘This is a big disaster, Mma,’ she said.
Mma Potokwani nodded gravely. ‘It is not at all good. In fact, it is bad, Mma. It is very bad all round.’
More tea was poured. They were both thinking the same thing: how would Mma Makutsi be told? It was not Mma Potokwani’s responsibility – Mma Makutsi was Mma Ramotswe’s friend and colleague – but when you were a matron the problems of others tended to be your problem too. Mma Ramotswe knew that she would have to raise the subject with Mma Makutsi, but she was not looking forward to witnessing the distress that her friend would feel when she found out. The Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café was not only a café – it represented more than that in Mma Makutsi’s mind: it was her own business, her own creation, the emblem of everything she had accomplished. It was about having achieved ninety-seven per cent; having struggled against all the odds; having acted on her initiative. Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes and sighed. She would find a time to speak to Mma Makutsi, but that time had not yet arrived.
Mma Potokwani, full of sympathy for this difficult situation, took it upon herself to move the discussion on.
‘It’s one of your cases that’s worrying you, isn’t it?’ the matron said.
‘It is, Mma.’
Mma Potokwani reached out and patted Mma Ramotswe’s arm. ‘Friends can always tell.’
There had been numerous occasions, Mma Ramotswe now reminded herself, when Mma Potokwani had not only been able to tell but had been able to help as well, though she was not sure whether even Mma Potokwani could do much about the complicated circumstances in which she now found herself.
Clasping her teacup in both hands, Mma Ramotswe related how Mr Sengupta had approached her, how Charlie had pointed out Maria’s house, and how Maria had inadvertently provided the key to the whole situation. ‘That poor woman,’ she said. ‘She must have suffered so much and then she hits back and the police come after her.’
‘In South Africa?’ asked Mma Potokwani. ‘Not our police – the ones over the border?’
Mma Ramotswe nodded.
‘It is very difficult for them,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘Some of them are honest – maybe many of them – but there are some who are real skellums.’ She used the word that was popular over the border: a skellum was malevolent; there was no reasoning with a skellum.
‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I really only know one of them. He is quite senior now, I think. He is a good man.’
Mma Potokwani was interested. ‘He is the one who used to be over at Mmbabtho in the old days? The one you told me about?’
Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘His mother is from here. The father was born over there, but he is Setswana-speaking. He is over in Johannesburg now.’
Mma Potokwani sipped at her tea. ‘I know that man’s wife. She’s from Tlokweng. You say he’s senior now?’
‘Yes,’ answered Mma Ramotswe. ‘He’s a police colonel now. But he’s the same old Billy Pilane to me. You never change the way you look at people, you know. Your friend can become president, even, but to you he’ll just be your friend.’
‘As long as your friend doesn’t change,’ cautioned Mma Potokwani. ‘There are some people who change as they become more important. Imagine if…’ She paused. She had entertained a possibility that was too horrible to contemplate.
Mma Ramotswe was interested. ‘If what, Mma?’
‘Imagine if Violet Sephotho became president.’
It was a possibility too painful to contemplate. ‘We should not think about such things,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
‘No, we should not.’
Mma Potokwani wiped her lips with a blue handkerchief she had tucked into the sleeve of her blouse. ‘Your problem, Mma, is that you cannot be dishonest. You have always been like that.’
Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but Mma Potokwani was right; she could not be dishonest.
‘So here you have a client who is using you, Mma. He is not telling you the truth.’
‘No, he is not.’
‘But you still feel you must tell him that you have found out what he already knows?’
‘Yes, because if I don’t, he will tell the authorities that every step has been taken to find out the identity of this Lakshmi lady.’
‘He will then ask the authorities to exercise their discretion in her favour as an unidentifiable person,’ said Mma Potokwani.
Mma Ramotswe agreed. ‘I think that is what he wants to do.’
‘While all the time,’ went on Mma Potokwani, ‘he knows exactly who she is.’
Mma Ramotswe could not think of that as anything but dishonest, and yet, and yet… ‘It isn’t her fault,’ she said. ‘Lakshmi is only here because of her violent husband.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So,’ continued Mma Ramotswe, ‘is there nothing we can do for her?’
‘We could keep quiet,’ suggested Mma Potokwani. ‘Or rather, you could keep quiet. You could say nothing. You could say that you have found out nothing.’
‘But then I’d be misleading our own government people,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Or at least I’d be part of a plot to mislead them.’
They both saw the problem, and were both silent for a few minutes. Then Mma Potokwani spoke. ‘Go and see him,’ she said. ‘Go and speak to them – Mr Sengupta and Lakshmi. Tell them that you know everything and that you cannot continue to be involved in the case. That way you will not be doing anything illegal. You will not be misleading our own officials.’
Mma Ramotswe considered this. What Mma Potokwani proposed sounded reasonable enough: she had no duty to report the crimes of others – simply being a citizen did not impose on you a duty to turn in everybody who was up to no good. Certainly, if she were ever to find out about anything really serious – a murder or something of that sort – she would go straight to the police, but this was… what was it? It was a misleading of the authorities by one who was desperate; by one who was faced with persecution by both an abusive husband and corrupt police officers. What chance did an ordinary woman have against such a combination? To whom could such a person turn for justice?
That last question remained with her as she drove home from her trip to the supermarket and her meeting with Mma Potokwani. She imagined what it must feel like to be falsely accused of a crime. She imagined what it must be like to be terrified of going home. The world was a hard enough place as it was – how much harder it must be to have nobody to turn to, no friends, no allies, and only a cousin who was prepared to take you in and do the things that sometimes needed to be done if the weak were to be given shelter, if some semblance of fairness was to be achieved in a world that often paid no more than lip service to the idea of justice. The world was not perfect – it never had been and never would be; it was full of pitfalls and problems, of fear, of regrets and of bitter tears. Here and there, though, there were tiny points of light, hard to see at times, but there nonetheless, like the welcoming lights of home in the darkness. The flames that made these lights were hard to ignite, but occasionally, very occasionally, we found that we had in our hands the match that could be struck to start one of these little fires.
Chapter Fifteen