Mma Ramotswe’s gaze drifted to the zebra-skin hat-band. “No, I can see that. There are not many hats like that.”
“So I am going to wear it today as a disguise,” said Mr. Polopetsi.
The van swerved, but was quickly brought back under control.
“As a disguise, Rra?”
He explained that he normally wore a small grey hat with a narrow brim; this wide-brimmed hat would be a very effective way of hiding his identity. “Nobody will think Oh, that’s Polopetsi standing there, will they, Mma? They will think I am somebody else altogether—perhaps somebody down from the Okavango, from Maun, or somewhere like that, where they wear hats like this.”
Mma Ramotswe felt a strong urge to laugh, but managed to control herself. That hat, she thought, would attract the attention of anybody who went near that car park; all they would see, she imagined, would be that extraordinary hat with a small man underneath it; and anybody planning to do something risky—planning a clandestine meeting—would immediately be put on guard.
Eventually she found the words to express her doubts. “What you say is very true, Rra,” she said. “They will not know it’s you, but they may see you, don’t you think? They may wonder who has such a fine hat. They may even come up to you and ask you where they could get a hat like it.”
Mr. Polopetsi fiddled with the brim of the hat. He ran his fingers along the zebra skin, disturbing the fall of the pile. Mma Ramotswe could see that he was disappointed. “On the other hand, Rra,” she said, “people who have reason to be wary—people who are up to no good, for example—they may think that anybody wearing a hat like that could not be somebody trying to appear inconspicuous…Do you follow me, Rra?”
“I think so…”
“And so these people—like this man who is seeing yet another girlfriend while his wife stays at home and looks after the children and their business—these people would never imagine that the man in a hat like that could be watching them.”
She waited for his reaction; now they were approaching the car park where he was to be dropped off to begin his observations, and, as they drew up just short of it so that he could get out of the van, he said, “I think, on balance, I shall leave the hat in the van, Mma.”
She was relieved, and as she drove away, leaving him to his task, she thought of how important it was to go halfway in any disagreement—to see the other person’s point of view and to find the positive side of it; this little discussion with Mr. Polopetsi had been yet further proof of that. If you did that, if you expressed their viewpoint rather than your own, then you found that they often came round to seeing things as you saw them. If only everybody would do this, she thought; if only the leaders of countries, politicians and people like that, would adopt the same approach, then how much more peaceful and harmonious would be our world. Rather than threatening one another with this, that and the next thing, they would say to one another, “What good ideas you have! And how well you put them!” And this would draw the response, “Well, your ideas are very good too, and you are so right about just about everything!”
Or if they simply said to one another, “I like you.” That was all that was required. “I like you.”
But now, she was interested in finding out what Mma Makutsi—the Principal Investigating Officer—was planning to do. It would be important, she felt, not to duplicate effort; not only was this wasteful, but she did not want Mma Makutsi to discover that she was asking the same questions of the same people as she was.
In response to her enquiries, Mma Makutsi revealed that she and Mr. Polopetsi would be speaking to the people who were working in The Office Place at the time when the incident took place. “Not that it actually took place,” said Mma Makutsi dismissively. “But we need to find out whether these people know anything. If they do, why have they not spoken out?”
Mma Ramotswe thought that it was unlikely that any employee would deliberately cross their boss. “They would not want to put their own jobs in peril,” she said. “That is often the reason why people don’t speak out.”
Mma Makutsi thought otherwise. “Yes, Mma, but in any business, any business at all, there will always be at least one person who does not like the boss and who will be happy to—how do they put it?—blow the whistle.” She paused, as if for emphasis, and then concluded: “There will always be one. Always. No matter how small the business is.”
Mma Ramotswe listened to this without comment. Mma Makutsi sometimes made remarks that she had not thought out fully before she made them. This might be just such an occasion. It would have been bad enough had she stopped short of mentioning small businesses, but her singling out of such concerns was the height of tactlessness. If there was always one person who disliked the boss, then who was it in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency? The choice was not very wide: there was Mma Makutsi herself, there was Mr. Polopetsi, and there was Charlie, who worked part-time in the agency and part-time in the garage. Then there was Fanwell, who, although employed by Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, took his morning break in the agency, sat on the lower of the two filing cabinets while he drank his tea, and could loosely be considered to be associated with the agency. Which of these would Mma Makutsi choose if she had to apply her generalisation this close to home?
Mma Ramotswe was not sure how she would ask this question, but in the event she had no need to pose it. Mma Makutsi suddenly gasped, and put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Mma Ramotswe,” she blurted out, “I’ve just realised what I’ve said. I didn’t mean to say that there would be anybody like that in this business. Oh no, Mma—I certainly did not.”
Mma Ramotswe made light of it. “Think nothing of it,” she said lightly. “I did not imagine you were applying that rule to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.” And then she added, “It was a slip of the tongue, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and gave them a wipe. “That is definitely what it was, Mma. It was a slip of the tongue.” She sniffed. “I would never say anything to hurt you, Mma Ramotswe. I hope you know that.”
Mma Ramotswe did her best to reassure her. “I know that very well, Mma Makutsi.”
“Because everything I have, Mma—everything—I owe to you, and your kindness.”
Mma Ramotswe was touched, but she did not think it was true. “No,” she said. “You owe it to your hard work. You don’t get ninety-seven per cent in this life without working very hard. And that is what you did.”
Nothing more was said, nor needed to be said. Mma Makutsi prepared to leave the office, and Mma Ramotswe buried herself in a copy of the Botswana Daily News, always an antidote to any difficult situation. There was an article about a new government plan to help small farmers, and she began reading that. She did not get far, as her mind was wandering, and the details of the stock support scheme that would help the owners of cattle in drought-stricken areas were overtaken by thoughts of Mingie Ramotswe. She was recalling the advice Mma Potokwane had given her, and she was now on the point of deciding to make some enquiries about what sort of person Mingie was. Then, if what she heard was encouraging, she would seek her out and find out just who she was and why she should claim to be a Ramotswe.
But where to start? Sister Banjule, she thought. She was the nurse at the Anglican hospice, and was she not known as Sister Elephant because of her memory? She would know something about this Mingie Ramotswe because Sister Banjule knew just about every senior nurse in the country, had trained half of them, and had brought the other half into the world during her years as a midwife. She would know.
—
THE HOLY CROSS HOSPICE was on Mboya Close, a modest white building set a short way back from a side-road in one of the poorer parts of town. Mma Ramotswe knew about it because she knew the people who had set it up. Her friend Dr. Moffat had been one of these, and then there was Sister Banjule herself, who on Sundays came to the Anglican Cathedral, where she always wore an elaborate hat, as if she were attending a wedding. It was Sister Banjule who
had nursed Mma Makutsi’s brother, Richard, when he had been at the end of his illness, and Mma Ramotswe remembered the dignity that she had lent to his final days, when his body seemed to be in such open and implacable revolt. The new medicines came too late for Richard—he would have had a chance now—but not then, and he had eventually been released from his suffering.
She parked the van at the edge of the road outside, finding some shade from a rather dispirited-looking acacia tree. It was not much, but even a scrap of shade could make the cab less furnace-like after some time in the direct sunlight. Once inside the compound, she stepped onto the verandah and knocked at the door marked “Office.”
A young man answered. He was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting blue trousers and a white smock-like shirt. Mma Ramotswe recognised these as the working clothes of the nurse or the ward assistant. She introduced herself and asked whether Sister Banjule was available.
“She is very busy at the moment,” said the young man. “I don’t know when she will finish. It depends on…” He looked away.
Mma Ramotswe waited for him to say something further, which he eventually did. “It depends on when the patient becomes late, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb her. I can come back some other time. I’m very sorry.”
The young man seemed unaffected. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. You know this is a hospice, Mma. We are here to help patients who are very ill. Many of them will soon be late.”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her voice. “I know that you people do very good work,” she said.
“Thank you,” said the young man. He cocked his head in the direction of a corridor. “I’ll go and tell her you’re here, anyway.”
She protested. “You mustn’t disturb her.”
“It will not be a disturbance. I’ll just tell her.” He looked at her enquiringly. “What is your name, Mma?”
She told him, and he left. A minute or so later, he reappeared. “Sister says that I can take you through there.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I mustn’t disturb her. I really must go, Rra.”
“No, Mma. She wants to see you. She says that the patient she is with is from Mochudi originally. She says you should say hello to her. It will be good for her to talk to you.”
He led the way down the corridor, stopping outside a half-open door.
“She is in there, Mma,” he said. “You may go in.”
Mma Ramotswe entered the room. It was not very large, and much of the space was taken by a narrow bed on which a woman was lying, a sheet drawn up to her chin. At the bedside was a chair on which Sister Banjule was seated. She was holding the hand of the woman on the bed. There was an additional chair against the wall.
“Mma Ramotswe,” said Sister Banjule. “It is very good to see you.” She gestured to the other chair. “You must sit down, Mma—then I can introduce you to this lady.”
Mma Ramotswe sat down. She looked at the figure on the bed; it was hard to tell much about her, but she was clearly very ill. The skin of her face was drawn tight; her arm, emerging from under the sheet to hold Sister Banjule’s hand, was like a stick.
Sister Banjule leaned forward as she spoke so that her patient might hear her. “This lady has come to see you, Mma,” she said. “She is from Mochudi too.”
“A long time ago,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“You’ll have to speak up,” said Sister Banjule, and, as a whispered aside to Mma Ramotswe, “Hearing goes towards the end.”
“I have not lived in Mochudi for many years, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice raised.
The woman’s eyes opened a little wider. It was hard to see what lay behind the folds of the eyelids, but there was a sudden glint of light, as if something had been reawakened. “Mochudi,” she said, her voice distant, cracked with age and frailty.
“My father was Obed Ramotswe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is late now.”
“They’re late now,” said the woman. “All of them.”
Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Sister Banjule, who smiled. “You are still with us, Mma,” she said to the patient. “And that is the important thing. One day, God will call you, but it is not going to be today.”
The woman wheezed, and Mma Ramotswe realised that this was a laugh. When she spoke again, her voice seemed stronger. “I knew your father,” she said. “He was a good man. Good with cattle.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded encouragingly. “He knew a great deal about cattle, Mma. I think there was nobody else in Botswana who knew as much about cattle as he did.”
The woman shifted slightly in the bed. Her expression now seemed more animated—as if the conversation had stirred her from her somnolent state. “And I knew your mother.”
Mma Ramotswe leaned forward. “I never knew her, Mma. She died when I was very young.”
The effect of this was unexpected. The woman shook her head. “No, Mma. I don’t think so. She was a dressmaker. She moved over the border. She went to one of those places over there.” She attempted to wave her hand in the direction of South Africa, but did not manage more than a slight movement.
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. “I think that is somebody else.”
But the woman said, “Ramotswe. She was the wife of Ramotswe. She never came back, but I think you did.”
“I never went away,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Sister Banjule now intervened. “I think we are thinking of different people. And it doesn’t matter, Mma.” She turned to Mma Ramotswe and whispered, “They can get confused. There’s no point in upsetting them.”
Sister Banjule made it clear that the visit was over. Tucking her patient’s hand back under the sheet, she rose from her chair and gestured for Mma Ramotswe to follow her. Once outside, she said, “I think she was happy to see you. They like to meet new people.”
“She seemed to pick up,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that she was a bit confused, though. That business about going over the border and so on. That was very odd.”
“They get confused,” said Sister Banjule. “And that lady is on a powerful dose of morphine. She is mostly sleeping now because this is probably her last day. She may have one more, but it will not be long now.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was thinking about how we measured out our days: for much of the time, this was in years, but there must come a stage when it was in months, and then, at the end, in hours and even minutes. But even when our span was so reduced, the thought was always present that although we might be going, the things and places we loved would still be there. So it must be a consolation to know that there would still be Botswana; that there would still be a sun that would rise over the acacia trees like a great red ball and would set over the Kalahari in a sweep of copper and gold; that there would still be the smell of wood fires in the evening and the sound of the cattle making their slow way home, their gentle bells marking their return to the safety of their enclosure. All these things must make leaving this world less painful.
Sister Banjule now offered her a cup of tea, but Mma Ramotswe declined. “I can see how busy you are, Mma,” she said. “If you do not mind, I shall not have tea this time. But I would like to ask you something, if I may.”
Sister Banjule inclined her head. “Anything, Mma—although I might not know the answer, and…” She hesitated; something was worrying her. “I know that you’re a private detective, Mma. So if you want to ask me something about one of our patients, I must warn you that I cannot speak. We must observe the patient’s confidence, you see. We cannot tell you things about the people we look after.”
“Oh, I did not have anything like that in mind,” Mma Ramotswe reassured her. “I wanted to ask you about a nurse.”
Sister Banjule frowned. “But that might also be something I cannot talk about,” she said. “I can give a reference, of course, if the nurse in question asks for it.”
“It is nothing to do with that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “In fact it’s nothing to do with an
ything.”
Sister Banjule tried to work that out. “Nothing to do with anything…I’m sorry, Mma, I don’t understand. How can something have nothing to do with anything? Surely everything has to do with something…if you think about it.”
Mma Ramotswe made a cancelling gesture. “That is not what I wanted to say. What I meant was that this is purely private. I want to know something for strictly personal reasons.”
Sister Banjule relaxed. “Then that’s fine, Mma. I shall tell you what I know about this…about this something.”
Mma Ramotswe posed her question. “Do you know of a nurse who has the same name as mine: Ramotswe? She is an—”
“Operating theatre nurse,” supplied Sister Banjule. “Yes, I know that nurse—a little. I don’t know her personally all that well.”
Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue.
“She came up here for a while,” said Sister Banjule. “Then she was in Lobatse. I think she may still be there. In fact, I think she is. I think I saw something about a meeting down there and she was on the list of those attending.”
“Do you know anything more about her?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Sister Banjule’s brow furrowed. “Not really, although I seem to remember that she trained over in South Africa. It may even have been down in Cape Town. They have that big hospital there—you know the one? It’s where they did the heart transplant many years ago. That famous doctor. She trained there and then must have come back home to Botswana afterwards.”
“So if I wrote to her at the hospital down in Lobatse, she would get the letter?”
Sister Banjule seemed amused by this. “I wouldn’t trust the hospital to deliver the letter,” she said. “You know how these big organisations can be when it comes to passing things. No, I’d go and see her. I could get her address for you, if you like. I have a good friend in the hospital office who’ll give it to me.”
Mma Ramotswe might have pointed out that this was exactly the sort of breach of confidentiality that Sister Banjule had earlier on been keen to avoid, but she said nothing.