“Yes,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “That looks very like corruption, and corruption is something we don’t like in Botswana. Have you noticed that, Rra? Have you read in the papers about what happens to people who practise corruption? There are not many of them around because they are mostly in another place. And that is that place at the edge of the Village. You know that place, Rra? The place with the big fence around it?”
For a few moments Ditso Ditso was silent. He had now shrunk back in his chair and was looking down at his desktop. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “What do you want me to do, Mma Ramotswe?”
“I want you to look at me, Rra.”
He raised his eyes. It was clearly difficult for him to look directly at her, but she waited until he did so.
“Now, Rra, you have to call a meeting of the board. You have to tell them that you have let them down and you are resigning. You will say that you will be making a generous gift to the orphan farm to mark your time with them. Then you will withdraw your support for the hall project and tell them that it must be cancelled. You will then ask them to reinstate Mma Potokwane with immediate effect.”
He nodded. “I will do all that, Mma.”
“And there’s another thing,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “You will also say sorry, Rra. And don’t forget to do that—maybe it is the biggest thing of all.”
THAT EVENING, Clovis Andersen was invited for dinner with Mma Makutsi and Phuti Radiphuti. Mma Makutsi left the office early to complete the preparations. She could barely believe that she would be actually entertaining, at her own table, the author of The Principles of Private Detection; such a thing was almost inconceivable, and yet it was happening. Phuti, too, was aware of the significance of the evening, and had bought a new shirt and tie for the occasion.
“You don’t have to be too formal,” said Mma Makutsi as they prepared for the arrival of their guest. “He’s very natural—just like an ordinary person. You’d never know he had written an important book like that. You’d never know that he was world famous.”
Phuti struggled with his new tie. “There are very few world-famous people in Botswana,” he said. “There is President Khama and the two former presidents. They are world famous. But who else is there? Can you think of anybody, Grace?”
“I cannot,” she said. “So that makes four world-famous people altogether—and one of them, Phuti, is going to be in our place tonight.”
The thought made him fumble more. “You’ll have to help me with my tie, Grace. I get very nervous when I think of a world-famous person coming to our house.”
She helped him with the knot; she held his hand as she did so; his hand warm against hers, loving flesh on loving flesh.
“I am so proud of you, Grace,” he said. “I am so proud.”
“And I am very proud of you, Phuti.”
There was nothing more to be said, but a great deal to be done, in the kitchen at least, where one of Mma Makutsi’s tried-and-tested stews was gently simmering on the stove. She had purchased the best cut of meat available—of fine Botswana beef—and the largest, most succulent vegetables. It would be a meal that Clovis Andersen remembered; or that was what she hoped.
He arrived on time and they sat down at the table almost immediately. Mma Makutsi said grace before they began, invoking blessings on the stew, the vegetables, the house, the Double Comfort Furniture Store, the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and, at the end of this rather full list, on “our famous guest who has come from so far away but whom we have known as a friend for many years, even if we had never met him.” Phuti reached for his fork, but quickly realised that Mma Makutsi had not yet finished. “And as we sample these good things,” she continued, “we remember those who do not have these good things on their table or do not have a guest to share their meal with them.” Phuti nodded his agreement and reached once more for his fork, but again it was premature. “And may our guest take back to America,” Mma Makutsi went on, “memories of this country that are good. May he remember us when he has gone home, and may he remember too that our door is always open for him if he wants to come back. Amen.”
The amen was taken as a safe enough indication that the grace had come to an end and the meal could begin. Clovis Andersen was delighted with the stew and had three helpings, while Phuti had two, and Mma Makutsi had a single helping—although that was a substantial one.
The conversation flowed easily. Mma Makutsi told Phuti of the events of the day, with certain details being filled in by Clovis Andersen as her narrative unfolded. Then the discussion shifted to talk of Muncie, Indiana, and its charms. Phuti Radiphuti was interested to hear about any woodworking industries in the vicinity and whether they made furniture, and, if so, what that furniture was like. Mma Makutsi was keen to hear details of Clovis Andersen’s cases: Had he ever been to Los Angeles? Had he had any cases in Hollywood? Were there any colleges in the United States that taught both private detection and secretarial skills? For his part, Clovis Andersen wanted to know when the rains would arrive, how long they would last, and how the water table held up during the dry season. He wanted to find out, too, about the old steam trains that he heard used to come down from Bulawayo; also, had all the diamonds been discovered, or was there a good chance that more would be found?
Then, when a brief silence had descended, Mma Makutsi made her suggestion. “Wouldn’t it be a wonderful idea to have an academy, Rra Andersen—to have a school of private detection? We could set it up here, and you could be one of the directors. We could call it …” She turned to Phuti for inspiration.
“How about the Limpopo Academy of Private Detection?”
Mma Makutsi looked at Phuti admiringly. She was the creative one in the marriage, of course—Phuti’s concerns being furniture and cattle and things of that nature—but this demonstrated an imaginative ability that might perhaps be coaxed out further. But not too far. “That would be a very good name,” she said. “I could be the Principal, and you could be in charge of the courses. Mma Ramotswe could be in charge of making tea. And we’d use your book as the set book.”
Clovis Andersen looked wistful. “That would be very good, Mma. But I’m afraid …”
It would be so easy to stay. After all, there was nothing to take him back, and he could spend the rest of his days with these agreeable people, listening to Mma Ramotswe, doing the same small, everyday things that he filled his days with at home, but doing them here, in this place that he was gradually discovering he loved. Could one fall in love with a whole country—just like that? He wondered about that.
“We can think about it,” said Mma Makutsi. “It’s best to think about these things.”
“Yes,” said Clovis Andersen, a bit reluctantly. Things you thought about—wild, irresponsible things like setting up the Limpopo Academy of Private Detection—and never did. Good sense intervened; good sense and responsibility and perhaps also sheer inertia. Yet you could dream about them; you could keep an idea alive, filed away with all those other wonderful, foolish ideas.
At the end of the meal, Phuti ran Clovis Andersen back to his friend’s house. Mma Makutsi came to keep Phuti company on the way home, and it was on this journey, after they had dropped off their guest, that she and Phuti discussed him.
“I like him very much,” said Phuti. “He is a kind man, Mma.”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “But there is something sad about him, isn’t there? He became sadder as the evening wore on, I think.”
“Perhaps it is because he writes books,” offered Phuti. “There are very sad-looking photographs of authors on the covers of their books. Perhaps they are all sad.
“He is a widower, isn’t he?” asked Phuti Radiphuti. “Perhaps he’s missing his late wife.” He almost said, As I would miss you, Grace, if you became late. But he did not say this. They were just starting their life together, and it was premature to reflect on how it would feel if one of them were to go. And he was sure that it would not happen; not for a long time,
until they had been married for years and years and their children were married too and they were ready to go. That is what he hoped, as all of us who have found somebody to ease the pain of the world must hope, for ourselves, and for others.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MMA RAMOTSWE, I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE
FOLLOWING, AS HE DID, the progress of his new house with some interest, Phuti Radiphuti had now taken to visiting the site every day on his way home from work at the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Mma Makutsi sometimes accompanied him on these visits, although she was less interested in the technical details than he was. She wanted to see the walls plastered and painted; she wanted to see the tiles in position in the bathroom; she wanted to stand in her new, finished kitchen and savour the cooking smell coming from the oven. That was the prospect to which she looked forward and that she had heard would be achieved on time, just as Mr. Clarkson Putumelo had promised.
Clarkson Putumelo himself was rarely on site when Phuti or Mma Makutsi visited, which was a relief from her point of view. Most of the time, building operations seemed to be under the control of a foreman, a thickset man with a moustache who had set up a table on which the house plans were spread out and from which he directed operations. This man was pleasant enough, and seemed to take the trouble to explain what was happening in a way that could be appreciated by those to whom building was a closed book.
Thomas, the builder whom Phuti had met at the beginning of the project and whom he had glimpsed briefly at the petrol station, was still working on the site, though he barely acknowledged Phuti when he saw him. Mma Makutsi had tried to engage him in conversation on one or two occasions, and although he had answered her, he had seemed embarrassed by the contact.
“It is probably because he is working illegally,” said Phuti. “Poor man. He will have a big family back at his place and no work permit. It’s probably life and death for him.”
“He’s a hard worker,” said Mma Makutsi. “Have you seen him? He never sits about when the others are having their breaks—he carries on with what he’s doing.”
Phuti had seen that. “I feel very sorry for him,” he said. “It cannot be easy, being him.”
The day after the dinner with Clovis Andersen, Phuti Radiphuti and Mma Makutsi both paid a visit to the building site. The large wooden beams that would bear the roof were now installed on the already completed walls, and in many of the rooms the window frames had been placed in position.
“It is looking very much like a house now,” said Mma Makutsi. “It will make all the difference having a roof.”
They inspected the bathroom, where a large white bath was already in position. Mma Makutsi stood and admired this for several minutes, dreaming of the almost inconceivable luxury of lying in the embrace of hot water and scented bath salts. She had always had to rely on showers—and weak and dribbling ones at that; she had never owned nor had the use of a bath, let alone a bath as beautiful and enticing as this. And it was such a large bath too—enough room for two … She turned away, her ears burning with embarrassment.
“What were you thinking about, Grace?” asked Phuti.
The question caught her unawares. She could not possibly tell him that she had entertained the thought that they might both use the bath; and yet she could hardly lie to him.
“I was thinking of how big the bath is,” she said softly.
He stared at the bath. “Room for two,” he whispered.
They both laughed, and her embarrassment faded. “It’s also a very suitable bath for a traditionally built person,” she said. “Even Mma Ramotswe would fit in that bath.”
“She will be very welcome to come round to our place and take a bath,” said Phuti. “From time to time, that is. You wouldn’t want people coming to use your bath every day.”
They moved through to the kitchen, where the carpentry was already at an advanced stage. Mma Makutsi thought that she had never seen so many cupboards and shelves, and said as much to Phuti. He smiled and said, “We shall have a lot of food to put in them, Grace.” She examined one of the cupboards; the door had been well constructed and opened smoothly, closing again to make a perfect seal.
“There will be no mice in this kitchen,” she said. “There are no holes for them to run in and out of.”
It was while Phuti was laughing at this observation that Thomas walked into the room. He had been working elsewhere on the site and had clearly not seen them, as he strode in whistling, with a saw in his hand and a large piece of insulation board tucked under his arm. His whistling stopped, and he stood stock-still.
“Well, Thomas,” said Phuti. “This is all looking very good. And my wife thinks so too, don’t you, Grace?”
Mma Makutsi smiled at the builder. “You have been doing a very good job. Thank you for all your hard work.”
For a moment or two it seemed that Thomas was uncertain what to do. Then he put the piece of board down on the floor, at the same time looking over his shoulder.
Phuti was puzzled. “Is there anything wrong, Rra?”
Thomas shook his head. He had been avoiding Phuti’s gaze; now he met it directly. “I want to talk to you, Rra. I will be finished in ten minutes. I will meet you down the road. You go first, and I will follow.”
“Can we not talk here?” asked Phuti. “If you want to talk in private, my wife can go and look at the outside.”
“No, I don’t mind talking to the lady too. But not here.”
THEY LEFT THE SITE and drove a short distance down the road before stopping.
“I’m not surprised by this,” said Mma Makutsi. “Something has been going on. I noticed how strangely he behaved when we saw him at the petrol station. Remember? He pretended not to know you.”
“I thought he was shy,” said Phuti. “There are some people like that. And there’s that business with his being illegal.”
“No, it was more than that. There was something else.”
Phuti drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked in the driving mirror. “We’ll soon see,” he said. “He is coming now. He’s walking down the road.”
Phuti got out of the car to greet the builder.
Thomas spoke tersely. “Can I show you something, Rra? Can we go in the car?”
Phuti agreed, and Thomas got into the back seat. Mma Makutsi turned round to smile at him, to set him at his ease. “We can take you wherever you want,” she said brightly. “We are not in a hurry.”
“I’ll show you,” he said. “It isn’t all that far. If you go down to the bottom of this road and turn right it will take us about fifteen minutes.”
They set off in silence. Mma Makutsi exchanged glances with Phuti, and then turned to engage Thomas in conversation.
“We are very happy with the work, Thomas. We are very happy.”
He nodded. “It is a well-built house, Mma. It is very solid.”
She decided to press him. “But you are unhappy about something? Do you want to speak to us about it? We know how difficult it can be for you people, being so far from home. That cannot be easy, Rra.”
He looked at her with his bloodshot eyes; it was the dust, she realised—a building site was not easy on the eyes. “Please do not tell anybody that I have shown you this thing,” he said. “Please do not say it was me.”
“Of course not. We won’t say, will we, Phuti?”
Phuti Radiphuti assured him that he would keep the whole matter confidential—whatever it was. But what was it? Could he tell them now?
“I will show you,” said Thomas simply. “Then you will understand.”
Thomas said nothing else on the brief journey other than to tell them which turning to take. They arrived at a side-road off a residential street, and there, at the end of the road, was another building site.
“We can go in,” Thomas said. “There is nobody working here today, and Mr. Putumelo is up in Francistown this week.”
They left the car at the entrance and manoeuvred their way past a
pile of building equipment—a cement mixer, a cache of planks covered with a tarpaulin, an upturned wheelbarrow.
“This is another fine-looking house,” observed Phuti. “It is a bit bigger than ours, I think.”
“This is going to be Mr. Putumelo’s own house,” said Thomas. “We are working on this one at the same time as we are working on yours.”
“Builders often do two jobs at the same time,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have heard that …”
She did not finish.
“Yes,” said Thomas, “we are building Mr. Putumelo’s house at the same time as we are building yours.” He paused. They waited. “And with your bricks.”
He pointed at the front wall of the house. “See,” he said. “Those good bricks there. Do you see them?”
Phuti looked confused. “They are …”
“Yes,” said Thomas. “They are the same bricks. But you paid for them, Rra. He has been ordering double quantities for your house and then using half of them to build his own house.” He stared at Phuti. “You have been paying all the bills he gives you, Rra?”
Phuti nodded. “I always pay promptly.”
Thomas sighed. “Come with me, please.”
He took them up to the wall and pointed to one of the bricks. “Look at that brick, Rra. Just look closely at it.”
Phuti bent down to examine the surface of the brick. “It has something scratched on it,” he said. “I cannot quite make it out.”
“It is the letters PR,” said Thomas. “Look. That is the P and that is the R. That stands for Phuti Radiphuti. I scratched those letters myself on a few of your bricks to make sure, and here is one of them. There is another one round the side there. There is no doubt: these bricks are yours, Rra. They come from the pile of bricks he ordered for you—I have made quite sure of that.”