The woman lowered her eyes in sympathy. “I am sorry. He was a good man.”
Mma Ramotswe felt proud, as she always did when somebody remembered her father. Invariably they used the expression good man; and he was. He was the best of men.
The woman invited her into the kitchen and moved an old enamelled kettle onto the ring of a stove. “I will make tea, Mma,” she said. “Then we can talk. We can talk about your father. He knew my late husband’s brother. They were friends.”
“I think I heard your name mentioned, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mapoi. It seemed a bit familiar. That is why. My father and your late brother-in-law.”
“No, he is not late, that one. My husband is late, but his brother is not late. He is living down near Lobatse. I never see him because he is scared to travel. He says that buses crash too often, so he stays down there. We get more frightened as we get older, Mma. Or that’s what I sometimes think. More and more frightened—of everything.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. It was true, she thought. But why? Because we had seen so many things go wrong in our lifetime? Would she end up like that, afraid to travel in a bus?
Mma Mapoi gestured to a chair, and Mma Ramotswe accepted the invitation. It was a traditional chair, strung with strips of cured hide threaded through holes bored into the hard-wood frame and then criss-crossed to provide a comfortable seat. It was a chair that harked back to a simpler Botswana, to a Botswana of sweet-breathed cattle by the side of the road, of morning air spiced with the smoke of wood fires; who would need more of a chair than that?
“I have come here because I am a detective,” said Mma Ramotswe. “No, don’t be alarmed. I am not a police detective. I am just somebody who finds things out for people.”
“Missing people?” asked Mma Mapoi.
“Yes, Mma. That is exactly what I do. In this case, I am looking for relatives for somebody. There is a woman called Mma Sebina…”
“There was a Mma Sebina,” Mma Mapoi corrected her. “She is late, I’m afraid. Sometimes it seems that everyone is late.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “We all become late, sooner or later. But her daughter—”
Mma Mapoi clapped her hands together. “Of course, Mma. I was forgetting her daughter. I have not seen her recently, you see. I was very friendly with her mother. Is the daughter well?”
Mma Ramotswe assured her that the daughter was well. “But I have to tell you, Mma,” she went on, “that there is one thing that is bothering her. She thinks that she is not really the daughter of her late mother. She thinks that she is the daughter of another mother.”
Mma Mapoi received this news in silence. She looked at the kettle, which had not yet boiled. Then she looked down at her hands, which were resting, folded, in her lap. Mma Ramotswe’s eyes were drawn to the hands and saw the signs of years of hard work: the cracked skin from scrubbing; the scars from the kitchen knife, little nicks; the worn-down nails.
“She is,” said Mma Mapoi eventually.
“She is the daughter of another mother?”
Mma Mapoi lifted her head. “Yes. Another mother.”
So it is true, thought Mma Ramotswe. Three testimonies to truth; one to falsehood. That woman in Otse, the woman with the chair in the tree, was making things up. Perhaps I should have been readier to discount the tale of one who had a chair in a tree.
“Do you know who that mother was, Mma?”
Mma Mapoi dropped her gaze again. The kettle was now boiling, but she seemed uninterested in it. Mma Ramotswe wondered if she should offer to make the tea, but decided against it. They would wait. She looked at Mma Mapoi. She had not expected her to know, because it seemed that it would be a bit too much to hope for. But obviously she did know; if she did not, she would have said so.
“Do you know her name, Mma?” she prompted. “Or even where she came from?”
Mma Mapoi cleared her throat. “I know who that woman was,” she said. “I did not know her personally, but I knew exactly who she was.”
“I am glad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is important for the younger Mma Sebina to know. When you do not know where you have come from…”
Mma Mapoi suddenly rose to her feet to attend to the kettle. She checked herself in a moment of pain; her joints. “Is it important, Mma? Are you sure that it’s important?”
“I think so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “People who are adopted want to know these days, I think. They used to hide these things, but not now.”
Mma Mapoi poured the hot water into a small brown teapot. The smell of the tea, Tanganda, Mma Ramotswe thought, drifted across the room. It was time, thought Mma Ramotswe; and tea made it easier to talk, much easier.
“But what if there really is something to hide?” said Mma Mapoi, her voice raised unnaturally. “What then, Mma?”
It will be marriage, thought Mma Ramotswe. The real mother would have been a young girl, perhaps, the father maybe even unknown. That would have been an issue in the past, but not now, not any more. She began to reassure Mma Mapoi that this would probably not disturb Mma Sebina, but the older woman cut her short.
“No, no, Mma. It’s not that. No. That is nothing.”
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“It is something very bad, Mma,” said Mma Mapoi. “I don’t know if I should tell you.” She paused. “If I do, will you tell her? Will you tell the daughter?”
Mma Ramotswe was uncertain how to deal with this. She had been asked by Mma Sebina to find out about her real family and she did not know how she could agree not to pass on any information she came by. And yet, if it was something terrible, then how could she be sure that Mma Sebina would want to know? Mma Ramotswe began to explain to Mma Mapoi about her duty to her client. She could not undertake to keep anything from her; did Mma Mapoi understand? Rather to her surprise, Mma Mapoi said that she did understand; she understood perfectly well.
“I leave it up to you,” Mma Mapoi said. “You can decide. But do not tell her until you have thought about it very carefully, Mma. You do not want her to be unhappy, do you?”
“No. Of course not.” Mma Ramotswe waited. Mma Mapoi had poured the tea now and was cradling her cup in her hands. Then she looked up at Mma Ramotswe.
“The mother—the real mother—was a very young woman, Mma. She was just sixteen, I think. And she already had one child before she had this girl. Her first-born was a boy. Then she had a daughter.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded her encouragement. “I see. Two children.”
“Yes, two children. And then…then, Mma, this young woman killed her husband with a hoe. That is what happened.”
Mma Ramotswe had not been prepared for this. Botswana was a peaceful place, and people did not kill their husbands, or not very often. That happened elsewhere, she thought.
Mma Mapoi was watching her intently. “I can see that you are shocked, Mma,” she said quietly. “It was a terrible thing. I think that he was a very bad man, that husband—he beat her, I think, and she decided that she had had enough. That sometimes happens.”
Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, it did. And she understood. There were men who beat women; she had been married to one, to Note Mokoti, all those years ago. Had she stayed with him, might she have ended up disposing of him? It seemed inconceivable, but in a moment of utter desperation anybody, she imagined, might do anything.
Mma Mapoi continued with her story. “The police came and took her away. She did not deny that she had killed this man, and they took her to the High Court in Lobatse. Mma Sebina—the mother—told me all about this. They knew why she had done it, and I think that the judge felt sorry for her, but she still had to go to prison. But she became late there after a year, I think—she was ill. And that made those children orphans.”
“Where did they go? Was there a grandmother?”
Mma Mapoi shook her head. “No. There was nobody. Nobody knew where that woman was from, and the late husband’s family would have nothing to do with the children of the woman who had killed their son.”
/> Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic clicking with her tongue. Without a grandmother, children in that position would be the responsibility of a village—if they had a village.
“So they took them to that place at Tlokweng,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is where they went. Then Mma Sebina took the girl. She could not take the brother. She could not feed two more mouths, she said.”
Mma Mapoi went on to say something about the cost of food and how difficult it was to feed growing children, with their appetites. Boys were worse than girls, she said, and they always wanted meat, and meat was so expensive these days, unless you had your own chickens, of course…But Mma Ramotswe had stopped listening. The orphan farm at Tlokweng; and there was a boy. I’ve found your brother, she thought.
“Thank you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have told me something very important. And I don’t think we need to tell Mma Sebina about what her mother did. We can keep that a secret, as long as we can tell her that she has a brother.”
Mma Mapoi seemed relieved. “It would be better that way,” she said. “My friend never wanted her daughter to know. I am sure of that.”
“Then we can respect her wishes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to respect the wishes of somebody who is late.”
“Oh yes,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is much better. Otherwise they might punish us from up there.”
Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. “Possibly,” she said. But there was disbelief in her voice; she did not think that those who were late, or the ancestors themselves, would wish punishment upon us, no matter what our transgressions. It was far more likely that there would be love, falling like rain from above, changing the hearts of the wicked; transforming them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ABOUT A BED
IT WAS NOT UNTIL the following morning that it became apparent what Mma Makutsi had been up to while Mma Ramotswe had been on her mission to find Mma Mapoi. Mma Ramotswe had forgotten the conversation with Charlie, and the sudden expression of interest on Mma Makutsi’s face when he had remarked on the cheapness of the bed he had seen. That attention became something more than interest once Mma Ramotswe had left the office. Mr. Polopetsi, who had been sitting idly in the garage, had been called in and left in charge of the agency, while Mma Makutsi prepared to go to the bank.
“Answer the phone, Rra,” he had been instructed. “Don’t do anything. Just answer the phone and take any messages.”
“And if a client comes in? What then? Am I to send that person away? Away to the competition?”
Mma Makutsi had looked at him in astonishment. “Competition? What competition are you talking about?”
“Somewhere else,” said Mr. Polopetsi, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the window. “You cannot send customers away. No business can.”
Mma Makutsi knew what he was driving at. Ever since he had been taken on at the garage—and Mma Makutsi regarded Mr. Polopetsi as working for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and not for Mma Ramotswe—it had been his ambition to have his own clients. But that could not be allowed, or certainly not at this stage, because he could not be trusted to get things right. And there was another reason that, for Mma Makutsi at least, was a very powerful one for keeping Mr. Polopetsi in the background. This was the simple fact that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was, as the name so clearly spelled out, an agency run by ladies. Mr. Polopetsi, for all his modesty and keenness, was a man, and if he were to be given substantial authority, could the business still in good faith be called a ladies’ detective agency? Mma Makutsi thought not.
“There is no competition, Rra,” she said patiently. “We are the only detective agency in town. If somebody doesn’t want to come to us, then that is just too bad. Their problems will remain unsolved.”
She waited for him to say something, but he did not. “So I think,” she went on, “that it’s best for you just to take the client’s name and explain that the detectives”—and she stressed the word detectives—“will be back later on. Make an appointment for anybody to see me tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked at her. “But would it not be better to arrange an appointment with Mma Ramotswe herself? Why speak to the dog when you can speak to its master?”
Mma Makutsi stiffened. When she responded, her voice was icy. “I’m not sure that I understand what you’re saying, Rra. What is this about dogs?”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about real dogs,” Mr. Polopetsi said quickly. “I was talking about how it’s best to go directly to the top. That’s what some people think, Mma. I don’t, but they do.”
“That may be true, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi, picking up her handbag, “but we haven’t got time to talk about all that now. Just look after the phone, that’s all. Please don’t start any new cases. Thank you.”
She left the office and walked down to the place where the minibuses stopped. One of them, she knew, went past the bank and after she had done her business there—withdrawing the sum required—she could go on to the shop where Charlie claimed he had seen the bed. It pained her to think that she would have to withdraw almost half of her savings in order to make the purchase, but there was a lot at stake. She could not face Phuti and tell him that her carelessness had ruined the bed he had bought. Nor could she allow Mma Ramotswe to tell him on her behalf: the effect, she thought, would be much the same. Indeed, it might be worse, as Phuti might think the less of her for not having the courage to tell him herself. No, the simplest thing was surely to buy another bed and store it safely at the agency or in the garage until Phuti could transport it to his house. For the time being she would continue to sleep on her own old and somewhat uncomfortable mattress, until such time as, sanctified by custom and by the marriage laws of the Republic of Botswana, they sank into connubial bliss in a luxurious and commodious bed, under the protection of a large, heart-shaped headboard in red velvet.
THAT WAS WHAT Mma Makutsi had done. The next morning, shortly after nine, while Mma Ramotswe was dictating a letter, Charlie knocked on the door and announced that a delivery van had arrived.
“It’s for you,” he said, looking at Mma Makutsi and pointing a greasy finger in her direction. “It’s a you-know-what!”
Mma Makutsi, flustered, looked down at her dictation notebook. Her pencil dropped to the floor.
“That sounds very exciting, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps somebody has sent you a present.”
“No,” said Charlie, shaking his head. “It’s a new bed. Just like the other one. She bought it. It’s not a present.”
Mma Ramotswe half rose to her feet to look out of the window but stopped herself and sat down again. It was not her business to criticise Mma Makutsi for buying a bed, or anything for that matter. There had been that business with her new blue shoes not all that long ago, when Mma Makutsi had purchased a totally unsuitable pair of new shoes against the specific advice of Mma Ramotswe, and where had that led? To disaster. We must remember, Mma, she had said to her assistant as they stood before that tempting shop window, we must remember that those of us with traditionally built feet need to buy traditionally built shoes. It had been good advice; for Mma Makutsi, although by no means as traditionally built as Mma Ramotswe herself, was nonetheless heading in that direction and would, when older, be of convincingly traditional build. But leaving that to one side, her feet were every bit size eight and these shoes, intended as they had been for some region of Italy where feet were small and slender, were, at the most, size six and a half. Mma Ramotswe’s advice on that occasion had been ignored, with the result that there had been a full day in which Mma Makutsi had suffered from considerable discomfort and disability. Indeed, those shoes had turned her head, thought Mma Ramotswe; to the extent that she had even resigned her job—on a temporary basis, as it turned out.
No, Mma Ramotswe would not interfere with any purchase that Mma Makutsi made. And as she merely sat down and said, “A bed. Well, that will be very useful, Mma,” the thought crossed her mind that perhaps the be
d would be too small, just as the shoes had been. But she was not sure whether it was fashionable to have a bed that was too short and narrow; anything was possible in fashion, of course, as fashion and comfort, thought Mma Ramotswe, were inevitably mutually exclusive.
Mma Makutsi now affected nonchalance. “Yes, Mma. It will. I thought that I would get a new one, to replace the one that I…that I left out in the rain. Charlie was right: they were selling them very cheaply and I bought it…” Her words tailed off at the end, as if she was suddenly choking with emotion at the thought of what she had done. Half her savings. Half.
Mma Ramotswe sensed Mma Makutsi’s discomfort, and understood the reason. “Don’t worry about it, Mma. There are times when we have to buy very expensive things. It is always worthwhile. Always.” It was not, but out of kindness she said that it was.
“Yes,” said Charlie. “Get the well-known things. Go for the label every time.”
In normal circumstances, Mma Ramotswe would have felt obliged to refute this false philosophy, but not now. “Charlie,” she said, “why don’t you go and ask those men to put the bed safely in the garage? Just outside that door. It will be safe there.”
Mma Makutsi looked up in gratitude. “I won’t have to keep it there long, Mma,” she said. “Phuti will come and collect it in a few days.”
“Of course he will,” said Mma Ramotswe reassuringly. “In the meantime, you will get pleasure from seeing your fine purchase and thinking of how much money you saved—since it was a bargain. That’s the important thing. That will make you feel better.”
It did, immediately, and dictation was resumed. They had several letters to complete and a client was coming in half an hour. There would probably not even be time for tea before the client’s arrival, but the kettle could be put on once the client had arrived. People talked very freely and comfortably against the sound of a boiling kettle, Mma Ramotswe had found. And they talked even more willingly once they had been served a cup of tea, and the first sips had been taken, warming those regions of the heart that were burdened, that wanted to talk.