But no, they passed the turning to the three-storey block in which the dressmaker lived and were now headed for the university and the golf club. And that route, of course, took them past the sign that had caught Mma Ramotswe’s attention a few days earlier but that had been forgotten about with everything else that was happening.
When Mma Makutsi slowed down and turned on her indicator, Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. Of course it was possible that there was something else altogether taking her down that particular road, but it now occurred to Mma Ramotswe that their destination was, indeed, the so-called No. 1 Ladies’ College of Secretarial and Business Studies.
They parked a short distance from the building housing the college. Mma Makutsi stopped her car, climbed out of the driver’s seat, and waited for Mma Ramotswe to finish parking and emerge from her van.
“This is where you have your appointment, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe, nodding in the direction of the college building, now with a freshly painted sign.
Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them as she replied. “Do you know about this place?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I was going to talk to you about it, Mma. I saw it a few days ago. I spoke to a man who was doing some painting. He said that—”
Mma Makutsi cut her short. “Violet Sephotho,” she said. “It’s her, you know.”
“I’d worked that out. My suspicions were aroused and I thought, There can be only one person who would do this sort of thing.”
“Your suspicions were right,” said Mma Makutsi, grimly. “I have made further enquiries and it is all confirmed, Mma. This is Violet Sephotho’s place.”
They looked at one another, unspoken thoughts of disapproval going through their minds. What could anyone expect of somebody like Violet Sephotho? To what depths would she not sink? And although Mma Makutsi did not think this, Mma Ramotswe did: Poor woman—what unhappiness must Violet have felt to want to share it with others…
Mma Ramotswe glanced in the direction of the college; a door was open and she could make out a light on somewhere inside in spite of the brightness of the morning. “Is your appointment in there, Mma?” she asked.
“Yes, it is with her, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “Are you sure, Mma?”
“I am very sure, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She had seen Mma Makutsi on the warpath several times before, and she wondered whether she was about to witness another such confrontation. Mma Ramotswe did not like conflict, and would avoid direct, head-to-head arguments if she could, but there was something irresistible about the thought of a Violet Sephotho–Grace Makutsi match; it would be not unlike that famous boxing match of all those years ago that she remembered her father talking about, when those two great boxers met for the Rumble in the Jungle and one of them—now, which one was it?—knocked the other out, against all expectation.
She saw Mma Makutsi looking at her quizzically.
“Why are you smiling, Mma Ramotswe?”
She pulled herself together. “I am just thinking, Mma. I was thinking of a famous boxing match a long time ago. My late daddy talked about it.”
Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder in the direction of the college. “I did not give her my name,” she said. “I made the appointment without telling her who I was. I said that I wanted to discuss a course with her. She was very helpful.”
“Because she thought you were a potential student?”
“Yes. I could hear her thinking about the fees.” Mma Makutsi paused. “Sometimes, you know, Mma, you can hear what people are thinking. Don’t you find that?”
As they walked towards the building, Mma Ramotswe asked Mma Makutsi what she planned to say to Violet.
“I am going to tell her that I am watching her,” Mma Makutsi replied. “I am going to tell her that if she is up to any tricks, she can expect me to find out. I shall be giving her a warning, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “She will not like that, Mma.”
“I know.”
They reached the door of the college. Immediately inside was the main classroom, a large space furnished with the desks that the painter had discussed. A portable blackboard, resting on an easel, had been placed at the head of the room, some sentences in white chalk written on it and underlined in blue. Beyond the classroom, through an open door, could be made out an office of some sort—the edge of a desk, a filing cabinet, a chair or two.
They walked through the empty classroom and knocked at the office door.
“Please come right in,” called a voice from within.
The effect of their entry was immediate. Seated behind her desk, Violet Sephotho, dressed in a low-cut purple dress, looked up sharply and, for a few moments, was clearly confused. She quickly regained her composure, though, and a forced smile appeared on her lips.
“Grace Makutsi…Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. And Mma…Mma…”
“Ramotswe,” supplied Mma Ramotswe. She knew that Violet was perfectly well aware of who she was—of course she was.
“Mma Ramotswe,” said Violet smoothly. “Of course; silly me for not remembering. You’re the woman married to that man who works for that garage, aren’t you?”
Mma Makutsi corrected her. “He is the owner of that garage, Mma. He is not just a mechanic.”
Violet made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll remember that, Mma. Thank you for telling me about it. I shall remember—if anybody ever asks me who owns that place, I shall know what to reply.” She looked down at her desk, where a diary was open before her. “I have an appointment, I’m afraid. So I shall not be able to spend much time talking to you ladies.”
“The appointment is with me,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m the one who made it.”
Violet Sephotho was unprepared for this, and faltered. “You did not…You didn’t say that…”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I am here now, and we can have the talk for which I made that appointment. That is why I am here.”
Violet was marshalling her resources. “Impossible,” she said sharply. “I cannot sit around and talk about the old days. I have very important things to do.”
“But you told me on the phone,” countered Mma Makutsi, “that you would not be busy and that we would have plenty of time to talk.”
Violet’s annoyance showed; as she replied, her voice rose noticeably. “I thought that you were a client,” she said. “Of course I have time to talk to clients—that is quite different from talking to any old person who comes in off the street for a chat.” She paused. “Even you should understand that, Grace Makutsi.”
Mma Ramotswe sensed that battle was about to be joined. She thought that perhaps she should intervene before things were said that could never be retracted, but now it was too late—Mma Makutsi had taken a deep breath and was ready to begin.
“Oh, so I am just any old person,” said Mma Makutsi, and, turning to Mma Ramotswe, repeated, “any old person—that is who we are, apparently, Mma Ramotswe. Any old person.”
“Oh, I don’t think that Mma Sephotho meant it like that, Mma—”
Mma Ramotswe was not allowed to finish. “I can tell what you mean, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, addressing Violet. “I am not so stupid. And I can read too, Mma. I can read that sign that says the No. 1 Ladies’ College. I know that that is meant to exploit the goodwill that goes with the name of Mma Ramotswe’s business. I can see that, you know. I may be any old person, but I am not any old stupid person.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” snapped Violet. “You are talking big nonsense. You cannot claim words in the English language and say those are yours. You cannot stop other people using the words number or one or ladies because those are your private words. You cannot lock words up in the safe, you know.”
Mma Makutsi ignored this point. “I wanted to tell you something as a friend, Mma. I wanted to tell you that we are watching you. I’m going to go and speak
to the Botswana Secretarial College people and tell them to watch you too. We do not need another college like this—we have a perfectly good one already, and you know the name of that.”
Violet Sephotho’s nostrils flared. “Oh, Mma? Oh, do I? The Botswana Secretarial College—that old-fashioned dump. That place that thinks it’s so special, but is only for failures and…and for people from Bobonong and places like that.”
Had she spent hours preparing her insults, had she brooded over them, burnished them, and then brought them out as weapons are brought out before cheering crowds at military parades, Violet Sephotho could not have chosen her words with more devastating effect. For a good minute or so, Mma Makutsi said nothing, but stood where she was, her mouth agape, glaring at the woman in the purple dress seated behind her desk. Then, very slowly, as if muscles that had previously been in a spasm of shock were restored to normal, she inched closer to her adversary.
“You are a very wicked woman,” Mma Makutsi hissed. “You have no loyalty to the college that took you in and made a secretary of you. You clearly have no gratitude for that—no feeling of loyalty; nothing, Mma, nothing. You are full of nothing. There is nothing in your head and nothing inside that heart of yours. Nothing, Mma.”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” said Violet. “The Botswana Secretarial College is irrelevant to the new Botswana. People are looking for better training. They want ideas. They want modern views.”
Mma Makutsi’s breathing was now quite audible; laboured and irregular, it was the breathing of one whose heart was pounding wildly within her as adrenaline raced through her system. “Fifty per cent,” she hissed. “That’s what you got, isn’t it? Fifty per cent. The bare pass mark. Maybe that’s a modern result. Hah!”
“Those things mean nothing,” said Violet. “Those things are for children.”
“Oh, do they?” responded Mma Makutsi, now almost shouting. “If they mean nothing, why do they have them, then?”
“To impress people from places like Bobonong,” said Violet. “They are clearly very easily impressed.”
Oh dear, thought Mma Ramotswe. Not even the Secretary-General of the UN, not even the Pope, could do much to defuse this crisis, but she would try. “Perhaps we should think about all this,” she began. “Perhaps we should…”
She did not finish; a young woman had appeared at the door of the office and was clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” said the young woman politely. “Excuse me, but I need to talk to you, Mma Sephotho.”
Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe fell silent.
“I can come back later if you wish,” said the young woman.
Something, some inner voice, seemed to tell Mma Ramotswe that this was important. Perhaps it was Mma Makutsi’s shoes—and perhaps Mma Makutsi heard them too, because she looked down at that precise moment.
Those fancy-looking shoes have got something to say, Boss. We’d listen if we were you.
Mma Ramotswe glanced at the young woman’s shoes. They were indeed fancy. But surely the voice was illusory; surely it was all in the mind and the voice apparently coming from the shoes was merely an expression of what one was thinking.
Mma Ramotswe acted. “No, don’t worry about us,” she said to the young woman. “We have plenty of time. You can speak to Mma Sephotho.”
The young woman did not notice Violet Sephotho stiffen. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I mustn’t stay too long because I am expected at my work. I just wanted to check up on how often you needed me to come and sign in—for the regulations. Was it once a week, or was it once a month?”
Mma Makutsi exchanged a glance with Mma Ramotswe. For her part, Violet looked flustered. “We can talk about this some other time,” Violet said.
But it was too late. Mma Makutsi turned to the young woman and smiled. “I think I’m in the same position, Mma. I don’t want to be caught.”
It worked. It was a stratagem that she had found in Clovis Andersen’s The Principles of Private Detection. The author of that seminal work had written that if you suspected that somebody was doing something wrong, then one way of eliciting information was simply to suggest that you yourself were engaged in the same wrong. They’ll fill in all the details you need, he wrote.
“No,” said the young woman. “That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want them to think that I’m not a proper student.”
“Of course not,” said Mma Makutsi quickly.
“Because then you have big problems with work permits and tax and so on,” continued the young woman. “This sorts all of that out—as long as we do it right.”
There was a strange sound from Violet, but it did not interrupt the exchange.
“Have you found a job?” asked Mma Makutsi.
Violet opened her mouth to protest, but the young woman seemed unaware of her discomfort. “I’ve found a great job. The pay is really good and the hours not bad at all. I’m very happy with it.”
Mma Makutsi looked pleased. “And no problem with a work permit?”
The young woman shook her head. “None. If you’re a student you’re allowed to take on a part-time job. You know that, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I know that,” she said, and then looked directly at Violet Sephotho. “This is very interesting, Mma.”
Violet rose to her feet. “You get out of here, Grace Makutsi!” she shouted. “You just get out!”
“Oh, I’ll leave, all right, Mma. But where shall I go once I’m out of this office—this so-called office, should I say? Shall I go straight to the police? Or shall I go to the Labour Department? What do you think, Violet?”
Mma Ramotswe stepped forward. “There is no need to go to the police,” she said.
Mma Makutsi shot her a reproachful look. “But this whole thing is a criminal operation, Mma.”
This was the signal for Violet to scream. “You’re calling me a criminal? You’re calling me a criminal, Grace Makutsi?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe intervened again. “I think we should all calm down,” she said.
“I’m very calm,” hissed Mma Makutsi. “I am as calm as a currant.”
As calm as a currant? Mma Ramotswe looked perplexed. But this was not the time for a discussion of words and what they mean. “I have a proposal to make,” she said softly. “If this college is a sham…”
“It is a sham, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is a big sham. One hundred per cent sham.”
“If it is a sham,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “then it should be closed. That is very clear.”
“And money refunded,” added Mma Makutsi.
“It is not your money,” said Violet. “It’s my money. It is legitimately charged for courses.”
“For rubbish,” said Mma Makutsi. “How can you teach these subjects when you got only fifty per cent in the finals? Answer that, Violet Sephotho!”
The young woman had been silent in the face of this exchange, but now she joined in. “Fifty per cent? A teacher with fifty per cent? The principal of a college with fifty per cent?”
“You shut up,” snapped Violet. “You’re just an ignorant student. You know nothing about nothing.”
This was not a wise remark. Drawing herself up to her full height, the young woman fixed Violet with a steely gaze. “You call me ignorant, Mma? Well, I am going to go and discuss that with the other students and see what they think. I shall also tell them that you are a person who has only fifty per cent, and they will say, ‘Oh, this is very sad that we have been hoodwinked by such an ignorant woman.’ That is what they will say, Mma.”
“You shut up!” screamed Violet. “You shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“No, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are the one who must shut up, Violet. You must shut up and then you must close this place down. There must be no more fooling of our immigration and labour people. Do you understand that, Violet?”
Violet had been listening carefully and had realised that her best chance
lay with Mma Ramotswe.
“I will do what you suggest, Mma Ramotswe. I will do that.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to settle things in that way. There is enough trouble in the world already, don’t you think, Mma Sephotho?”
Mma Ramotswe waited for an answer, but none came.
“I said that there is enough trouble in the world already, Mma. Did you hear that?”
Violet now spoke. “I heard that, Mma.”
“And you know what you must do if you wish to avoid further trouble? You know what you have to do?”
“I do,” said Violet.
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is very good.”
She turned to Mma Makutsi. “I think that we should go now, Mma. You have to be in the office and I have to be back at my place.”
“You’re not coming back to work, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“I am still on holiday,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I am now planning to go away to Mochudi. It is a good idea to spend your holiday away, if at all possible. It is not compulsory—I am not saying that—but it is definitely a good idea.”
Mma Makutsi went off to the office while Mma Ramotswe returned to Zebra Drive. It was not yet half past nine, and yet she felt she had already crammed several days’ work into a few hours. Once home, she prepared herself a cup of red bush tea and took it with her into the garden. The morning was a warm one, but the real heat of the day was yet to come and it was still possible to walk out in the sun without longing for shade.