Blue Shoes and Happiness

CHAPTER FOURTEEN AT DINNER

THAT EVENING, Mr Polopetsi had his dinner early, almost immediately after he had returned from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. It had been a hard afternoon for him, as he had been replacing tyres on a large cattle truck owned by a loyal friend of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This client, who had a fleet of such trucks, could have taken his vehicles to one of the large garages which specialised in looking after such concerns, but chose instead to stick with his old friend. With the growth of the cattle transport firm, their business had become increasingly valuable, and now accounted for almost one eighth of the income of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.

Changing the tyres on such large trucks was very physical work, and Mr Polopetsi, who was a relatively slight man, found that it sorely taxed his strength. But it was not physical tiredness that caused him to ask for an early dinner; there was quite another reason. “I have work to do tonight,” he announced to his wife, slightly mysteriously. “Work for the agency.”

Mma Polopetsi raised an eyebrow. “Does Mma Ramotswe ask you to do overtime? Will she pay you?”

“No,” he said. “She does not know that I am doing this work. I am doing it quietly.”

Mma Polopetsi stirred the pot of maize meal. “I see,” she said. “It’s nothing illegal, is it?” She remembered her husband’s imprisonment—how could one forget that spell of loneliness and shame?—and she had not been very enthusiastic about the thought that he would engage in detective work, which could so easily go wrong. And yet everything she had heard about Mma Ramotswe had inspired confidence, and she shared her husband’s gratitude to one whom she regarded as the family’s saviour.

Mr Polopetsi hesitated for a moment, but then shook his head. “It is not illegal,” he said. “And the only reason I have not told Mma Ramotswe is that it is a problem which is worrying her. I have found out what is happening and I can fix it. I want it to be a nice surprise for her.”

The surprise, as he called it, had required some planning, and the co-operation of his friend and neighbour David, who had a battered old taxi which he used to ferry office-workers home from a parking place under a tree near the central mall. David owed Mr Polopetsi a favour, going back to an argument which had flared up with other neighbours over the ownership of a goat. Mr Polopetsi had sided with him and helped his side of the case to prevail, and this had cemented the friendship between the two men. So when Mr Polopetsi had asked him to drive him down to Mokolodi and to help him with something that needed doing down there, he readily agreed.

They set off shortly after seven. In town, this was still a busy time, with the traffic quite heavy, but by the time they reached the last lights of Gaborone and the dark shape of Kgale Hill could be made out to their side, it was difficult to imagine that there were people about, not far behind them. There was the occasional car on the Lobatse Road, but nothing very much, and on either side of the road there were just the dark shapes of the acacia trees, caught briefly in their headlights and then lost to the night. Mr Polopetsi had not told David about the precise nature of the errand, but now he did so.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “You just park the car nearby. I’ll do the rest.”

David stared at the road ahead. “I’m not happy about this,” he said. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It is quite safe,” said Mr Polopetsi. “You aren’t superstitious, are you?”

It was a challenge that had to be met. “I am not scared of these things,” said David.

They reached the turn-off to Mokolodi, and David nosed the taxi down the road which led in the direction of the game park. There were several houses in the bush to one side, and lights shone out from one or two of these, but for the rest they were in darkness. After a while, Mr Polopetsi tapped his friend on the shoulder and told him to extinguish the headlights.

“We can go very slowly from here,” he said. “Then you can park under a tree and wait until I come back. Nobody will see you.”

They stopped, and the car’s engine was turned off. Now Mr Polopetsi got out of the car and closed the door quietly behind him. It was utterly still, apart from the sound of insects, the persistent chirruping sound that seems to come from nowhere and from everywhere. It was a curious sound, which some people said was the sound of the stars calling their hunting dogs. He looked up. There was no moon that night, and the sky was filled with stars, so high, so white, that they were like an undulating blanket above him. He turned round to find south, and there it was, low down in the sky, as if suspended by something that he could not see, the Southern Cross. He had seen that constellation at night from the window of the prison, from the board and blankets that was his bed, and it had, in a strange way, sustained him. He was unjustly imprisoned; what had happened had not been his fault, and the sight of the stars had reminded him of the smallness of the world of men and their injustices.

Now he made his way to a point in the fence below the main gate. He pulled the strands of wire apart and slipped through. To his right there were the lights of the staff houses, squares of yellow in the black. He paused, waiting to see if there was anybody about; people might sit outside their houses on a warm night like this, but tonight there was nobody. Mr Polopetsi moved on. He knew exactly what he had to do, and he hoped that there would be no noise. If there was, then he would have to run off into the bush and crouch down until it had subsided. But with the bag that he had in his hand, there was no reason why it should not be quiet, and quick. And in the morning they would find out what had happened and there would be talk, but the fear, the dread that he had sensed, would be over. They would be pleased—all of them—although they would never be able to thank him because he would have acted in complete secrecy. Mma Ramotswe would thank him for it; he was sure of that.

AS IT HAPPENED, at the precise moment that Mr Polopetsi was creeping through the darkness, imagining the gratitude of his employer, Mma Ramotswe was sitting with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni at their dining table, having just completed a short conversation on the subject of Mr Polopetsi and his good work in the garage. The two foster children, Motholeli and Puso, were sitting at their places, eyes fixed on the pot of stew which she was about to serve. At a signal from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, the children folded their hands together and closed their eyes.

“We are grateful for this food which has been cooked for us,” he said. “Amen.”

The grace completed, the children opened their eyes again and watched as Mma Ramotswe ladled their helpings onto their plates.

“I have not seen this uncle,” said Motholeli. “Who is he?”

“He is working at the garage,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is a very good mechanic, just like you, Motholeli.”

“He is not a mechanic,” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni corrected her. “A mechanic is somebody who has had the proper training. You are not a mechanic until you have completed an apprenticeship.” The mention of apprenticeships seemed to make him sombre, and he stared grimly at his plate for a few moments. He had reminded himself of his two apprentices, and as a general rule he did not like to think too much about them. He was not sure when they would finish their apprenticeships, as both of them had failed to complete one of the courses they had been sent off on, and would have to repeat it. They had said that they had failed only because of a mix-up in the papers and an ambiguity in one of the questions about diesel systems. He had looked at them with pity; did they really expect him to swallow such a story? No, it was best not to think too much about those two when he was away from the garage.

“What I mean is that he is good with cars,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And he is a good detective too.”

“But is he really a detective?” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni asked, loading his fork with a piece of meat. “You cannot call just anybody a detective. There must be some training …” He tailed off. Mma Ramotswe had had no training, of course, although she had at least read The Principles of Private Detection by Clovis Andersen. He doubted whether Mr Polopetsi had read even that.

“Being a private detective is different from being a mechanic,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can be a detective without formal qualifications. There is no detective school, as far as I know. I do not think that Mr Sherlock Holmes went to a detective school.”

“Who is this Rra Holmes?” asked Motholeli.

“He was a very famous detective,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He smoked a pipe and was very clever.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stroked his chin. “I do not know if he really existed,” he said. “I think that he was just in a book.”

Motholeli looked to Mma Ramotswe for clarification. “Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps.”

“He is from a book,” said Puso suddenly. “My teacher told us about him. She said that he went to a waterfall and fell over the edge. She said that is what sometimes happens to detectives.”

Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “I have never been to the Victoria Falls,” she said.

“If you fell over the Victoria Falls,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cheerfully, “I do not think that you would drown. You are too traditionally built for that. You would float over and bounce up at the bottom like a big rubber ball. You would not be hurt.”

The children laughed, and Mma Ramotswe smiled, at least for a moment. Then her smile faded. She normally paid no attention to any references to her traditional build—indeed, she was proud of it and would mention it herself. But now, it seemed to her, rather too many people were drawing attention to it. There had been that remark from Mr Polopetsi, an ill-considered, casual remark it is true, but still a suggestion that lions would like to eat her because she was large and juicy. And then the nurse had said that she should watch her blood pressure and that one way to do this was to go on a diet. And now here was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni himself suggesting that she looked like a round rubber ball and the children laughing at the idea (and presumably agreeing).

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her plate. She did not think that she ate too much—if one excluded cake and doughnuts and pumpkin, and perhaps a few other things—and the fact that she was traditionally built was just the way she was. And yet there was no doubt but that she could afford to shed a few pounds, even if only to avoid the embarrassment which had arisen the other day when she had stooped to sit down on her office chair and the seams of her skirt had given way. Mma Makutsi had been tactful about this, and had pretended not to hear anything, but she had noticed and her eyes had widened slightly. There were many arguments in favour of being traditionally built, but it had to be said that it would be pleasant if these digs from other people could be headed off. Perhaps there was an argument for going on a diet after all and showing everybody that she could lose weight if she wanted to. And of course what they said about diets was that you had to start straightaway—the moment the idea crossed your mind. If you put it off, and said that your diet would start the following day, or the following week, then you would never do it. There would always be some reason why it was impossible or inconvenient. So she should start right now, right at this very moment, while the tempting plate of stew lay before her.

“Motholeli and Puso,” she said, sitting up straight in her chair. “Would you like the stew on my plate? I do not think I am going to eat it.”

Puso nodded quickly and pushed out his plate for the extra portion, and his sister soon followed his lead. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, though, looked at Mma Ramotswe in astonishment. He lowered his fork to his plate and let it lie there.

“Are you not feeling well, Mma Ramotswe?” he asked. “I have heard that there is something going round the town. People are having trouble with their stomachs.”

“I am quite well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have just decided that from now on I shall eat just a little bit less.”

“But you will die,” said Puso anxiously. “If you do not eat, then you die. Our teacher told us that.”

“I am not going to stop eating altogether,” said Mma Ramotswe, laughing at the suggestion. “Don’t worry about that. No, it’s just that I have decided that I should go on a diet. That is all. I shall eat something, but not as much as before.”

“No cake,” said Motholeli. “And no doughnuts.”

“That is right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Next time Mma Potokwane offers me any of that fruit cake of hers, I shall say, ‘No thank you, Mma.’ That is what I shall say.”

“I shall eat your share of fruit cake,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I do not need to go on a diet.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was already beginning to feel hungry, and the diet had only been going for a few minutes. Perhaps she should have just a little bit of the stew—there was still some left in the pot in the kitchen. She rose to her feet.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Is that you going into the kitchen to help yourself to stew in secret?” he asked.

Mma Ramotswe sat down. “I was not going into the kitchen,” she said hotly. “I was just adjusting my dress. It’s feeling rather loose, you see.”

She looked up at the ceiling. She had heard that dieting was not easy. Some time ago, before any question of a diet had arisen, she had seen an article in the paper about how diets encouraged people to become dishonest with others—and with themselves. There had been a survey conducted at one of the places where people went to diet, and it was revealed that just about everybody who went on the course took with them a secret supply of snacks. She had found that funny; the idea of adults behaving like children and smuggling in sweets and chocolate had struck her as being an amusing one. And yet now that she herself was on a diet, it did not seem so funny after all. In fact, it seemed rather sad. Those poor people wanting to eat and not being allowed to. Dieting was cruel; it was an abuse of human rights. Yes, that’s what it was, and she should not allow herself to be manipulated in this way.

She stopped herself. Thinking like that was nothing more than coming up with excuses for breaking the diet. Mma Ramotswe was made of sterner stuff than that, and so she persisted. As the others ate the pudding she had prepared for them—banana custard with spoonfuls of red jam in the middle, she sat as if fixed to her seat, watching them enjoying themselves.

“Are you sure you won’t have some of this custard, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“No,” she said. And then said, “Yes. Yes, I am sure that I won’t. Which means no.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “It is very good,” he said.

This is how we are tempted, thought Mma Ramotswe. But at least some of us are strong.

She closed her eyes. It was easier to be strong, she thought, if one had one’s eyes closed; although that would only work to a limited extent. One could not go around indefinitely with one’s eyes closed, especially if one was a detective. Quite apart from anything else, that was in direct contradiction of the advice which Clovis Andersen gave inThe Principles of Private Detection , one chapter of which was entitled “The Importance of Keeping Your Eyes Open.” Had Clovis Andersen ever been on a diet? she wondered. There was a picture of him on the back cover, and although Mma Ramotswe had never paid much attention to it, now that she brought it to mind, one salient feature of it leapt out. Clovis Andersen was traditionally built.