In the Company of Cheerful Ladies

CHAPTER THIRTEEN MMA MAKUTSI AND MR J.L.B. MATEKONI VISIT MR J.L.B. MATEKONI’S HOUSE

MMA MAKUTSI realised the next day that Mma Ramo-tswe’s mind was on other things. Her employer was rarely moody, but there were occasions when it seemed as if some problem was preventing her from giving her full attention to the affairs of the agency. It was usually something domestic—one of the children might be experiencing difficulty at school or Rose, her maid, might have told her of the hardship being endured by a relative or friend. There was so much need, even in a fortunate country such as Botswana; it seemed as if the reservoirs of suffering were never empty, and no matter what progress was made there would always be people for whom there was no job, or no place to live, or not enough food. And when you became aware of these needs, especially if they were being felt by those who had a claim on you, then it was hard to put them out of your mind.

Everybody knew somebody in need. Mma Makutsi herself had just heard of a young girl whose parents had both died. This girl, who lived with an aunt, was clever. She had done well in her examinations, but now there was no money to pay her school fees and she would have to give up her education if this money were not found. What could one do? Mma Makutsi could not help her; although she had a bit of spare money now from the Kalahari Typing School for Men, she had her own people to look after up in Bobonong. So there was nobody to help this child, and she would lose her chance to make something of her life.

Of course you could not allow yourself to think too much about these issues. One had to get on and to attend to the day-to-day business of living. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was there to solve the problems in people’s lives—that’s what they did, as Mma Ramotswe often pointed out—but they could not solve all the world’s problems. And so you had to turn away from so much that you would like to do something about, and hope that things would work out somehow for those who were in need. That was all you could do.

Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe, seated at her desk on the other side of the room, and wondered. She asked herself whether she should say something to her employer, or whether she should remain silent. After a moment’s thought, she decided to speak.

“You are looking very worried, Mma Ramotswe,” she ventured. “Are you feeling all right?”

For a while Mma Ramotswe said nothing, and Mma Makutsi’s question hung awkwardly in the air.

Then Mma Ramotswe spoke. “I am worried about something, Mma,” she said. “But I do not wish to burden you with my worries. This is a private thing.”

Mma Makutsi looked at her. To describe something as a private thing was a big step. There were very few matters in Botswana which people would treat as a private thing; this was a society in which people knew one another’s business. “I do not wish to pry into private things,” she said. “But if you are worried about that thing, then you should let me take up your worries about other things. That way I can help you.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I do not know which worries I can pass on to you. There are so many …”

Mma Makutsi’s interjection was brisk. “Well, there’s Charlie, for a start. He is a big worry. Let me deal with Charlie. Then you can stop worrying about him.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe thought of ways to decline this offer. Charlie was a garage matter, and his welfare was thus the concern of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and of herself, indirectly, as the wife of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. She and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had always worried about the apprentices, and it seemed perfectly natural that they should continue to do so. And yet, it was undoubtedly an attractive offer that Mma Makutsi was making. She had no idea what she could do about Charlie—if, indeed she could do anything at all. Mma Makutsi was a resourceful and intelligent lady who was quite capable of sorting out young men. She had taken the apprentices in hand before, with conspicuous success, and so perhaps it was appropriate that she should try to do so again.

“What would you do about Charlie?” she asked. “What can any of us possibly do?”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “I can go and find out just what’s going on,” she said. “Then I can look at ways of dealing with it.”

“But we know perfectly well what’s going on,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The goings-on are between him and that rich lady with the Mercedes-Benz. Anybody can tell what that’s all about. That’s what’s going on.”

Mma Makutsi agreed that this was so. But in her view there was always more beneath the surface, and they had of course seen the lady and the apprentice drive into Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s yard. That remained something of a mystery.

“There are still some things to be looked at,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “I have been thinking that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and I should have a closer look. That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

“You must be careful of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” cautioned Mma Ramotswe. “He is a very good mechanic, but I do not think that he will be a very good detective. In fact, I am sure he will not be.”

“I shall be in charge,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall make sure that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni comes to no harm.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is the only husband I …” She stopped. She had been about to say that he was the only husband she had, but then she realised, with a feeling of dark foreboding, that this was not strictly true.

WHEN MMA MAKUTSI suggested to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that they pay a visit to his new tenant, he looked at his watch and scratched his head.

“I have so much to do, Mma,” he said. “There is that car over there which has no brake pads left. Then there is that van which is making a noise like a donkey. There are many sick vehicles here, and I cannot leave them.”

“They are not dying,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “They will still be here when we come back.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “I do not see why we need to go to the house. They are paying their rent. The house has not been burned down.”

“But there is Charlie,” pointed out Mma Makutsi. “We should find out why he is going to your house. What if he is being sucked into some sort of criminal activity, with that fancy lady of his and that Mercedes-Benz?”

At the mention of criminal activity, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni grimaced. He had taken those boys on several years ago, and he had imagined their involvement in all sorts of affairs with girls. He did not like to enquire about that, and it was their own business after all. But criminal activity was another matter. What if there were to be an article in the newspapers reporting that an apprentice from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had been arrested by the police in connection with some racket? The shame that this would bring on him would be too much to bear. His was a business dedicated to looking after customers and their cars, and doing so honestly. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had never used cheap, unsuitable spare parts and then charged the customer for expensive, proprietary parts; he had never paid or accepted a bribe. He had done his best to instill this sense of morality—this commercial, or even mechanical, morality—in the boys, but he was not at all sure whether he had succeeded. He sighed again. These women were always pushing him into things against his will. He did not want to interfere with his tenant. He did not want to go back to his old house, now that he was so safely settled in the house at Zebra Drive. But it seemed that he was being given very little alternative, and so he agreed. They could go that evening, he conceded, shortly after five o’clock. Until then he wanted to work on these poor vehicles without interruption.

“I will not disturb you,” promised Mma Makutsi. “But at five o’clock I shall be standing here, ready to go”

And at exactly five o’clock she waved goodbye to Mma Ramotswe as her employer drove off homewards in the tiny white van and she went to remind Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that it was time for them to go. He had just finished working on a car, and was in a cheerful mood, as the job had worked out well.

“I hope that we shall not have to be long,” he said as he wiped his hands on a piece of lint. “I do not have very much to say to that man who has rented my house. In fact, I have nothing to say to him at all.”

“We can say that we have come to see that everything is all right,” said Mma Makutsi. “And then we can say something about Charlie. We can ask him if he has seen Charlie.”

“I don’t see any point in that,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “If he has seen Charlie he will say yes, and if he has not seen him, then he will say no. What is the point of asking him this?”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “You are not a detective, Rra. I can tell that.”

“I am certainly not a detective,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “And I do not want to be a detective. I am a mechanic.”

“You have married a detective,” said Mma Makutsi gently. “People who marry people sometimes pick up a bit about the job. Look at the President’s wife. She must know all about opening schools and signing things now.”

“But I do not expect Mma Ramotswe to fix cars,” objected Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “So she should not expect me to be a detective.”

Mma Makutsi decided not to respond to this remark. Glancing at her watch, she pointed out that they should leave, or they would arrive at a time when the tenant and his family were sitting down to their evening meal, and this would be rude. Reluctantly, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni peeled off his overalls and reached for his hat off its accustomed peg. Then the two of them set off in his truck, to make the short journey along the road that led to his house near the old Botswana Defence Force Club.

As they neared the house, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni began to slow down. Peering over the steering wheel, he remarked to Mma Makutsi, “This feels very strange, Mma. It is always strange coming back to a place where you used to live.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. It was true: she had only been back to Bobonong a few times since she had moved to Gaborone, and it had always been an unsettling experience. Everything was so familiar—that was true—but in a curious way it did not seem the same. To begin with, there was the smallness, and the shabbiness. When she had lived in Bobonong the houses seemed perfectly normal to her and the house in which her family lived had seemed quite comfortable. But looking at it with eyes that had seen Gaborone, and the large buildings there, their house had seemed mean and cramped. And as for the shabbiness, she had never noticed when she lived there how Bobonong could have done with a lick of paint, but having been in Gaborone, where things were kept so smart, it was impossible not to notice all the flaking paint and the dirt-scarred walls.

The people too seemed diminished. Her favourite aunt was still her favourite, of course, but whereas she had always been impressed by the wisdom of what her aunt said, now her words seemed no more than trite. And what was worse, she had actually felt embarrassed at some of her pronouncements, thinking that such observations would seem quaint in Gaborone. That had made her feel guilty, and she had tried to smile appreciatively at her aunt’s remarks, but somehow the effort seemed too great. She knew this was wrong; she knew that you should never forget what you owed to home, and to family, and to the place that nurtured you, but sometimes it was difficult to put this into practice.

Mma Makutsi had always been impressed by the way in which Mma Ramotswe seemed to be completely at ease with who she was and where she came from. She was clearly very attached to Mochudi, and when she spoke of her childhood there it was always with fondness. This was great good fortune: to love the place in which you were brought up; not everybody could do that. And even greater good fortune would be to have a father like Obed Ramotswe, about whom Mma Makutsi had heard so much from Mma Ramotswe. Mma Makutsi almost felt as if she knew him now, and that at any moment she herself would start quoting things he had said, although of course she had never met him. She could just imagine that happening. She would say to Mma Ramotswe, “As your father used to say, Mma …” and Mma Ramotswe would smile and say, “Yes, he always said that, didn’t he?”

Of course she would not be the only one to do that sort of thing. Mma Ramotswe was always talking about Seretse Khama and quoting the things that he had said, but Mma Makutsi was a bit suspicious of this. It was not that Seretse Khama had not said a great number of wise things—he had—it was just that she felt that Mma Ramotswe had a slight tendency to express a view—her own view—and then attribute it to Seretse Khama, even if Sir Seretse had never expressed an opinion on the matter in question. There had been an example of this recently when Mma Ramotswe had told her that you should never drive a goat across water and that Seretse Khama himself had said something to that effect. Mma Makutsi was very doubtful about this; Seretse Khama had never said anything about goats, as far as she could remember—and she had studied his speeches when she was at school—and in her view this was merely Mma Ramotswe giving authority to a peculiar view of her own.

“When did he say that?” she had challenged.

Mma Ramotswe had looked vague. “A long time ago, I think,” she said. “I read it somewhere or other.”

This answer had failed to satisfy Mma Makutsi, and she had been tempted to say to her employer, “Mma Ramotswe, you must remember that you are not Seretse Khama!” But she had not done so, fortunately, because it would have sounded rude, and Mma Ramotswe meant well when she talked about Seretse Khama, even if she did not always get her facts right. The real problem, thought Mma Makutsi, is that Mma Ramotswe did not go to the Botswana Secretarial College. Had she done that, then she would have perhaps been a little bit more careful about some of the things she said. There was no substitute for formal training, Mma Makutsi thought; intuition and experience would get one so far, but you really needed a little bit more than that to round things off. And had Mma Ramotswe been fortunate enough to attend the Botswana Secretarial College, then what mark, Mma Makutsi wondered, would she have achieved in the final examinations? That was a fascinating question. She would have surely done very well, and might even have finished up with … well, with about seventy-five per cent. That was a distinguished result, even if it was some twenty-two per cent below what she herself had achieved. The problem with having got ninety-seven per cent is that it set the bar artificially high for others.

Mma Makutsi’s thoughts were interrupted by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“Do you want me to drive up the drive, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “It would be best, Rra. Remember that you have nothing to hide here. You are just calling on this man to see that everything is all right.”

“And you?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, as he guided the truck through his familiar gates. “What will they think about you?”

“I could be your niece,” said Mma Makutsi. “Many men of your age have nieces who ride with them in their trucks. Have you not seen that, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave her a strange look. He had never known quite how to take Mma Makutsi, and this sort of ambiguous remark was typical of the sort of thing she said. But he made no reply, and concentrated on positioning the truck next to one of the two cars which had been parked beside the house.

Together they walked round to the front door, where Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knocked loudly, calling out as he did so.

“The yard is not very tidy,” Mma Makutsi muttered, discreetly pointing to several up-turned paraffin tins that had been used for some purpose or other and had then just been left where they lay.

“They are busy people, I think,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Maybe they do not have much time to look after the yard. You cannot blame them for that.”

“You can,” retorted Mma Makutsi, her voice rather louder now.

“Hush,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “There is somebody coming.”

The door was opened by a woman somewhere in her mid-forties, who was wearing a colourful red blouse and a full length green skirt. She looked them up and down, and then gestured for them to come in.

“There aren’t many people here,” she said before they had the chance to utter a greeting. “But I’ll get you something if you go and sit in the back. I’ve got some rum, or you can just have a beer. What will it be?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni half-turned to Mma Makutsi in surprise. He had not expected such a businesslike welcome, and it was rather strange, was it not, to offer somebody a drink like that before anything else had been said? How did this woman, whoever she was, know who he was? Perhaps she was the tenant’s wife: he had dealt only with the tenant himself and had not seen anybody else.

If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was at a loss to speak, then the same was not true of Mma Makutsi. She smiled at the woman and immediately accepted the offer of a beer for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. She would have something soft, she said—as long as it was cold. The woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Makutsi to make their way into the room which used to be Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s dining room.

It had been his favourite room when he had lived in the house, as it had a good view of the back yard with its pawpaw trees, and beyond that of a small hill in the distance. Now, as they entered, there was no view, as curtains had been drawn across the window and the only light was provided by two red-shaded lamps that had been placed on a low table in front of the curtains. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked about him in astonishment. He knew that people had different tastes, but it seemed extraordinary that somebody would wish to plunge a room into darkness—and waste electricity—when there was perfectly good natural light available outside for nothing.

He turned to Mma Makutsi. Perhaps she had seen this sort of thing before and would be unsurprised. He looked at her for an explanation, but she was just smiling at him in a curious way.

“What have they done to my dining room?” he whispered. “This is very strange.”

Mma Makutsi continued to smile. “It is very interesting,” she said, her voice lowered. “Of course you know that …”

She did not finish what she was saying; the woman in the red blouse had returned with a tray bearing a beer and a glass of cola. She placed the tray on the table and pointed to a large leather-covered sofa at one side of the room.

“You can sit down,” she said. “I will put on some music if you would like that.”

Mma Makutsi picked up her glass of cola. “You join us, Mma. It has been a hot day and I think that you might like a beer. You can charge it to us. We will buy you a beer.”

The woman accepted readily. “That is kind of you, Mma. I will fetch it and come back.”

Once she had left the room, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni turned to Mma Makutsi. “Is this …” he began.

“Yes,” Mma Makutsi interrupted. “This is a shebeen. Your house, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, has been turned into an illegal bar!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat down heavily on the sofa. “This is very bad,” he said. “Everybody will think that I am involved in it. They will say that man is running a shebeen while he pretends to be a respectable person. And what will Mma Ramotswe think?”

“She’ll understand that it has nothing to do with you,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I’m sure that other people will think the same.”

“I do not like such places,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, shaking his head. “They let people run up big bills and spend all their money on drink.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. She was amused by the discovery, which she had not expected to make, but she knew that there was nothing very funny about shebeens. Although people could easily go to legitimate bars, there were those who needed to drink on credit, and shebeens exploited such people. They encouraged people to spend too much and then, every month, they would end up taking a larger and larger portion of the drinker’s salary. And there were other things too: shebeens were associated with gambling and again in this respect they preyed on human weakness.

The woman returned, an opened bottle of beer in her hand. She raised the bottle in a toast, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni half-heartedly reciprocated, although Mma Makutsi’s response was more convincing.

“So, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi brightly, “this is a nice place you have. Very nice!”

The woman laughed. “No, Mma. It is not my place. I am just somebody who works here. There is another woman who runs this place.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. Of course: a woman like that, a woman who drove a large Mercedes-Benz, would not go to a shebeen as a mere customer—she was the shebeen queen herself.

“Oh yes,” Mma Makutsi said. “I know that woman. She is the one who drives that big Mercedes-Benz and has that young boyfriend, the new one. I think he’s called Charlie.”

“That is her,” said the woman. “Charlie is her boyfriend. He comes here with her sometimes. But there’s a husband too. He is in Johannesburg. He’s a big man there. He has some bars, I think.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know him well.” She paused. “Do you think that he knows about Charlie?”

The woman took a swig from her bottle of beer and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Hah! I think that he will not know about Charlie. And if I were Charlie I’d be very careful. That man comes back to Botswana to see her every few months and then Charlie had better be away for the weekend! Hah! If I were Charlie I’d go right up to Francistown or Maun when that happens. The further away the better.”

Mma Makutsi glanced at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was following the conversation closely. Then she looked back at the woman and asked her question. “Does that man, the husband, help to run this place? Does he come here ever?”

“Sometimes,” said the woman. “He phones us sometimes to leave messages for her.”

Mma Makutsi took a deep breath. Mma Ramotswe had told her that when one asked the important question—the question upon which an entire investigation might turn—one should be careful to sound calm, as if the answer to the question really did not matter all that much. This was the moment for such a question, but Mma Makutsi found that her heart was beating loud within her and she was sure that this woman would hear it.

“So he phones? Well, you wouldn’t have his telephone number over there, would you? I’d like to speak to him about a friend we have in Johannesburg who wants to see him about something. I had his number, but …”

“It is here,” said the woman. “It is through in the kitchen on a piece of paper. I can fetch it for you.”

“You are very kind,” said Mma Makutsi. “And when you go through to the kitchen, you can get yourself another beer, Mma. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni will pay.”