In the Company of Cheerful Ladies

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE DOUBLE COMFORT FURNITURE STORE

IT WAS THAT MORNING, while Mma Ramotswe was finding out about the loss of the tiny white van, that Mma Makutsi made a discovery of her own. The matter of the missing Zambian financier was proving frustrating. Letters had been sent out to no avail, and telephone calls had taken them no further. Mma Ramotswe had suggested a few personal calls on prominent members of the Zambian community in Gaborone, and that was what she was proposing to do. They had three names—a dentist with a long list of patients, many of them Zambians, a minister of religion, and a businessman who ran a thriving import-export agency. Looking at the list that morning, she had decided not to try to speak to the dentist, as she knew that dentists were usually very busy and she would be unlikely to get past the receptionist. Of course she could make an appointment to see him—she had not had her teeth checked for some time and it might be a good idea to have that done—but it would be difficult to ask questions while one’s mouth was full of dental equipment. It was for this reason, perhaps, that conversations with dentists were often somewhat one-sided.

She had telephoned the minister of religion but had been spoken to by his answering machine.I am not in, but you may leave a message, a careful voice had announced,and in the meantime, my prayers are with you. Mma Makutsi had been momentarily taken by surprise when she heard this message, and she put down the receiver without saying anything. How could his prayers be with her if he did not even know who it was who had called? It would be different, she thought, if he had said that his prayers would be with her in the future, once he had heard that she had called. That, at least, would have been honest. Of course, he was only trying to be kind—she understood that—but it was important, she felt, that one should always speak the truth, and ministers of religion, more than others, should understand that.

Mma Makutsi thought about this for a few minutes, and the more she pondered it, the crosser she became. Eventually, picking up the telephone she dialled the number again and listened, with irritation, to the insincere message. Then, after hearing the tone which indicated that she could leave a message, she spoke. “This is Grace Makutsi of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency here. I am calling you about some important matters. But how can your prayers be with me until you have heard who I am? Should you not say that you will pray for people after you find out who they are? Shouldn’t you do that? Thank you very much, Reverend, and goodbye.”

She felt better for having struck a blow for truth-telling and accuracy. She would tell Mma Ramotswe about that when she came back with the van; she would approve of it, she imagined, as she was a very truthful woman and did not like people who made false claims. She would certainly approve of this … or would she? Suddenly Mma Makutsi was visited by doubts. It occurred to her now that Mma Ramotswe might think it rather unkind to give a lecture of this sort—and a recorded lecture to boot—to a minister of religion who was only trying to be helpful to the people who telephoned him. Might not Mma Ramotswe say something like, “Well, Mma, many of the people who call that man will be troubled in some way. Maybe they will have somebody who is late and they will be phoning him about that. Maybe that is why he is trying to make them feel better.”

Mma Makutsi thought a little longer and then picked up the telephone and dialled the number again. She had decided to leave another message saying that she had not quite meant what she had said, but this time the telephone was answered by the minister.

For a few moments, Mma Makutsi was unsure what to say, and even considered putting down the receiver, like a child who is caught playing with the telephone.

But better judgement prevailed. “It is Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I left a message a few minutes ago and …”

“I have listened to your message, Mma,” the minister interrupted her. “And you are right. I was not thinking when I said ‘in the meantime.’ I shall re-record the message and say, ‘When I hear your message, I shall put you in my prayers.’ That is what I shall say.”

Mma Makutsi felt a flush of shame. “I did not mean to be rude,” she said hurriedly.

“I know that,” said the minister. “And you did not sound at all rude. You were very polite about it.”

A short silence ensued before the minister continued. “But you said that you had something to say to me. May I ask what that was?”

Mma Makutsi told him of her business with him, and when she had finished, he said, “What exactly are you asking of me, Mma? Are you asking me to tell you whether any such person, any businessman from Zambia, has spoken to me? Is that what you are asking?”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “You will know many of your countrymen down here. They come to ask you for help. I thought that perhaps this man had done that too.”

The minister was silent. At the other end of the line, sitting at her desk in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi watched a small white gecko climb expertly and effortlessly up a wall. The creature’s head moved from side to side as it made its journey, watchful for predators and prey.

Then the minister cleared his throat. “I cannot speak about these things, Mma,” he said, his tone now reproachful. “When people come to me in their sorrow and their difficulties, they do not expect me to talk to other people about that. They do not think that I shall discuss their affairs with the first private detective who telephones.”

Mma Makutsi felt her embarrassment increase at the rebuke. What would he think of her? Not only had she left an unsolicited lecture on his answering machine, but now she had quite improperly asked him to disclose a confidence. She would have to apologise and bring the conversation to an end before the reputation, in his eyes, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency suffered even further.

“I am very sorry, Reverend,” she began. “I did not mean …”

“People think,” interrupted the minister, “people think that ministers sit in judgement on them. They think that we sit here and think, now that’s a very bad thing to do, or that’s a very wicked person. But we do not do that, you know. We recognise that all of us are weak and that we all do things that we should not. There is not one of us who is not a sinner, you know. Not one. And so when this poor man came to see me with his troubled soul, I did not sit here and think you should not have taken that money. I did not think that. Nor did I tell him that he should not go running off to Johannesburg, to his cousin, who works in a big hotel there, as he was intending to do. I did not do that. But I did tell him that he could speak to me in complete confidence and that I would not go to the police. And I have not gone to the police, because that would be to break the secrecy of the conversation that a minister has with one of his flock, whoever he might be. So, you see, Mma, I cannot talk to you about this man. I just cannot do that.”

Mma Makutsi sat bolt upright at her desk. In front of her, on a small piece of paper, she had written the words:Gone to Johannesburg. Cousin. Hotel.

She smiled to herself. “You have been very kind,” she said to the minister. “I am sorry for asking about these private matters.”

“And I am sorry that I cannot help you,” said the minister.

“But you have been most helpful,” said Mma Makutsi. And with that, the conversation came to an end, as did the case of the missing Zambian financier. The problem could now be passed on to somebody else, but passed on in a useful way, and with some positive information attached to it. Their quarry was now in Johannesburg, which was a very large place, of course, but there were not all that many big hotels there, and now those who were after this man would know precisely where to start looking.

They had enough information now to report back to the attorneys, and to do so with their heads held high. Their report would be well worth their fee, she thought; and from her point of view, she was eagerly awaiting the chance to tell Mma Ramotswe about what she had discovered. It was always satisfying to be able to make a positive report.

When she heard the truck come back, she got up from her desk and went outside. She had expected, of course, to see Mma Ramotswe’s van ignominiously tied to the truck with a tow-rope, and was dismayed when she saw only the truck and a disconsolate-looking Mma Ramotswe getting out of the passenger seat.

Mma Ramotswe told her what had happened, and Mma Makutsi let out a wail of sorrow, for a moment quite forgetting the good news which she had intended to welcome her back.

“Ow, Mma!” she cried. “Your van! They have stolen your van! Ow!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back from the two women, looking miserable. He tried to calm them, saying, “We will find another van. There are many vans … ,” only to be hushed by Mma Makutsi, who felt that this was not the moment for sensible male advice.

Later, when she and Mma Ramotswe were sitting down together in their office for a quickly brewed cup of bush tea—which Mma Makutsi had now decided that she liked—it was Mma Ramotswe who set out to calm her assistant.

“I suppose that it had to go sometime,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has often said that cars and vans do not last forever. We have to face that. And he’s right, isn’t he?”

Mma Makutsi had to admit that this was so. But that did not make this monstrous misfortune any easier to bear. “You are being very calm about it. I would be very angry if this had happened to me.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I have felt that anger. I felt it when I saw that the van had gone. I felt it a bit in the truck on the way back. But what is the point of anger now, Mma? I don’t think that anger will help us.”

Mma Makutsi sighed. “You are right about anger,” she said. “There is no point in it.”

“So tell me what has been happening here,” said Mma Ramotswe.

At this invitation, Mma Makutsi sat up in her chair and grinned. At least here was something to make up, even in small part, for the news of the van. “I have solved a case,” she said modestly. “That Zambian …”

Mma Ramotswe let out a cry of delight. “You’ve found him? Where is he?”

Mma Makutsi held up a hand. “Not exactly found him,” she said. “But I’ve found out that he’s no longer here. He’s in Johannesburg.”

She explained to Mma Ramotswe about the telephone call to the minister and about his inadvertent disclosure of the whereabouts of their quarry.

“You assume that it was inadvertent,” corrected Mma Ramotswe. “But I rather think that the minister may have known exactly what he was saying. He did know that you were looking for somebody who had probably stolen a very large amount of other people’s money? He did know that?”

“He did,” said Mma Makutsi. “He knew all about that.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I think that this minister is not as stupid as you think he is. It sounds to me as if he was looking for a way of telling you something without running up problems with his own conscience. He knew that he should not break any confidences, but if he could do it indirectly, as he obviously has done, then perhaps he would not feel so bad about it.”

“But is that the way that ministers think?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“It certainly is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “One thing I have learned in this job is that everybody, even ministers, find ways of telling you things that they feel they should not tell you directly. And in the case of this minister, he probably thinks that it would be a very good thing for somebody to catch up with this man. So he has told you all that he knew, but he has done it in a special, roundabout way.”

Mma Makutsi was thoughtful. “So, what should we do now, Mma? Is that enough?”

“What would Clovis Andersen suggest?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi looked at the well-thumbed copy ofThe Principles of Private Detection. She had never actually read the book from cover to cover, although she knew that one day she should do this.

“He would say that you should always remember when to stop asking questions,” she ventured. “I think he says that, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe, adding, “I don’t think we even need that book any more. I think we know enough to start writing our own book, Mma. Do you agree?”

“I do,” said Mma Makutsi. “Private Detection for Ladiesby Precious Ramotswe and Grace Makutsi. I can see that book already.”

“So can I,” said Mma Ramotswe, taking a further sip of her tea. “It will be a very good book, Mma. I am sure of that.”

TO REWARD MMA MAKUTSI for her success, Mma Ramotswe gave her the rest of the day off.

“You have worked very hard,” she said to her assistant. “Now you can go and spend the bonus I am going to give you.”

Mma Makutsi could not hide her surprise. No mention had ever been made of bonuses, but she had heard people who worked for large companies talk about them.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, smiling, and reaching for the cash box which she kept in the top drawer of her desk. “We shall get a very good fee for this Zambian work. I think that it will be about ten thousand pula altogether.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on Mma Makutsi. “So your bonus will be twenty-five per cent of that, which is …”

“Two thousand five hundred pula,” said Mma Makutsi quickly.

“That much?” said Mma Ramotswe absent-mindedly. “Well, yes, I suppose it will be two thousand five hundred pula. Of course you’ll have to wait until we’re paid before you get all of that, but here is five hundred pula to be going on with.”

Mma Makutsi accepted the notes gratefully and tucked them into the top of her blouse. She had already decided what she would do with her bonus, or this portion of it, and it seemed to her that this was exactly the time to do it. She looked down at her shoes, her work shoes, and shook a finger at them.

“More new shoes?” asked Mma Ramotswe, smiling.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “New shoes and some new handkerchiefs.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her approval. The tiny white van had crossed her mind again, and the thought threatened to darken the mood of joy. But she said nothing to Mma Makutsi, who was now preparing to leave the office and catch a minibus to the shops. She deserves this happiness, thought Mma Ramo-tswe. She has had so many years in which there has been little for her. Now with her typing school and her new house, and this bonus of course, her life must be taking a marked turn for the better. Perhaps she would find a man too, although that might be too much to ask for at the moment. Still, it would be good for her to find a nice man, if there were any left, which was a matter about which Mma Ramotswe was beginning to feel some doubt. The tiny white van would not have been stolen by a woman, would it? That would have been a man. And this dishonest Zambian financier—he was a man too, was he not? Men had a lot to answer for, she thought; except for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, of course, and Mr Polopetsi, and her late father. So there were good men around, if one looked hard enough. But where, she wondered, were these good men when one was looking for a husband? Where could Mma Makutsi find a good man at her age, with her large spectacles and her difficult complexion? It would not be easy, thought Mma Ramotswe, and there really was very little that she, or anybody else, could do to help.

THE BUYING OF THE NEW SHOES took remarkably little time. She had already seen the pair that she wanted—the red shoes with the gold buckles—and to her delight they were still prominently displayed in the shop window when she reached it. There was a moment of anxiety while the assistant searched for her size, but the shoes were soon produced and they fitted perfectly.

“You look very good in those,” said the assistant admiringly. “Those buckles, Mma! They will dazzle the men all right!”

Mma Makutsi looked at her anxiously. “I am not always trying to dazzle men, you know.”

“Oh, I can tell that,” the assistant corrected herself. “Those shoes would be good for work too. They are very good shoes for all sorts of things.”

Mma Makutsi decided to wear the shoes immediately, and as she walked along the pavement she felt that extraordinary pleasure that comes from having fresh leather soles beneath your feet. It was a feeling of satisfaction, of security, and in this case it was compounded by the flashing of the buckles in the sunlight. This is what it must feel like to be a rich person, she thought. And rich people would feel like this all the time, as they walked about in their fine clothes and their new shoes. Well, at least she had a bit of that feeling, as long as the shoes were new and the leather unscuffed.

She decided to walk a bit further down the line of shops. Not only would this give her the chance to wear in her new shoes, but she had a bit of money left over from the purchase of the shoes and she might find something else which would take her fancy. So she set off, walking past a small radio shop of no interest, and a shop that sold garden equipment. None of this seemed at all promising, and she wondered whether she should catch a minibus that would take her to the shopping centre where Mma Ramotswe liked to sit and have tea. There were shops there that might have something tempting.

Mma Makutsi stopped. She was in front of a shop which sold furniture, the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, and standing inside the shop, looking out at her through the plateglass window, was Phuti Radiphuti.

Mma Makutsi smiled and waved. Yes, of course: he worked in a furniture store, and here he was, selling furniture. Well, it would be interesting to see his shop, even if she had not been planning to buy any furniture.

Phuti Radiphuti waved back and moved towards the door to open it for her. As she went in, he greeted her warmly, stumbling over the words, but making his pleasure at seeing her clear enough.

“And look at your sh … sh … sh … shoes,” he said. “They are very pr … pr …”

“Thank you,” said Mma Makutsi. “Yes, they are very pretty. I have just bought them with my bonus.”

Phuti Radiphuti smiled and wrung his hands together.

“This is my shop,” he said. “This is where I work.”

Mma Makutsi looked around. It was a large furniture shop, with all sorts of inviting-looking sofas and chairs. There were also tables and desks, set out in serried ranks.

“It is a very big place,” she said. “Are there many people who work here?”

“I have about ten people working here,” he said, the words now coming more easily. She had noticed that his stammer was most pronounced when he started a conversation and that it became less marked when he got into his stride.

She thought for a moment. He had said that he had ten people working here; this sounded rather as if he was the manager, which seemed a little bit unlikely.

“Are you the manager then?” she asked jokingly.

“Yes,” he said. “My father owns the store and I am the manager. He is mostly retired these days. He likes to spend his time with his cattle, you know, but he still comes here. He is in the office back there now.”

For a few moments Mma Makutsi said nothing. The knowledge that Phuti Radiphuti effectively owned a store should have made no difference to how she viewed him, but it did. He was no longer the inept dancer, the likeable, but rather vulnerable man with whom she danced at the dance academy. Here he was an important man, a man of wealth. The money did not matter. It did not matter.

The silence was broken by Phuti Radiphuti. “You must meet my father,” he said. “Come to the office and meet him.”

They walked to the back of the showroom, past the tables and chairs and into a large room with a blue carpet and a couple of cluttered desks. As they entered, an elderly man who had been sitting behind one of the desks looked up from behind a pile of invoices. Mma Makutsi moved forward to greet him, using the traditional and respectful greeting appropriate for an older man.

“This is my friend from the dancing class,” said Phuti Radiphuti. There was pride in his voice, and Mma Makutsi noticed it.

The old man looked up at Mma Makutsi and rose slowly to his feet. He grimaced as he did so, as if he was in pain.

“It is very good to see you, Mma,” said Mr Radiphuti. Then, turning to his son, he told him that he could see a customer in the showroom waiting for attention. He should not be kept waiting, he said.

With Phuti Radiphuti out of the room, the old man gestured for Mma Makutsi to sit down on a chair beside his desk.

“You have been very kind to dance with my son,” he said quietly. “He is a shy boy. He does not have many friends.”

“He is a good person,” said Mma Makutsi. “And his dancing is getting better. It was not so good to begin with, but now it is getting better.”

The old man nodded. “He speaks more clearly too, when he is with people he knows,” he said. “I am sure that you have helped him in that way too.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Yes, he is less shy now.” She looked down at her new shoes, wondering what this old man would make of them. Would he think her flashy to be wearing shoes with such large buckles?

Mr Radiphuti did not seem to notice her shoes. “What do you do, Mma? Do you have a job? My son has spoken about you many times, but he has not told me what you do.”

“I work at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am an assistant there. There is a lady …”

“Called Mma Ramotswe,” said Mr Radiphuti.

“You know her?”

“Of course I do,” said the old man. “And I knew her father too. He was called Obed Ramotswe and he was a very good man. I bought cattle from him, you know, and I still have some of the descendants of those cattle down on my farm near Lobatse. They are fine beasts.” He paused. “So you work with Precious Ramotswe. Well, that is very interesting. Do you solve many cases?”

“I solved one today,” said Mma Makutsi lightly. “I almost found a man who had taken a lot of money.”

“Almost? Did he get away?”

Mma Makutsi laughed, and explained about the information that she had obtained which would enable people in Johannesburg to track him down. The old man listened carefully and smiled with pleasure.

“I can tell that you are very clever,” he said. “That is good.”

Mma Makutsi did not know how to take this remark. Why was it good that she was clever? Why would it make any difference to this old man? For a brief moment she wondered whether she should tell him about her ninety-seven per cent at the Botswana Secretarial College, but eventually decided against it: one should not speak too often about these things.

They talked for a few minutes more, mostly about the shop and the furniture which it sold. Then Phuti Radiphuti returned with a tray on which three cups of tea were balanced, and they drank this before he offered to run her back to her house in his car, and she accepted. It would be good, she thought, not to have to walk too far in these new red shoes, which were beginning to pinch a little bit on the right foot—not a great deal, but noticeable nonetheless.

When they arrived at her house, Phuti Radiphuti stopped the engine of his car. Then he reached into the back and took out a large parcel, which he gave to Mma Makutsi.

“This is a present for you, Mma,” he said. “I hope that you like it.”

Mma Makutsi looked at the carefully wrapped gift. “May I open it now?” she asked.

Phuti Radiphuti nodded proudly. “It is from the shop,” he said.

Mma Makutsi tore open the paper. Inside was a cushion, an ornate gold velvet cushion. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen for a good while, and she struggled with her tears. He was a fine man this, a good man, who liked her enough to give her this beautiful cushion.

She looked at him and smiled. “You are very kind to me,” she said. “You are very kind.”

Phuti Radiphuti looked at the steering wheel. He could not speak.