The Double Comfort Safari Club

CHAPTER TEN. SOME PEOPLE JUST SIT IN THEIR CARS

MMA RAMOTSWE was in a thoughtful mood when she returned to the office. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni-and Mma Potokwane too, for that matter-had occasionally said that she had a soft heart and that “no” was not one of the words that her heart understood. She had laughed at the appraisal; in her view, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was every bit as soft-hearted as she was-he would never turn anybody away, and would fix even the most mechanically hopeless cars-and as for Mma Potokwane, well, everybody knew that she would do anything for those orphans she looked after, and if that was not a sign of a soft heart, then what was? So although she knew that she should have declined to help Mma Mateleke, she also knew that she could not refuse her friend. But she did not relish the task that lay ahead of her, as it would involve watching somebody she knew, and that was not a good idea.

It was easy enough watching a stranger. One could sit in one’s van and pretend to be reading, or even sleeping. Plenty of people did that: they sat in their cars, talking to friends or listening to the car radio, or even just sitting. Nobody would have reason to be suspicious of that. But if one sat in one’s van outside the house of somebody one knew, and then followed him as he turned out of the drive, one would obviously be noticed. She imagined the scene, as Herbert Mateleke asked her, “Mma Ramotswe, I saw you sitting outside my house yesterday afternoon. It was you, wasn’t it? I’m sure it was. And then when I drove off down the road, you followed me. Perhaps you wanted me to show you the way, Mma…” And she would not know what to say, but would mumble something about how small the town was, in spite of being so big, and how easy it was to bump into people one knew along the road, just as easy, in fact, as in one of those tiny villages…

By the time she had reached the shared premises of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, she had decided that she could not possibly follow Herbert Mateleke, and that the only thing to do was to stick to the procedure that she used in so many of her cases. If she wanted to find out the answer to anything, then she simply had to ask somebody. It was that simple, it really was, and she had done this on numerous occasions, with conspicuously successful results. Sometimes the answer she received was direct; on other occasions it was not so direct, but was nonetheless unambiguous. She remembered how, in one investigation into pilfering in an office-disappearing petty cash and so on-she had simply called the staff to attend a meeting. Then, as they all stood before her, some twelve people, she had said, “Now then, everybody, the manager says that money has been stolen, and I wonder who’s doing it?” And immediately all pairs of eyes had turned and looked at one member of staff, who had stared steadfastly at the ground. People know, she thought; they know things that they might be unwilling to say. Nobody in that office would have been willing to denounce the offender openly, but we reveal so much through our eyes. Our eyes, she thought, show what is in the heart.

That experience, called to mind as she made her way into the office, pointed the way. Yes, she would go and speak to Herbert Mateleke and talk to him about somebody else having an affair, and his eyes would give her all the information she needed. After that, she might be in a position to ask him, rather more directly, whether she could help him in any way with any difficulties he was experiencing. But then there would be an additional problem: he might speak to her in confidence, and that would mean that she could not reveal what he said to Mma Mateleke, and she was now, in a way, her client, and… and all that underlined the fact that she should not have said yes in the first place. She sighed; Clovis Andersen was useful, but he usually only came up with general propositions. There was nowhere in the book where you could go and get concrete advice about a situation such as this. Oh, to be able to speak to somebody like Clovis Andersen in person-but he was somewhere far away, and he would never have heard of Mma Ramotswe and the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, nor of Botswana, perhaps, and he might even be late by now. The back cover of The Principles of Private Detection, so well thumbed in the hands of Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, said nothing about who the author was, other than to describe him as a “man of vast experience in the field,” and to show a photograph of a man with greying hair and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. That was all; there was no mention of an office, or a place, or a family; and the photograph had no background to give any clue as to where he was-which was deliberate, perhaps. The great Clovis Andersen would not want people like her, she thought, pestering him with questions about how to deal with the husband of a friend who might be having an affair, or who might simply be trying to escape a nagging wife, as some husbands were known to do.

Mma Makutsi, now back from compassionate leave, would not have guessed that her employer had been entertaining these doubts. Mma Ramotswe did not believe in burdening others with her worries, and so she greeted her assistant with a cheery smile and a suggestion that she might think of putting on the kettle for late-morning tea. She had just had tea, of course, but that had been a business cup of tea, and that did not count.

Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk, and Mma Ramotswe knew immediately that something was wrong. Phuti, she thought. He was still in hospital. He had taken a turn for the worse. Infection had set in. He had fallen. Perhaps he had got out of bed and forgotten that he had only one foot now, and…

“He is out of hospital,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands. “Oh, Mma, that is very good news. Very good news indeed.” She paused; Mma Makutsi’s expression still did not seem like that of one whose fiancé has just been discharged from hospital.

“He is at his aunt’s place,” said Mma Makutsi glumly. “You know that woman. She has taken him.”

Mma Ramotswe sat down at her desk. “That must be because they often do not want to let people go out by themselves,” she said. “They like to hand them over to the care of relatives, so that they will be looked after.” She watched the effect of her words on Mma Makutsi. The younger woman remained glum.

“Is a fiancée not a relative, Mma?” Mma Makutsi asked indignantly. “Does a ring mean nothing these days? Is the lady who is going to look after him for the rest of his life not close enough to be able to take care of him when he comes out of hospital with only one…” Her voice faltered, and Mma Ramotswe began to rise from her desk. The remaining words were drowned in tears. “With only one foot,” Mma Makutsi wailed. “And the other foot just… just thrown away like some old rubbish… And he will have to have crutches to begin with, and I would help him… And he is a good man, Mma, and it’s so unfair that an accident happens to a good man when there are all these bad men walking about the place with two complete legs and not having accidents…”

It was a river, a torrent, of grief; grief for what had happened to Phuti Radiphuti, but for other things too, things that were under the surface, but which rose up now to express their pain too, old things that went back a long time. Mma Ramotswe sensed this, and moved quickly to Mma Makutsi’s side, putting her arms about her, trying to comfort her. There were tears on Mma Makutsi’s face, and these were streaming down her cheeks, taking with them the cream that she put on her skin, for the problems she had with that.

“Oh, Mma, you are crying. He is out of hospital-that is the important thing. She must have gone and told them that she was the aunt. Phuti would not have had much say in it.”

“They should not have let that woman take him away,” sobbed Mma Makutsi. “She has taken him to her place and she will poison him.”

Mma Ramotswe could not stop herself from gasping. “Poison him? Mma, what are you saying?”

“She will poison him,” Mma Makutsi repeated. But her voice lacked conviction; she knew how outrageous her accusation was.

“You must not say things like that,” Mma Ramotswe chided her. “You are upset, Mma, I can tell that, but it is very dangerous to talk about poisoning people. It is very dangerous, Mma. Do you hear me?” It was a serious point; Mma Makutsi may have been upset, but in a country where, for all its good points, there lingered in the minds of some a belief in witchcraft and poisoning, it was explosive talk. And Mma Makutsi realised this, and reminded herself that she was not some superstitious and uneducated person from the back of beyond, but an assistant detective in the modern city of Gaborone and a graduate, moreover, of the Botswana Secretarial College (with ninety-seven per cent).

“Maybe she won’t poison him,” Mma Makutsi sniffed. “But why did she say, when I telephoned her, that I could not speak to him? She said he is resting, and that she would see if he could phone me later.”

Mma Ramotswe crossed the room to the shelf where the kettle was kept. Tea was often the solution in fraught moments, and she was sure that Mma Makutsi would think more reasonably once tea had been served.

“Perhaps she is merely telling the truth. After you have come out of hospital it is always a good idea to rest. You do not go and play football the moment you come out of hospital…” She tailed off. The words had come out without her thinking much about them; football was a very unfortunate choice, in the circumstances. She corrected herself. “I mean, you do not run around…” It was another tactless choice of words.

Mma Ramotswe glanced over her shoulder as she put tea into the pot. Mma Makutsi was staring at her.

“What is this about football, Mma Ramotswe? Phuti has never played football. And how can you run around when you have only one foot, Mma?”

“This is good tea,” said Mma Ramotswe, in an attempt to divert attention from football, and feet, and running. “You will enjoy it, I think. Five Roses tea. It is very good.”

“I have always used that tea,” said Mma Makutsi stiffly. “I do not think this will be any different. But why talk about running around, Mma? He will not be running.”

“It was just a way of saying that after you come out of hospital you have to take things easily. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni knows a man who went into hospital and then came out and immediately went on a charity walk for the Lions Club, and now he is late.”

“He became late on the walk?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “They said to him that he should not go, that he was still weak, but he would not listen. He was struck by lightning.”

“And that is how he became late?”

“Yes.” It happened, and surprisingly often. The powerful electrical storms that built up in the rainy season discharged great bolts of lightning that ended the lives of unfortunates out in the open; in a landscape of low trees and wide spaces, a man might be the most tempting conductor.

Mma Makutsi frowned. “But I do not see what that has got to do with coming out of hospital. There are always people being struck by lightning. There was a man in Bobonong last year. He was getting his chickens in out of the rain and then he was late. Only his shoes were left.”

It was not a cheerful conversation, but it had at least distracted Mma Makutsi from the subject of Phuti. And over tea, they talked about other matters and other people, including Mrs. Grant.

“I have made a decision,” announced Mma Ramotswe. “We are going to Maun.”

Mma Makutsi was enthusiastic. “This will be a business trip?” she asked.

“It will, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We shall go up in my van and stay with cousins of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. They live just outside Maun. Then we can carry out our investigations.”

Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. Dabbing at her makeup with a small lace handkerchief, she sought to repair the damage that the tears had caused. “I have never been on a business trip,” she said. “This is very good news.”

It was the reaction that Mma Ramotswe had hoped for. It would do her assistant a great deal of good, she thought, to have her mind taken off Phuti’s woes. And during that time the aunt-difficult though she may be-could look after her nephew. That would help too, Mma Ramotswe felt; people were awkward for a reason, as often as not, and the reason for awkwardness here was probably that the aunt felt her role was threatened by Mma Makutsi. If she believed herself to be needed on this occasion, perhaps she might feel less insecure. Perhaps…

“Of course, all expenses will be paid,” Mma Ramotswe went on.

This clearly pleased Mma Makutsi. “Yes,” she said approvingly. “That is the general rule with business trips. They told us about that at the Botswana Secretarial College.” She did not mention that they had also warned: Do not go on business trips with your boss. Of course they had in mind a situation where a male employer invited a female secretary to accompany him on a business trip. That was an invitation to disaster in most cases, as more might be expected of the secretary than mere dictation. This was quite different, of course; a business trip with a female boss was just a business trip. But she wondered what expenses there would be. If they were travelling up to Maun in Mma Ramotswe’s van, then there would be no tickets to be bought, and Mma Ramotswe had never asked her to pay for any petrol. There would be no hotel, if they were staying with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s cousins, and she would not need any new clothes or… Shoes?

“That is very nice,” Mma Makutsi said brightly. “You mean incidental expenses?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded, cautiously.

“Such as shoe expenses?” Mma Makutsi ventured.

There was a silence. “I’m not sure what shoe expenses are, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If your shoes are damaged up there, then of course the office will pay for them to be fixed. But that is very unlikely, I think. I was thinking more of…” She was about to list the purchase of the occasional snack on the journey, and the cost of food up in Maun, but she did not have the chance to complete what she was saying.

“It is very wild up there,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “It is the Delta, as you know. It is not Gaborone, where there are streets and where the paths are safe. This is the bush, Mma, and you cannot wear town shoes in bush like that. You will fall into an anteater hole, or something like that. There are many things like that in the Okavango Delta.” And then, with a final flourish, a petard of Mma Ramotswe’s own making now hoist, “That is well known, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe struggled to contain herself. “What do you have in mind, Mma Makutsi?” And then, with what she felt was a very timely move, she said, “I shall be very happy to lend you a pair of my stout shoes, Mma. You cannot wear those nice green shoes of yours up in the Delta,” and added, “even if they would be very good camouflage.” Irresistibly, irreverently, she imagined Mma Makutsi moving through the thick grass, her feet now successfully camouflaged and invisible, but her large glasses catching the sun and giving everything away.

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “That is very kind of you, Mma, and I am very grateful. I would not want you to think that I did not appreciate your offer.” She paused to take breath. “Your shoes have always struck me as being very sensible, and will be very good up in the Delta. There is no doubt about that. But there is a problem here. Your feet are very good feet, Mma, but they are not small feet. My own feet are not the smallest feet in Gaborone, but they are not quite as large as your own feet are. And that means I cannot wear your shoes, as they would fall off every time I took a step.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. Phuti Radiphuti was well off, he could afford to buy his fiancée new shoes, and she did not think it appropriate that shoes should be treated as a business expense.

“I was thinking of a pair of those boots that they have for ladies,” Mma Makutsi suggested. “You’ve seen them, Mma. You know those ones which go up to the ankles-or just above, and have laces at the front. They’re usually made of light brown suede. They’re very smart, but also very practical. Those are the shoes that I’ll need.” Then she added, “And I know where to buy them, Mma. I have seen a pair for three hundred pula. That is a very good buy.”

Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. She knew of Mma Makutsi’s interest in shoes. It was not all that long ago that she had acquired yet another pair, only six months or so after she had bought the previous pair. With this new green pair, how many pairs of shoes did her assistant now have? There were the blue shoes, the red shoes, the shoes that looked as if they had been made out of crocodile skin, or something similar (Mma Makutsi had not been amused by Mma Ramotswe’s suggestion that it might be anteater or even porcupine skin), although not much had been seen of those after they proved so fashionable as to be impossible to walk in. On the whole, she did not need yet another pair of shoes, and yet what she said was true: one could not walk about the bush in town shoes. But it was also true that the only reason Mma Makutsi needed to walk about the bush was because Mma Ramotswe had invited her to go with her to Maun.

She turned round. “All right, Mma. You can take the money from the petty cash. Go and get those shoes.”

She felt better immediately for saying this. Mma Makutsi was a hard worker. She had not had much in this life, and she had worked diligently for everything she did have, including her shoes. This was a very distressing time, and if she could be helped through it by indulging her passion for shoes, then that was, perhaps, something that Mma Ramotswe owed her.

Mma Makutsi’s gratitude was plain to see. “Oh, Mma, that is very good news. Why don’t you come with me right now, and we can go and get those boots? And some boots for you too.”

Mma Ramotswe raised her hands in protest. “I do not need boots, Mma. I’ve got my comfortable flat shoes. You could walk across the Kalahari-and back-in those shoes of mine.”

“And what if you stand on a snake, Mma, while you’re walking across the Kalahari? What then?”

“I will be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’ve been walking about Botswana for a long time and I have not yet stood on a snake. And we’re not going to the Kalahari. We’re going to the Okavango Delta.”

“Careful, Mma!” Mma Makutsi warned. “There is always a first time for everything. There is something called the law of averages-you may have heard of it. It says that if you haven’t trodden on a snake yet, then you may tread on one soon-soon.”

THEY DROVE IN THE VAN to Riverwalk. There was a small parking incident, in which Mma Ramotswe narrowly avoided scraping the wing of the next-door car, a gleaming piece of German machinery. It was a narrow escape, and Mma Makutsi could not avoid a sharp intake of breath as the two vehicles had their close encounter.

“That car is far too big,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is taking up too much room. Soon there will be not enough room in Botswana for the rest of us if these big cars keep coming.”

“Maybe we should have given it a bit more room, Mma,” her assistant said. “I’m not criticising your driving, but it is sometimes a good idea to give big cars a bit more room.”

Mma Ramotswe was having none of that. “You are not a big person just because you have a big car. All people are entitled to the same amount of room.”

That settled, they made their way into the covered walkway between the shops. Halfway along, beside a shop selling clothing, was a shop devoted to tents, mosquito nets, sheath knives, and the other requirements of those setting off into the bush. Mma Ramotswe’s eye was drawn to a stand displaying compasses, and a booklet entitled How Not to Get Lost in the Bush. She picked up the booklet and paged through it. There was a section on how to find north, south, east, and west. She smiled as she read this; it could not have been intended for any local readers. Everybody she knew was fully aware of exactly which way north lay-because that was the direction in which the Francistown Road ran; South Africa was over there, beyond Tlokweng, to the east; Lobatse lay in the south; and to the west was the Kalahari, which anybody with a nose could smell, apart from anything else, because when the wind came from that quarter it was a fragrant mixture of dryness and emptiness and waving grass. But she had to acknowledge that if one did not know these things-and a visitor could hardly be expected to-then this book, with its diagrams and its explanation of how to track the passage of the sun by inserting a stick into the ground, was well worth its eighty-pula cover price.

The assistant approached them, and Mma Makutsi pointed to the boots, which were prominently displayed on a shelf behind the counter. Each woman gave her size, and the appropriate boxes were fetched from a cupboard.

“They will be very comfortable,” said Mma Makutsi. “You will not regret this, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe was not so sure. She had the distinct feeling that she was being pushed into the purchase of these boots by Mma Makutsi, and she did not think that she could legitimately pass the cost on to the client. She could hardly add to the bill Boots: 600 pula. Any client receiving that would be perfectly within his rights to challenge it, and if it could not be passed on, then she would have to pay it herself.

The assistant returned with boxes tucked under her arm. As the boots were unpacked, Mma Ramotswe noticed something about Mma Makutsi’s expression-a look of anticipation that went far beyond anything one might normally expect. It was the look that one might see on the face of a child about to be given a treat, a look that spoke of sheer, uncomplicated pleasure and excitement. We lose that look, she thought, as we get older; we forget what it is like to be so thrilled. This, then, was the look of a woman who loved shoes.

Mma Makutsi was attended to first. The boots were perfect, she said, and she would take them, or rather Mma Ramotswe would.

The assistant turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Your feet are much bigger,” she said. “These boots might be too small. But let us try, Mma.”

It was a slightly tight fit, but the assistant pointed out that suede gave under pressure and that they would fit perfectly well after a day or two’s use.

“Then we shall take those as well,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is: one pair for me and one pair for this lady. Two pairs.”

Mma Ramotswe threw her a glance. There were times, she thought, when Mma Makutsi forgot that she was an assistant detective, not a director of the agency; ninety-seven per cent notwithstanding, she was her assistant, and assistants did not make the decisions on important purchases. She was not one to put anybody down, and certainly not when Mma Makutsi turned to her to say, “Mma Ramotswe, you have been very kind. There are very few people who are lucky enough to have a boss as generous as you are. This is not just me saying this, Mma; I am speaking from my heart, from here.” And she pointed to her chest, and Mma Ramotswe smiled and thanked her, and told her that she was glad that they were both now well prepared for their trip. “I am very happy, Mma,” she said, which she was, and she was pleased with her new boots too, which she thought made her look quite a bit younger, and made her feel more agile.

She paid the bill, counting out twelve fifty-pula notes that had more or less depleted the office’s petty cash. Then, as they were about to leave the shop, Mma Makutsi took Mma Ramotswe’s arm. “There is a man staring at you,” she said. “Look, out there. Near that bench. He has a familiar face. Who is he, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe looked through the shop window to the walkway outside. Mr. Herbert Mateleke, part-time reverend, suspected adulterer, was standing in the shade, staring at her. It was almost as if he was following her, as she had earlier on imagined herself following him.