The Miracle at Speedy Motors

  Mr. Sekape returned to the bank and excused himself for the afternoon. Then, travelling together in the tiny white van, they made their way back to the agency.

  “My assistant will look after you while I go to look for your sister,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I hope that I can find her quickly and bring her to you.”

  “You will find her quickly,” said Mr. Sekape. “I have a feeling that you will find her very quickly.”

  Mma Ramotswe took her eyes off the road briefly to look at him. “I hope so,” she said. He was like a schoolboy, she thought; as impetuous as a schoolboy. And what else? She had ascertained in their earlier conversation that there was no wife, which was unusual. He was obviously not hard up, and he had a house. Why, then, no wife? She knew that it was often hard for women, with the shortage of men, but if a man had a bit of money and a house, then he could take his pick of suitable women, who would be only too pleased to marry him.

  She remembered her policy of asking. Time and time again she had proved the proposition that if one wanted the answer to anything, then one should simply ask. It was simple, and she wondered whether the police were sufficiently aware of the attractions of such an approach. If they were investigating a crime they should simply stop and ask, “Who did this?” and they would surely be given the answer—perhaps even from the criminal himself, who might just stand up and say, “I did it, Rra.” Or perhaps not.

  “Did you never want to get married, Rra?” she asked, as she negotiated their way round the traffic circle near the football stadium.

  Mr. Sekape looked out of the window. For a few moments she thought that he was not going to answer, but then, transferring his gaze to his hands, folded upon his lap, he said, “No. Never. Not once, Mma. Never.”

  It was a clear enough answer, thought Mma Ramotswe. Some answers were evasive and ambiguous; this was not.

  Coming out of the traffic circle, she brought the van back onto a straight course. There was that noise again, that knocking; it seemed to get louder when she pressed her foot on the accelerator pedal, and retreated when she took it off.

  “Why not, Rra?”

  Unlike her earlier question, which had been thought about before being asked, this question slipped out. It was not the sort of question that she would normally ask; she would not have liked anybody to ask her, before she became engaged to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, why she was not married. And after their engagement, she certainly resented being asked—as she sometimes was—why the engagement was lasting so long and no firm date had been set for the wedding.

  Mr. Sekape continued to study his hands. “It’s because I do not like women,” he said. “That is why. I do not like them. Sorry, Mma, but you asked me. So now I am telling you. They are always talking, talking, talking. Asking you this thing. Asking you that. That is why I do not like them.”

  The tiny white van swerved, very slightly, but still swerved, as Mma Ramotswe tightened her grip on the wheel. She wanted to say, but did not, “I think I should tell you, Rra—this sister I’ve found for you—she’s a woman. You do know that, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  AN UNUSUAL CHASE IN AN UNUSUAL PLACE

  TWO DAYS PASSED—two days in which more rain fell, great cloudbursts of rain, drenching the length and breadth of Botswana. People held their breath in gratitude, hardly daring to speak of the deluge lest it should suddenly stop and the dryness return. The rivers, for long months little more than dusty beds of rust-coloured sand, appeared again, filled to overflowing in some cases, twisting snakes of mud-brown water moving across the plains. Here and there low bridges were overwhelmed by the floods and were covered with fast-moving water, cutting off villages and settlements from the larger roads; but nobody complained. The bush, a desiccated brown before the storms, turned green overnight, as the shoots of dormant plants thrust their way through the soil. Flowers followed, tiny yellow flowers, spreading like a dusting of gold across the land. Ground vines sent out tendrils; melons would grow in abundance later on, as an offering, an expiation for the barrenness of the dry months that had gone before.

  For Mma Ramotswe, those two days of rain were days of waiting. There was work enough for her to attend to—several matters that for some time she had been meaning to finish off were calling for attention—and Mma Makutsi too had things to do. She had been handling the case of the tenant who was not who he claimed to be, and there was a report to be written on that. She and Phuti had followed the man staying in the house, driving behind him discreetly in Phuti’s white car with the red stripe down the side. That had gone smoothly enough, and they had seen the tenant go into the office of a supplier of diesel generators, exactly where the informing neighbour had said that he worked. But was he the Mr. Moganana who was named in the lease, or was he his brother-in-law, who had no right to be staying in the house? That had been solved by Phuti, who had gone into the office and asked to speak to Mr. Moganana. He had expected to be told that no such person worked there; instead the man they had followed had appeared. Phuti, unprepared for this, had simply asked him whether he was the man who had leased the house in question.

  “Of course I am, Rra,” Mr. Moganana replied. “And a real dump it is too. Are you from the landlord?”

  “In a way,” said Phuti.

  “Well, you can tell her that I am fed up with her never doing anything about that bathroom.”

  “Is there something wrong, Rra?”

  “There certainly is. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve signed that lease I would leave tomorrow.”

  And that had solved that. The client would be told that if she wanted the house back, all she had to do was to cancel the lease; both sides would be pleased. It was one of those cases where both sides appeared to win, and everybody ended up happy.

  For his part, Phuti enjoyed the experience, and dropped broad hints that he was at the agency’s disposal at any time they needed his services. Mma Makutsi had smiled, and promised to pass the message on to Mma Ramotswe. And then, in the glow of warmth over a job well done, she had confessed to him about the bed.

  “It is the second bed,” she said. “The one you have taken from the garage and put into storage is the second bed. I ruined the first. It was all my fault.”

  He had listened sympathetically and taken her hand at the end of the story. “I thought that there was something odd about it,” he said. “But I didn’t like to ask. This one has a different pattern on the headboard. I noticed that straightaway. And…”

  She caught her breath. What would he think of her for not having told him before? Perhaps she should tell him that she had simply forgotten to do so, but that would be another lie, and she was ashamed enough of the first one.

  “I knew that you did it so that I should not be upset,” said Phuti. “You were very kind.”

  Mma Makutsi said nothing.

  “You are so kind to me,” said Phuti. “I am a very fortunate man.”

  The writing of the report on their case kept Mma Makutsi busy for a time, but once that was done she seemed to pick up the unease which was affecting her employer, and she took it upon herself to engage in a restless sorting through of old files and refiling them according to a new system that she was in the process of developing. Both of them drank too much tea; the act of putting on the kettle and making the tea was at least a ritual which could divert them for twenty minutes or so, and if one did it often enough a morning or an afternoon would slip by quickly enough.

  At least Mma Ramotswe knew the cause, or rather the causes, of her unease. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Motholeli were due back in two days’ time, and she was anxious about their return. But there was more than that. She had made the occasional mistake in her professional life, she was not perfect, but the mistake that she felt she had made in introducing Mma Sebina to Mr. Sekape was, she thought, one of the more serious ones. I should have been more careful, she told herself; I should have thought about it. I should have spoken to them both separately before I introduced them.
I should have done everything differently. Such thoughts now played on her mind, and she considered each one of them in turn, and then went back to the first and started again.

  For something very bad had happened, something that now placed her, she felt, in an impossible position. This new development was not entirely her fault; if anybody should be blamed it was Mma Potokwane, but the redoubtable matron of the orphan farm was showing herself to be quite cavalier in her attitude to what she had done; there had been no apology from that quarter. And now Mma Ramotswe would have to do something about it—there was no doubt in her mind about that—but she could not bring herself to face the prospect. Like an animal in the lights of an oncoming car, she found herself incapable of moving.

  She turned to Mma Makutsi for help. Her assistant was sympathetic, immediately launching into spirited criticism of Mma Potokwane, whom she had always regarded as excessively pushy and—“Did I not tell you, Mma Ramotswe?”—now downright irresponsible. But Mma Makutsi did not volunteer to do for Mma Ramotswe the thing that she was dreading; Mma Ramotswe would have to do that herself.

  “You’ll have to go and see her,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m sorry, Mma, but there’s no other way. You’ll have to go and see Mma Sebina and tell her.”

  Mma Ramotswe groaned inwardly. “I know, Mma. You’re quite right. I cannot run away from this.”

  “Of course it’s all Mma Potokwane’s fault, Mma,” Mma Makutsi went on, shaking her head in disbelief. “You would think, wouldn’t you, Mma Ramotswe, that when it came to something as important as that she would bother to check her facts. But did she? She did not, Mma! She said to you, just like that, ‘Oh yes, I remember those children. I remember that there were two—a brother and a sister.’ And then she phones up and says, ‘Oh, Mma Ramotswe, there has been a mistake. That man, that Mr. Sekape who works at the Standard Bank, he was not the brother of the girl who went to Otse. The brother of that girl died when she was still quite young. I am sorry, Mma, but that means she has no brother.’ How could she do that, Mma? How could she be so stupid?”

  Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe in triumph: there could be no defence for Mma Potokwane, none at all. And as she thought this, she glanced down at her shoes, her green shoes with the sky-blue linings, and it seemed to her that even her shoes, contrary as they were at times, agreed with her. Quite right, Boss! Mma Potokwane’s shoes are pretty stupid too! Stupid lady, stupid shoes!

  “Oh, I know it’s a silly mistake,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it must be easy enough to make, with all those children going through her hands. I don’t know how she remembers all their names.”

  “She doesn’t,” said Mma Makutsi simply. “She gets them wrong. As we have seen.”

  Mma Ramotswe wanted to defend her old friend against such attack, but could not; she felt too miserable for that. She knew, too, that from whatever angle she considered the matter, the answer would be the same: she would have to go to Mma Sebina and announce that she had not found her brother after all. And then she would have to tell Mr. Sekape, too, that there had been a misunderstanding and he was, once again, alone.

  When she first heard about Mma Potokwane’s mistake, her initial thought was that it might not be a bad thing after all. The meeting that she had set up between Mma Sebina and Mr. Sekape had not been the success she had envisaged, and at first she wondered whether Mma Sebina, having found a brother, would prove to be quite happy to lose him again. After all, when she had eventually located Mma Sebina and brought her to the office to meet Mr. Sekape, the encounter between the two long-lost siblings had been far from the emotionally charged reunion Mma Ramotswe had expected. Mr. Sekape had stood up, barely looking at his new-found sister, and had extended his hand for a formal handshake. For her part, Mma Sebina had been largely silent, replying to his questions in a voice which both Mma Ramotswe and Mr. Sekape himself had had to struggle to hear. There had been no effusive expressions of sentiment; no exchanges of embraces; just rather stiff social formalities. Where did you go to school, Mma? Did you ever meet anybody who knew our mother? Do you think that we might have some uncles on our father’s side? These were the questions which formed the conversation between the two.

  And at the back of Mma Ramotswe’s mind, as she listened to this, was the thought of what Mr. Sekape had said earlier on in the van. Mma Ramotswe understood that there were some men who did not like women, just as there were some women who did not like men. But she had never encountered somebody who had spelled that out so clearly; and even if one were to give Mr. Sekape some credit for honesty, all that credit would rapidly be offset by the discredit he would get for writing off half of humanity in such firm and unfriendly terms. If he were my brother, thought Mma Ramotswe, I would settle that issue right at the beginning.

  The meeting between the two of them had not lasted long. After about half an hour or so, silence had set in, and Mma Sebina had given Mma Ramotswe a glance of the sort that one woman can give another which signals that help is required. Mma Ramotswe had then said something about how time was marching on and that if Mr. Sekape did not mind she would now run him back to the bank in her van. This offer had been accepted, and then the two had exchanged telephone numbers.

  “I shall telephone you tonight,” said Mr. Sekape.

  And Mma Sebina had replied, “I shall be there, Rra. I shall answer.”

  No, it had been a stiff meeting, a disappointment, and Mma Ramotswe had decided that she would not be surprised if the relationship fizzled out altogether. There were brothers and sisters, after all, who saw one another infrequently and did not seem to mind if they met only at family weddings and funerals. Perhaps this is how it would be for them.

  But it was not. This gloomy prognosis had to be revised the following day when Mma Sebina telephoned Mma Ramotswe and told her that the two of them had met again on the very evening of their first encounter.

  “He came to my house, Mma,” she said, “and I made him a very good meal. He said that he had not had anybody to cook for him since his mother became late. He was very happy.”

  “I am glad about that,” said Mma Ramotswe. So at least Mr. Sekape accepted that women could have some uses, even if he professed to have such a low opinion of them. Mind you, she thought, all men who dislike women leave their dislike at the kitchen door.

  “Yes,” enthused Mma Sebina. “And we had a very good time. He told me some very funny stories about the bank. He has a good sense of humour. I have often wondered if people who work in banks laugh much. Now I know they do.”

  Mma Ramotswe was too surprised to say anything to this. Perhaps Mr. Sekape’s self-confessed hostility to women did not extend to sisters; perhaps he had discovered that his dislike was not as intense as he had imagined it to be. Or perhaps she had misunderstood him altogether, and his surprising remark had not been intended to be taken seriously. Whatever the explanation was, it was a welcome development: Mma Ramotswe did not like to disappoint clients, and it seemed that Mma Sebina was more than happy with the outcome of the encounter.

  And that, of course, made her task of breaking the present news all the more difficult. But she had to do it, and had at last plucked up sufficient courage to go and speak to Mma Sebina.

  “I shall go right now,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “I have put the matter off for long enough. I shall go, Mma—”

  And that is the moment at which Charlie burst in. He did not knock, as even he normally did; he burst in.

  “I’ve seen her,” he announced breathlessly. “I’ve just seen her.”

  Mma Makutsi sniffed in an irritated way. “Seen who?” she snapped. “And have you forgotten how to knock, Charlie?”

  Charlie ignored her and addressed his next remark to Mma Ramotswe. “That woman who brought the letter,” he said. “I have just seen her go into the supermarket. You seemed so interested in her that I rushed back to tell you. But since Mma Makutsi seems to be more concerned about knocking and such things perhaps I should not have bothered.”

/>   Mma Ramotswe stood up. “Charlie,” she said, “we must go there now. You. Me. Mma Makutsi. Straightaway.”

  THERE WAS NOT ENOUGH ROOM for all three of them in the tiny white van, and so Charlie crouched in the back, clinging on to the side, while Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi occupied the driver’s and passenger’s seat, respectively. The van was making the suspicious knocking noise again, but that did not stop Mma Ramotswe from pressing the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. Even so, with the engine doing its utmost, there was no question of reaching such momentum as would break the speed limit, and Mma Ramotswe found herself glancing anxiously at her watch as they made their way along the Tlokweng Road in the direction of the Pick and Pay supermarket.

  Fortunately the traffic, such as it was, was going in the opposite direction, streaming away from town, and there was little to hold them up. When they reached the lights at the southern edge of the village, the tiny white van was brought to a halt dutifully at the line.

  “It’s a pity the lights are red,” said Mma Makutsi. “When you see detectives in films they do not let these things hold them up.”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced from left to right. Everything was clear; there were no vehicles approaching.

  “But it’s the law, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “You cannot have people deciding whether or not they will stop at lights. That is not the way we do things in Botswana—yet.”

  “I was not saying that you should jump the lights, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, somewhat huffily. “I do not jump the lights myself.”

  “But you don’t drive,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “You can’t jump lights if you don’t drive.”

  “When I am with Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “What I meant was that Phuti and I don’t jump lights. We always stop when the lights are red. Even when they are orange, we stop.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked in both directions again. There was still nothing coming.