THE PLOT THAT Phuti Radiphuti had chosen for their marital home was well placed from more than one point of view. Gaborone had grown, with the result that many people now had a long journey into work each day, making their way into the city in swaying, crowded minibuses. It would have been easy for Phuti to find a plot of land in one of these new suburbs, but neither he nor Mma Makutsi wanted to spend hours on the roads. So when Mma Makutsi noticed that there was a small parcel of building land not far from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the contiguous office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Phuti was quick to inspect it—and equally quick to snap it up.
“It’s perfect,” he said, when he reported back to her. “It will take you five or ten minutes to get to work—no more. And I will need fifteen minutes to drive to the store. It could not be better.”
The plot was at the end of an untarred road, a cul-de-sac that led nowhere and down which few cars would venture. There were one or two houses not far away, but nothing close by, and on at least two sides of what would become their garden, there was acacia scrub—thorn trees, low-lying bushes with twisted brown leaves, tussocks of hardy grass that would miraculously become green within hours of the arrival of the first rains. It looked like poor earth—dusty and unwelcoming—but it was enough to keep cattle happy, and they could be seen wandering across this landscape, picking at what nourishment they could find, the soft sound of their bells filling the air.
Negotiations for the purchase of the plot were swift and uncomplicated, and within days of Phuti’s seeing the plot it was theirs. Now came the task of designing the house that would be erected on the newly acquired land. Phuti Radiphuti, it transpired, had a friend who was a draughtsman. “You do not need to pay an architect for this,” he announced to Mma Makutsi. “My friend can do all the drawings for nothing.”
Mma Makutsi was slightly concerned over this. She was not sure that it was a good idea to get a friend to design one’s house, even if that friend happened to be a draughtsman. There were many technical issues, were there not? Did you not need to take into account the weight of the roof and the size of the doors? And had there not been a house up in Francistown that had collapsed because these things had been ignored and the walls built far too thin? There had been a picture of it in the paper, she recalled. A woman had been captured standing outside what looked like a pile of rubble, and above it the paper had printed, Poor lady sees her house fall down. Mma Makutsi had been struck by the poignancy of this photograph; it must be devastating, she felt, to see one’s house collapse. Presumably everything inside was covered by tumbled bricks and pieces of shattered timber: all the poor lady’s pots and pans, all her clothing, all her shoes …
She did not feel that she could argue with Phuti. It was his money, after all, even if their wedding vows had made reference to sharing everything, and she had to accept that he knew all about how to deal with builders and suppliers and the like. If he decided that his draughtsman friend should design the house, then she would not question his judgement, no matter what private reservations she might harbour. And this view, she thought, would be approved of by Mma Ramotswe herself, who had once remarked to her, “Men are very sensitive, Mma Makutsi. You would not always think it to look at them, but they are. They do not like you to point out that they are wrong, even when they are. That is the way things are, Mma—it just is.”
Now Mma Makutsi was gazing at the plot with Phuti Radiphuti beside her, waiting for the arrival of their builder who was coming to discuss the project.
“It is ours now,” said Phuti. “Look at it. That is where our house will be, and over there will be your vegetable garden—if you want one, that is. You do not have to have a vegetable garden if you do not want to have it.” He looked at her anxiously, almost as if he were concerned that he might be taken to be the sort to impose vegetable gardens on people.
“I will be very happy to have a vegetable garden,” she said. “We will start it as soon as the house is built.”
“Oh, I am so excited,” said Phuti. “I have never built a house before.”
Mma Makutsi tried not to look concerned. “I don’t think you will find it hard,” she said.
“I think there is nothing to it,” said Phuti. “As long as everything is straight. You have to get things level, and not like this.” He made an up-and-down movement with his hands. “If you do that, then the house will be a good one.”
Mma Makutsi nodded. That sounded perfectly reasonable to her. She could hardly believe her good fortune: to be standing here with her husband, her real, legal husband, surveying a small square of Botswana soil that actually belonged to them. To own earth was a great and awe-inspiring thing; to be able to run through one’s hands the very soil that was yours and nobody else’s; that you could stand upon not under sufferance, but as of right; land that you could turn to your own purpose and plant with your own crops, or allow your own cattle to graze—not that they were planning to run cattle in the garden, but if by some whim they chose to do so, then they could. Such things, such freedoms, such privileges were grave things, and might turn the head, unless you were careful to remind yourself of who you were—Grace Makutsi, from Bobonong, daughter of a very humble man and woman who never had much more than a few goats and scrawny cattle, but who had nursed hopes for their children and had encouraged them to make the best of their lives. She had done that, of course, and through hard work and the inspiration provided by a particular teacher, a slight man with spectacles who rode to school each day on an ancient black bicycle and who believed with all his heart in the power of education, she had somehow got herself to Gaborone and become a trained secretary. That powerful word, secretary—she was so proud of it; she rolled it about her mouth and uttered it as one might pronounce a shibboleth: secretary, secretary. That would have been enough, she now thought; to have achieved that would have been sufficient, but she had gone further and become an assistant detective, and then an associate detective, which was where she now was. What heights lay beyond? She had not really thought about it, but now, as she surveyed the plot with Phuti Radiphuti, it suddenly occurred to her that she should become a principal detective, if not a chief detective. No, that last description was perhaps going too far; Mma Ramotswe was a chief detective, she assumed, and no matter what improvements there might be in her own status, it was definitely not appropriate for her to claim equality in that field with Mma Ramotswe. That would be … it would be pushy: yes, there was only one word for it—pushy.
They stood for a few moments in complete silence, and around them, too, there were no sounds, beyond the faint screech of the insects that provided that wallpaper of whirring that was always there, but one did not notice unless one stopped and listened. There was nothing to say, really; there were no words Mma Makutsi could use to describe the sense of fulfilment that she felt. So nothing was said until they heard the sound of a vehicle making its way up the road and Phuti turned and announced, “That will be Mr. Putumelo now, Grace.”
The vehicle was one of those ubiquitous pick-up trucks favoured by people who had things to do: carpenters, gardening contractors, electricians. It was dark brown and on its side bore the legend This Way Up Building Co. (Pty) Ltd. In the back were a workman’s toolbox, a stepladder, and several rough-hewn planks.
Clarkson Putumelo got out of the van and walked briskly towards Phuti Radiphuti. “Very good land,” he said, even before greetings were exchanged. “Good building land.”
He did not address Mma Makutsi. He did not greet her in the proper, approved way. He did not even appear to see her.
Phuti smiled at the builder. “I chose it carefully,” he said. “Or rather, my wife and I chose it.” He turned to Mma Makutsi and smiled as he spoke. My wife.
Clarkson Putumelo half turned his head towards Mma Makutsi, but did not look at her. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to greet her, but that moment passed and he turned away again. “Good building land,” he repeated. “No problems here. You’ll wan
t to put the house over there, in the middle, right? Then you can make a drive which goes from there to there.” He pointed out the proposed route of the drive. “There will be no problem with that. Simple as one, two, three.”
Mma Makutsi seethed. Nothing was as simple as one, two, three—even one, two, three itself was rarely that straightforward—you could miss something when counting things, even a child understood that. And who was this ill-behaved Putumelo, anyway? Who was he to arrive like this and pay no attention to the wife—the wife—of his client? It was a breathtaking display of arrogance, she thought, and she could just imagine what Mma Ramotswe would say when she told her about it. Or Mma Potokwane … Mma Potokwane might have her faults, but she would know how to deal with a man like this with a few well-chosen words, such that he would be decisively and deftly put in his place.
“I’ll walk around with you, Rra,” said Mr. Putumelo. “We can see how it looks close up.”
“And me,” said Mma Makutsi. “And me too.”
Clarkson Putumelo frowned, as if he had suddenly heard something quite unexpected. He looked at Phuti Radiphuti for confirmation. “Everybody can come,” he said briskly.
They began their inspection. Mma Makutsi said nothing, but glowered with resentment. She had rarely come across so ill-mannered a man as this Clarkson Putumelo, and she wondered how Phuti Radiphuti could possibly have selected him. But then men do not see things the same way we do, she thought. They have different eyes. Men have different eyes. It was a very appropriate observation, she decided, and she would write it down and pass it on to Mma Ramotswe for future use, perhaps, when sayings of this nature would be required, which she knew from experience could be at any time.
CHAPTER FOUR
I SHALL SIMPLY LOOK UP IN THE SKY
MMA MAKUTSI GAVE Mma Ramotswe a full account of her meeting with Mr. Clarkson Putumelo, sparing no detail of the insulting way in which he had treated her.
“He was very attentive to Phuti,” she said. “All the time, he looked at Phuti and not at me. He never noticed nor spoke to me. I am not exaggerating this, Mma Ramotswe—it is as if I wasn’t there.” She paused, her anger mounting at the recollection of the humiliating encounter. “It was as if I was … some nothing, just some nothing.”
Mma Ramotswe looked sympathetic. “There have always been men like that, Mma. Fortunately, there are fewer of them than there used to be. But there are still some, and this Putumelo must be one of them.”
Mma Makutsi now asked what made these men behave in such a way. Were they like that because they had been badly treated by a woman at some point? Or were they like that because … She tried to think of another explanation, but could not. How could anybody ignore the other half of humanity? And did they behave like that to their wives? she asked Mma Ramotswe. Phuti had met Mma Putumelo when she had come into the furniture store to test the sofa, so she knew that Mr. Putumelo was married. Did the poor woman have to put up with being ignored in that astonishingly rude manner? What would it be like to sit down for breakfast with a man who never spoke to you but instead looked over your shoulder as if you were not even there?
“He will be a small man inside,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He will feel small and unimportant. That is why he needs to put ladies down, Mma. Men who are big inside never feel the need to do that.”
She was right, thought Mma Makutsi. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was one of those men who were large inside—kind and generous, and strong too—and he was never anything but courteous in his dealings with women, and with men too, for that matter.
“So what I suggest, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe continued, “is that you don’t let this man annoy you. Just ignore his bad manners.”
Mma Makutsi nodded enthusiastically. “I shall ignore him altogether,” she said. “It will be as if he is not there. When he talks I shall simply look up in the sky—like this—as if I can hear something but am not sure what it is.”
Mma Ramotswe gently explained that this was not what she had in mind. “Don’t repay rudeness with rudeness, Mma. It is much better to show a rude person how to behave. Have you not seen how well that works?”
“I have not seen that, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe knew she would not persuade Mma Makutsi, but she continued nonetheless. “Well, it does work. A rude person wants you to be rude back to him. He really likes that. But if you just smile and are very polite, then he will realise that his rudeness has not hurt you. He has achieved nothing.”
This was greeted with silence, and Mma Ramotswe decided that it would be best to move on to another subject. There was work to do: a report to be typed up and sent off to a client, which would keep them busy for the hour or so before lunch time. Both she and Mma Makutsi went home for lunch now—Mma Ramotswe in her van and Mma Makutsi in the car sent for her by Phuti. This car, which had The Double Comfort Furniture Store emblazoned on its side, had been the subject of some remark by the two junior mechanics. “She is very grand now,” Charlie had said. “Too grand to go on public transport, like the rest of us. You may have to sit next to some poor person in a minibus. She is now too big for that.”
Fanwell, who had at last qualified—though Charlie had not done so, and was still an apprentice—was more charitable. “It must be very nice to have a car with a driver,” he said. “Maybe if I marry a girl who has a furniture store that will happen to me.”
“That will never happen,” said Charlie. “Girls with furniture stores are looking for someone more exciting than you, Fanwell. Sorry about that.”
The inference was clear: these furniture-store girls, whoever they were, would be more satisfied with Charlie than they would be with Fanwell. That was probably true, thought Mma Ramotswe, who had overheard this conversation, but the fact that something was true was not always justification for saying it.
Now there was the report to compile, and she and Mma Makutsi began to busy themselves with the task of writing it. The matter to be reported was a routine one—the bread-and-butter, or bread-and-gravy as Mma Makutsi put it, of a detective agency: marital infidelity. This case, however, was rather more sensitive than the usual run-of-the-mill investigation, as the client was a prominent politician, Mma Helen Olesitsi, a former government minister in charge of the police. She had developed suspicions about the conduct of her husband, Kholisani, who was a businessman. She was sure that he was having an affair, but had been unable to find out the identity of her rival; could Mma Ramotswe help?
Mma Ramotswe, assisted by Mma Makutsi, had done her best. Long hours had been spent parked outside houses and in the lobbies of hotels; and more than one evening wasted in bars known to be popular with married men on the lookout for a mistress. Mma Ramotswe disapproved of these bars, which, she said, knew exactly what they were doing. One, in particular, was the object of her derision, a bar that called itself The Second Home—a name that she felt was deliberately and cynically inflammatory to women. This bar advertised itself as a place where “those in need of entertainment they cannot find at home will be given a warm welcome.”
“Those words make it very clear, don’t you think, Mma Makutsi?” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing an angry finger at the offending newspaper advertisement. “Why don’t they just come out in the open and say, ‘Married men: you come here to meet other ladies’? That’s what it should say, Mma, if they were being honest.”
Mma Makutsi was in complete agreement. “As a married woman, I can only say that I agree one hundred per cent. Even if I know that Phuti would never go to a place like that, I know that there are many men who are far weaker and will do that. Shame on them, Mma Ramotswe! Shame on them!”
It was not clear to Mma Ramotswe whether the shame should be heaped on the weak married men or on the bar, or on both, but she nodded her head. Their one trip to The Second Home had been an eye-opener, but had not resulted in any information on Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi. They had shown photographs to the barman, who had been perfectly obliging but who had shaken his head. “Never here, Mma Ramotswe. I hav
e never seen this man. Not once. Are you sure that he has been here?”
Mma Makutsi had been doubtful about the truthfulness of this barman. “I think he probably says that about anybody,” she said. “That is why he is the barman in a place like that. He is discreet. If you showed him a photograph of … of the Mayor of Gaborone himself, he would deny knowing who it was.”
“But the Mayor does not go into bars like that,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“You know what I mean, Mma. I did not say that the Mayor goes to bars. I do not think that he does. All I am saying is—”
Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “It’s all right, Mma Makutsi. I know what you’re saying. But we have drawn a blank; that is the important thing. Perhaps this man is not having an affair at all. Perhaps it is just another case of a wife who is too suspicious for her own good.”
“Perhaps, Mma. But what now?”
Mma Ramotswe had been unable to come up with any ideas for further investigation—at least not at that point—and had explained to Mma Makutsi that it was time for a report. “A report lets the client know what we are doing,” she said. “It shows that we are not just sitting around talking about a case; it shows that we are busy looking into possibilities.”
“Leaving no stone unturned,” offered Mma Makutsi.
“Yes, Mma. That is a good way of putting it.”
Sitting at her desk that morning, as Mma Makutsi kept her shorthand pencil poised above her dictation pad, Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi,” she began, “hereafter referred to as ‘the husband’—”