The House of Unexpected Sisters

  “Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes,” Mma Makutsi said. “It was her.”

  “And was that the first time you had seen her, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi nodded. “I must have seen her in the lecture room, but I had not really noticed her. Now I noticed her, because nobody could miss what she was wearing.”

  “Oh, I can imagine it,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Can you, Mma? I think it may have been even worse than what you think. A very short skirt, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not find that surprising.

  “The skirt was red, Mma, and then there was a blouse that was hardly a blouse. In fact, you might even have thought that her blouse was made from that stuff they make curtains out of—you know those curtains you can sort of see out of—not proper curtains. What do they call that material, Mma?”

  “Gauze?”

  “That’s it. Phuti’s aunt has curtains like that in her bathroom. I am sure people in the street can look right through them, and so when we go to visit her I always hang a towel over the window, just in case.”

  “That is very wise, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “People have no business looking into the bathrooms of other people.”

  “They certainly do not, Mma. Or through any other windows for that matter.”

  Mma Ramotswe pursed her lips. She was about to agree, but realised that she herself occasionally—and only very occasionally—glanced through the windows of others if she was passing by. She would never go up to the window and peer inside—that was very wrong—but if you were walking along a street and you walked past a window, then surely it was permissible to have a quick glance, just to see the sort of furniture that they liked, or the pictures on the wall, or possibly to see who was sitting in the room. If people did not want anybody to see what was going on in the room, then they should pull down a blind or something of that sort—an open window was an indication, surely, that they did not mind if passers-by looked in.

  And, of course, as a private detective you had to know what was going on. If you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead of you, then you would be unable to gather the sort of everyday intelligence that was part and parcel of your job, and without that intelligence your ability to help others would be limited. So, looking through an open window was not so much an act of idle curiosity as it was an act of consideration for others…But this was not the time to have that debate with Mma Makutsi, and so she waited to hear more about this early encounter with Violet Sephotho.

  “So, she called you over, Mma?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes, she called me over. And then she said, in a loud voice, ‘Mma, tell me: Are you going to a funeral today?’ ”

  Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath; she thought she could tell what was coming.

  “She asked me that, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Makutsi continued. “And I did not know why she should say that. So I told her that I was not going to a funeral, and why did she think I was? She did not reply immediately, but looked at the others and then said, ‘Because you’re dressed as if you are.’ ”

  Mma Ramotswe expelled air through her teeth. It was the most dismissive, disapproving gesture she knew, and this was precisely the sort of situation that called for it.

  “The other girls all burst out laughing,” Mma Makutsi said. “And Violet was very pleased with herself. She smiled and said that she hoped I had not taken offence, but being a secretary was different from being an undertaker, and so were the clothes you should wear for the job.

  “The others thought this very funny, and they all laughed. Have you noticed, Mma Ramotswe, how people love to join in when one person is laughing at another? We like to do things together, it seems, even if the thing everybody is doing is cruel or unkind.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about this. Mma Makutsi was right. “Especially if the thing is cruel or unkind,” she said. But then she added, “But that is only a certain sort of person we’re talking about there, Mma. And I think that most people are not like that. Most people do not want others to suffer. Most people are kind enough right deep down in their hearts.”

  “Not Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Perhaps not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Although even Violet might change one day, Mma. Nobody is so bad that there is no chance of change.”

  Mma Makutsi looked doubtful. “You’re too kind sometimes, Mma,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you’d think the college would have told her to dress more modestly.”

  “I think they did,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not directly, of course—they gave us all a lecture on the importance of high standards in the way in which we presented ourselves. They told us that when we dressed for the office each day we should dress as if we believed that the President was going to call in and inspect us.”

  “And what did Violet Sephotho make of that?”

  “She just smiled,” said Mma Makutsi. “She smiled and then later on she said to the others that she knew what the President would like to see if he came to inspect an office. It would not be formal clothes but rather the sort of clothes that she wore—bright and optimistic clothes, she called them.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The President does not want to see that sort of thing. Look at what he wears himself. He wears sober dark suits. He wears khaki when he has to go out into the country.”

  “That is for camouflage,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is so that he cannot be seen by lions and wildebeest and such things.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. “I’m not sure about that, Mma. But anyway, I don’t think we shall ever get a visit from the President.”

  The mention of camouflage made her think. It could be unnerving if a very important visitor were to come into the office wearing camouflage. He might be there for some time before anybody noticed him, lurking by the filing cabinet, perhaps, or in a corner, watching, waiting.

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Mma Makutsi. “You never know.”

  That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was true: you never knew.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A LADY WITH A LATE HUSBAND

  EVERY MORNING, just before they went to work, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni liked to spend a few minutes together, sitting on their verandah, trying to catch up with life before the day and its demands took over. With Puso and Motholeli—their two adopted children—dispatched to school, they could catch their breath, either speaking or not speaking, depending on how they felt. On that particular morning nothing much was said until Mma Ramotswe suddenly remarked, “Poor Mr. Polopetsi. You know, I feel very sorry for that man.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked surprised. “He seems all right to me. I saw him the other day when I went to the supermarket. He was pushing his shopping cart around, filling it up with biscuits, as far as I could make out. And, funnily enough, I noticed that he had bought some dog biscuits. So I said to him, ‘I didn’t know you had a dog, Rra.’ And he said, ‘No, I don’t have one.’ And so I said, ‘But you’ve bought dog biscuits, I see. Perhaps they’re for somebody else’s dog.’ ”

  Mma Ramotswe, who had red bush tea at her side during this conversation, took a sip from her teacup. “Speaking as a detective, Rra, I would say that there must be some explanation.”

  “Well, there was,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “He had made a mistake. He hadn’t looked at the label closely enough. If he had looked, he would have seen that there was a picture of a dog on the packet.” He paused to utter a brief chuckle. “That should be enough of a sign for most people, Mma—a picture of a dog, don’t you think?”

  Mma Ramotswe had started the conversation by saying that she felt sorry for Mr. Polopetsi; she was not going to laugh at him now. “It’s very easily done, Rra,” she pointed out. “These mistakes are very easy to make if you’re not paying one hundred per cent attention. And even if you are, you can still make them.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni seemed abashed. “I wasn’t saying that
I couldn’t make a mistake, Mma. I wasn’t laughing at him.” He paused. “But look at the mistakes people like Charlie make. Look at them.”

  Charlie was the apprentice at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken on two young men some years earlier, and while one of them, Fanwell, had eventually passed his mechanic’s exams and had been taken on as an assistant, the other, Charlie, was stuck as an apprentice and seemed unlikely to make much progress. Charlie was strong on personal charm: he was popular with young women—and with some older ones as well—but he was feckless in so many ways, and his ministrations to cars often resulted in the car being in a worse state than when it had first come into the garage.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head as he recalled Charlie’s latest mechanical disaster. “The other day, Mma Ramotswe, he tightened a gearbox drain plug far too much. How he did it, I’ll never know. That made a tiny crack in the gearbox and it meant the oil leaked out.”

  Mma Ramotswe was not sure what a gearbox drain plug did—she had not imagined that cars had drains—but it was evidently not the sort of thing that a good mechanic would have done. “I know you get cross with him,” she said. “I know that you don’t want to, but you do.”

  “It’s because his mistakes go on and on,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “To make a mistake once is understandable, maybe, but to make it twice, three times, sometimes even four times—then that’s a different matter. Surely you can blame a person for that?”

  She conceded the point. And he, as the conversation went on, conceded that it might be harsh to blame somebody for a single mistake. “I think we agree, Mma Ramotswe,” he said at last. “And so…Mr. Polopetsi: What about him, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Nothing, really, Rra. I was just thinking about him. You know how people pop into your mind for no particular reason. You’re walking along and suddenly you think about Mma Makutsi or Mma Potokwane or, in this case, poor Mr. Polopetsi. And then you think a bit more about them. You think about the things they’ve said to you, or you wonder what they’re having for dinner, or whether they’ve put on weight—that sort of thing.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “Mma Potokwane has put on a bit of weight, I think. She brought her car round the other day for me to check something, and I noticed that its suspension was in a bad way. That is often the case with the cars of traditionally built ladies. They go down on one side because…”

  He stopped himself. Mma Ramotswe was looking at him over her teacup.

  “Mr. Polopetsi,” he said rapidly. “Yes, Mr. Polopetsi. I hope he’s happy, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. She would have liked to continue talking, but she had to get to the office and he to the garage.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni seemed to read her mind. “It would be good to talk all day,” he said, adding, “To talk to you, that is—not to other people. Talking to you, Mma, is very…very restful, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her husband and smiled. Life, she thought, was more or less perfect: here she was in her own house, in a country that she loved with all her heart—a good country, a peaceful country—and with a husband who was not only the finest mechanic in all Botswana but also a kind and generous man. What more could anyone want? she asked herself, and quickly came up with the answer: nothing. There was nothing more that she wanted, or would ever want; nothing at all.

  —

  BUT NOW, only a few hours after that early morning conversation in which his happiness had been discussed, here was Mr. Polopetsi knocking at the door of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency with that timid, self-effacing knock that he always used. It was so quiet, so hesitant, as to be almost inaudible, and it always made Mma Makutsi smile.

  “It is like a rabbit knocking at the door,” she whispered to Mma Ramotswe. “That is just how a rabbit would knock.”

  Mma Ramotswe put a finger to her lips; she did not want Mr. Polopetsi, who was slightly frightened of Mma Makutsi anyway, to hear her likening him to a rabbit. She could see what Mma Makutsi meant—there were times when he did have the appearance of a startled rabbit—but she would never want him to know that was how anybody saw him.

  “Don’t be unkind, Mma,” she whispered back to Mma Makutsi, and then, in a much louder voice, called out, “Come in, Rra—the door is not locked.”

  Mr. Polopetsi entered the office. He was wearing a smart white shirt with a light blue tie. In the pocket of the shirt was an array of pens, their clips neatly lined up, ready for use. His trousers, into which a sharp crease had been ironed, were of a dark green shade, rather like the colour of the Limpopo, Mma Ramotswe thought. “Limpopo Green”; was there such a colour? Or should she call it “Polopetsi Green,” a description that also seemed to suit the shade rather well?

  “It’s only me,” said Mr. Polopetsi. It was not a very confident way of announcing oneself, thought Mma Ramotswe; as if the arrival of anybody else would have been a much more significant event. Only me…Her heart went out to him as he spoke. His life might not amount to very much—he was a man whom most people would hardly ever notice—and yet she knew that he was a decent man, a man who liked to help others, who would never be pushy or greedy, who did not expect very much out of life. It was men like that who were trampled over by ambitious, noisy men—men who wanted power and material wealth, men who boasted and bragged, men who, quite simply, often gave men in general a bad name. There were always plenty of those, it seemed, and not enough Mr. Polopetsis.

  She gave him a warm welcome. “Mr. Polopetsi! I was hoping it was you. We were just talking about you, Rra, and here you are. That is very good.”

  Mr. Polopetsi looked alarmed. “Talking about me, Mma?”

  She was quick to reassure him. “Not gossiping, or anything like that, Rra. No, certainly not. I think it was just a case of Mma Makutsi saying something like, ‘Here comes Mr. Polopetsi’—nothing controversial.”

  He seemed relieved. “I have just finished teaching for the day,” he said. “I thought I would call in and see what was going on.” Mr. Polopetsi had a part-time job teaching chemistry at Gaborone Secondary School. That occupied him, but only for a limited number of hours each week, which meant that he had the time to do some work for the agency. That he did on a voluntary basis, and even when Mma Ramotswe had offered him a token payment—all that the agency could afford—he had refused to take any money. His wife, he explained, was a senior official in a government department and earned more than enough for both of them. She was also entitled to a government car, which made a big difference to the family budget.

  “It is sufficient reward for me to be involved in this work,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I would not like to sit about at home and think of chemistry all day.”

  Now, taking up Mma Ramotswe’s invitation to sit down, he chose the rickety spare chair beside the filing cabinet.

  “You should sit in the client’s chair,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is more comfortable.”

  Mr. Polopetsi hesitated. “But what if a client comes in, Mma? What if a client comes in and finds me sitting in the client’s chair? What then?”

  Mma Makutsi snorted. “You shouldn’t be so nervous, Rra. No client is going to come in.”

  “And if one did arrive,” said Mma Ramotswe, “then the simplest thing to do would be to stand up and offer the client the chair. That would be the best way of dealing with an emergency like that.”

  Somewhat sheepishly Mr. Polopetsi moved to the more comfortable chair. Mma Ramotswe looked at him encouragingly.

  “Is everything going well, Rra?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Everything is going very well, Mma. Nothing much is happening, but I suppose that means that it is going well.”

  Mma Makutsi had views on this. “That is very true, Rra,” she contributed. “I’ve always said, ‘No sign of anything, then no sign of trouble.’ That is what I’ve said.”

  Mr. Polopetsi considered these words of wisdom. “I don’t think there are many people who would argue wit
h that, Mma. They would probably all say that you’re right. That’s what I think, anyway.”

  A short silence ensued. Mr. Polopetsi looked down at his green trousers.

  “I do like your trousers, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Green is a good colour for men, I always say. What do you think, Mma Makutsi?”

  Mma Makutsi peered round the side of her desk to get a better view of Mr. Polopetsi’s trousers. “Yes,” she said. “They are good trousers. I’ve tried to get Phuti to wear green, but he won’t. I asked and he said, ‘You wouldn’t catch me in green—green is a good colour for women but not for men.’ ”

  Mma Ramotswe threw a sharp, disapproving glance across the room. “That’s nonsense, Mma. There are no colours that are just for men or just for women. That is not at all true. These days everybody can wear whatever they like.”

  Chastened, Mma Makutsi tried to correct the impression she had created, but it was too late. Looking miserable, Mr. Polopetsi fingered the crease on his trousers. “Why would Phuti say such a thing?” he asked. “He must know something about these matters.”

  Mma Ramotswe brushed this aside. “Oh, Phuti wasn’t being serious, Rra. Phuti is always saying things like that—just nonsense things, really.” She threw another glance at Mma Makutsi. “Isn’t that so, Mma?”

  “Mma Ramotswe’s right,” said Mma Makutsi. “He wasn’t thinking. He often makes these ridiculous remarks and then I have to tell him that he has it all wrong, and then he takes it all back. In fact, he took back that thing about green. He said that there’s nothing wrong with green. He said he was mixing it up with some other colour—who knows which?”

  It was a lame excuse, and most people would have realised as much, but somehow it seemed to reassure Mr. Polopetsi, who settled back in his chair and accepted the cup of tea Mma Makutsi had now poured for him. “My wife says these trousers are very smart,” he muttered.

  “But of course they are,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding somewhat wistfully, “I wish I could get Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to wear trousers like that.”