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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
COFFEE WITH A PART-TIME REVEREND
SO, RRA,” Mma Ramotswe said as she came out of the shop. “So, here you are standing, thinking about what to say to the faithful.”
Mma Makutsi now remembered where she had seen this man: he had been on television, talking about a plan to raise one million pula for some ambitious project—a flying-doctor plane, or something of that sort. There were so many people with projects, she thought, and most of them sounded very worthy. But how did one decide where one’s charity would go? It was very difficult. And then the further thought came that she did not give very much—in fact, she gave nothing, even though now she could spare one or two pula, her single-girl’s mite, so to speak. She would start giving one day, after she had received a little bit more herself; then she would give.
Herbert Mateleke laughed. It was a short laugh, though—that of one who had been distracted from something grave, and needed to get back to more serious thoughts. “I was not thinking of higher things, Mma. I was trying to make out whether it was you I saw in the shop. With the light like this, you see, the glass reflects and you cannot see exactly who is on the other side. Now I see it is you.”
“And my secretary, Mma Makutsi. We have been …”
“Assistant detective,” interjected Mma Makutsi, giving Mma Ramotswe a disapproving glance. “We have been buying equipment for a case.”
Herbert Mateleke nodded distractedly. “Yes, of course. You must need a lot of equipment.” He paused, gathering his thoughts for an aphorism. “We need a lot of equipment to find out the truth in this world.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Do you think so, Rra? I think that all we need in order to know the truth is these.” She pointed to her eyes. And then, pointing to her nose, “And this. This is a very big help in finding out what is true and what is not. Don’t you agree, Rra?”
There was no edge to what she said, but as she spoke to Herbert Mateleke she could not forget the fact that, at least in his wife’s eyes, he stood accused of having an affair. And that shirt—that bright blue shirt—was that the sort of shirt one expected a successful businessman and part-time reverend to wear? Or was it the shirt of a man who was trying to make himself a little bit more colourful, rather more interesting to women? She knew the warning signs with middle-aged men—they were like a set of traffic lights that glowed brightly in the dark. Greater attention to personal grooming? Bad sign. Pulling-in of the stomach to conceal paunch? Bad sign. Purchase of a more powerful car in bright red? Very, very bad sign.
Of course, the shirt could be interpreted in various ways. It was a loose-fitting, open-neck shirt of the sort worn by Nelson Mandela. Such shirts were not tucked into one’s trousers, but hung about the waist, allowing for air to circulate. They suited older men very well, those on whose physique prosperity, and particularly a diet of good Botswana beef, might have taken its toll, and they were perfect, of course, for Mr. Mandela himself, who lent them that grace and dignity that came so naturally to him. You might conclude, thought Mma Ramotswe, that Mr. Mateleke was wearing this shirt because it was comfortable and paid tribute, perhaps, to that most gracious of men who had popularised the style. Or you might conclude that here was a man who was paying attention to his clothes because he was having an affair. You might reach for either of these conclusions, but if you were a detective, and you had been approached by the wife of the man in question, who had given voice to her
own suspicions, then you would be excused, surely, for reaching the second, less charitable of these conclusions.
Herbert Mateleke now leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence to Mma Ramotswe. She thought quickly: if he wanted to talk, then she should encourage him. This was exactly the sort of development that could make a potentially awkward enquiry that much easier.
“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that you should take the rest of the day off. Why don’t you go and do some shopping?”
Mma Makutsi could see what the situation was, and reacted accordingly, and with consummate professionalism. “It was just what I was hoping to do, Mma. Thank you very much.” She nodded to Herbert Mateleke. “It was very good to meet you, Rra, and I do like your shirt. It suits you very well.”
Herbert Mateleke acknowledged the compliment, but his acknowledgement was perfunctory, a matter of form; it was clear that there was something on his mind. As Mma Makutsi went off, Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “I am a bit hungry for some reason, Rra. I do not know why.”
He seized the opportunity. “But I am hungry too, Mma, and there is that place round the corner, near the bottle store.”
“I am told their food is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I would like to take you to lunch, Mma Ramotswe, if you will let me.”
The offer was accepted, and the two walked the short distance to the café. Nothing was said on this walk—or nothing significant—and it was not until they had sat down at their table and were examining the menu that Herbert Mateleke unburdened himself.
“You know something, Mma Ramotswe?” he began. “I am not a happy man.”
“But …”
He held up a hand. “Let me explain, Mma. I am a person who is always telling other people that they must rejoice and love the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia! That is what I am always saying. And when I see people who are happy, I say, ‘Alleluia! You are living in goodness and light!’ But all the time, Mma, inside me there is just an unhappiness and …”—he paused, staring straight into Mma Ramotswe’s eyes—“… and doubt.”