The Double Comfort Safari Club

  “What I am about to say must remain between us,” he said. “I think that this Miss Sephotho is dishonest. I think that she has prevailed on this man to give her this house pretending that she will marry him. But it is only a pretence.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “But I knew that all along, Rra. Everybody knows that—or just about everybody. Mr. Kereleng didn’t at first—now he does.”

  Mr. Bosilong shook his head ruefully. “I am an honest man, Mma Ramotswe. I cannot abide wicked people.”

  “None of us can,” she said.

  “And it makes me very sad when I see a legal technicality allowing bad people to get away with it.”

  “There is nothing worse than that,” she agreed, “because that means that not only does the wicked person get away with it, but people lose respect for the law of Botswana. That is not a good thing at all.”

  Mr. Bosilong signalled that this was his feeling too. But then he said, “Of course, sometimes things go wrong in the law. Attorneys make mistakes. They file the wrong papers. They forget to do things.”

  “Every one of us makes mistakes, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was not sure exactly what he was going to propose, but she wanted to encourage him. “And sometimes,” she went on, “a mistake is for the best.” She hesitated. “In fact, sometimes it is best to make an intentional mistake …”

  Her words clearly brought him relief. “That is good to hear. You see …” His voice tailed off.

  She spoke gently. “See what, Rra?”

  “You see, I have made a mistake in that deed. I did not mean to make it, but I made it. I described the plot of land incorrectly. I put in the number of the neighbouring plot, and it is also the neighbouring plot in the land map that accompanies the deed. I was careless.”

  A smile broke out on Mma Ramotswe’s face. “So Mr. Kereleng signed a deed that transferred his neighbour’s house rather than his?”

  “I’m afraid so. Which makes me look very foolish.”

  “And you didn’t tell him?”

  Mr. Bosilong stared down at his desk. “Everything was done through her. I had my instructions from her. I should have advised him to get independent legal advice. I did not. It would not look good for me if there was a complaint.”

  “So it’s a mess?”

  “It’s a mess, Mma.”

  But she did not think it was. “Tell me, Rra: If you took that deed to the land registry, what would happen?”

  “It would be null and void. They would check it, and they would see the mistake. They would see that Mr. Kereleng does not have title to pass on the property in the deed. They would throw it out.”

  “So you need to tell Violet Sephotho that the thing you did for her has not been done properly.”

  “I will look very stupid.”

  Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. “You are not stupid, Rra. You have saved a man from being very badly treated. Your mistake was a good mistake. It was the best mistake I have heard of for a long time.”

  “I cannot bring myself to tell her that the deed is void and that she must get out. It’s not easy, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe understood. But there was a way round this, she thought, and so she suggested that Mr. Bosilong type out an amendment to be signed by Mr. Kereleng. Of course he would not sign it, but at least it would make the situation easier for Mr. Bosilong. She would go to see Violet on his behalf. She was quite happy to do that.

  The lawyer listened to the suggestion. Slowly he began to smile. “It does make it easier, Mma. It really does. I am not a coward—normally—but now I am in a very big mess, and you have made it so much easier for me.”

  “Then type it out right now, Rra,” she said. “Then I shall go and give it to Violet Sephotho.”

  “He will never sign it,” said Mr. Bosilong.

  “Of course he won’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That’s the whole idea.”

  “You are very clever, Mma,” said Mr. Bosilong.

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I am not a clever lady,” she said. “I am an ordinary lady.”

  Mr. Bosilong would have none of this. “No,” he said. “You are clever. Lawyers think they are clever, but then they are not.”

  Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether he expected her to refute this, but she did not, and the subject of who was clever and who was not was left where it was.

  SHE WAITED until after five o’clock before she went to Violet’s house, or, as she reminded herself—with some satisfaction—Mr. Kereleng’s house. The afternoon passed slowly, as there was little happening in the office. At first Mma Ramotswe had decided not to tell Mma Makutsi of her visit that morning to Joe Bosilong because she was concerned that her assistant would find it difficult to be professionally detached from any case involving Violet Sephotho. As the day wore on, however, she found it increasingly difficult not to tell her the good news that she had discovered for Mr. Kereleng. Eventually she succumbed to the temptation, and told Mma Makutsi about her visit to the lawyer and his extraordinary disclosure.

  As she had anticipated, Mma Makutsi was ecstatic. “That is very, very exciting news, Mma. I am so pleased for poor Mr. Kereleng.”

  Mma Ramotswe watched her. Yes, Mma Makutsi was pleased for Mr. Kereleng, but she was undoubtedly much more pleased at the foiling of Violet Sephotho’s plans. And Mma Makutsi’s next remark confirmed that. “There are some ladies who deserve to be exposed,” she said. “Violet Sephotho is number one on the list. In fact, she is the only one on the list. I cannot wait to see her face when we tell her. Oh, I cannot wait, Mma! It is the best thing ever!”

  Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. “I don’t think that we should make too much of a fuss, Mma. I was just going to slip over there after five, when she should be back from work. I will simply tell her that the deed is invalid and needs to be signed again. Of course she’ll know that Mr. Kereleng won’t sign, so she’ll know that her little trick has not worked.”

  “Little trick?” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “Mma, it is not a little trick—it is a great big theft! No, she must be fully exposed. She must be shown for what she is. She must be made to crawl in the dust, Mma. In the dust.”

  Mma Ramotswe understood the passion behind all this. After all, Violet Sephotho had tried to seduce Phuti Radiphuti away from Mma Makutsi, and it was understandable that she should feel aggrieved. But Mma Ramotswe was not a vindictive woman, and she did not relish the humiliation of anybody, no matter how deserving of such treatment.

  “It is not a good idea to make anybody crawl,” she said mildly. “Either in the dust or anywhere else. I do not think we need to do that, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi appeared to take the reproach well. “I am very angry with her, Mma. I did not mean that I wanted to see her crawl in the dust—not really. I just wanted her to know that she cannot get away with such things. That is all.” She waited a moment, and then continued, “And I shall not say anything when we go to see her. I promise you that, Mma. I shall be silent, and in the background.”

  Mma Ramotswe realised that her assistant would be gravely upset if she were to be prevented from accompanying her on the visit to Violet Sephotho, and so she agreed, reluctantly, that she could come. “But remember, Mma,” she warned. “I shall do the talking.”

  “I shall remember that,” said Mma Makutsi and then, privately—but spotted by Mma Ramotswe—she closed her eyes in utterly pleasurable anticipation.

  SO!” said Violet Sephotho. “So, this is a very big surprise for me. Two famous detectives on my doorstep. What an honour!”

  “I hope you are well, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I hope you will invite us in.”

  Violet Sephotho’s eyes grew wide. “Of course, of course,” she said coquettishly. “We cannot have Mma Ramotswe and …” She knew Mma Makutsi’s name, of course; she knew it well, as they had studied together at the Botswana Secretarial College, but it suited her to seem to forget. “And …”

  “Grace Makutsi,” hissed Mma Makutsi. “You remember me.”

&nb
sp; Mma Ramotswe threw a warning glance at her assistant.

  “Of course,” said Violet. “Grace Makutsi. The Botswana Secretarial College. Sorry to have forgotten, but some people are hard to remember. Anyway, please both come in.”

  They stepped into the front room of the house, a living room that doubled up as a dining room. The room had been recently painted, and there were several framed prints on the wall. There was a picture of the Eiffel Tower and one of New York.

  “That is Paris,” said Violet. “And that is New York. You have heard of these places?”

  “I have heard of them,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And you, Grace?” asked Violet.

  “I have heard of them too,” said Mma Makutsi through tightened lips.

  “And then there is Johannesburg,” said Violet airily. “That is such an exciting city, and it’s not so far away. I will be going there next weekend, I think. Four hours by car.”

  “It is very easy to get to Johannesburg,” said Mma Ramotswe pleasantly. “My father used to work in the mines there in the days when all the men went off to South Africa for work. Things are so different now.”

  “Oh yes,” said Violet. “There are many different things today. I am always finding different things.” She looked at her visitors and smiled. Mma Ramotswe noticed that she had applied thick purple eyeliner in copious quantities.

  Violet looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, Bomma, that I cannot give you tea or anything. But I am going out tonight. There is a big dance at the Grand Palm. I am going there. By invitation.” She paused. “And maybe you will tell me why you have come to see me?”

  There was something in her tone that suggested she was on edge. She knows there is something wrong, thought Mma Ramotswe. And for a minute she felt sympathy for this ruthless, ambitious woman. She knew.

  “I am a messenger today,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I sometimes do that sort of thing.”

  “Not enough detective work?” asked Violet, her confidence momentarily returning.

  “I do things for friends,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am a friend of a certain lawyer. He is called Joe Bosilong.”

  Violet was quite still. One of her heavily purpled eyelids moved slightly; the smallest tic. “I know him,” she said. “He is my lawyer.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has sent me with an amendment to the deed he drew up for you recently. There is a mistake in it. It will have to be signed again by that kind man who is giving you this house, Mr. Kereleng.”

  Violet said nothing.

  Then Mma Makutsi spoke. “Unless he won’t sign, of course.”

  Violet spun round to face her. “You said something, Mma?” she said, her voice rising to a high pitch.

  “I said that maybe Mr. Kereleng won’t sign. And if that happens, then I’m afraid that he will be taking this house back.”

  “Mma Makutsi—,” Mma Ramotswe began. But she could not continue. Violet Sephotho, screaming, had launched herself into an attack on Mma Makutsi. It happened so quickly that Mma Ramotswe had little time to think about her reaction. Moving forward, she caught hold of Violet’s flailing arms and brought them to her sides. It was the first time in her entire career as a detective that she had used force. It shocked her.

  “Get out of my house, Grace Makutsi!” screamed the now physically restrained Violet. “You get out! You, voetsek, voetsek!”

  Mma Makutsi was calm. “You have too much purple on your eyelids,” she said. “Purple Sephotho!” And then, as she and Mma Ramotswe retreated from the room, Mma Makutsi threw her parting shot over her shoulder, “Fifty per cent!”

  Outside, Mma Ramotswe found her breath coming in short bursts. “Are you all right, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “I am very upset,” said Mma Ramotswe, stopping to get her breath back. “That was a very nasty scene.”

  “She is a nasty woman,” said Mma Makutsi. “That purple eyeliner, I …”

  “Do not talk about that, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “She is a horrible …”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe simply. She felt herself shaking. “She is unhappy, and she brings unhappiness to others. That is very sad. I am sorry for her.”

  Mma Makutsi looked up at the sky. How could Mma Ramotswe even begin to have sympathy for that terrible woman? How could she? And then, suddenly, she remembered how. It was because this woman, this traditionally built woman, this understanding, tolerant employer, this detective, was composed of kindness, just of kindness.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mma Makutsi. “I did not behave very well in there.”

  Mma Ramotswe took her hand. “You were a bit excited, maybe. But you didn’t do too badly. When she attacked you, you did nothing, which was the right thing to do.” Suddenly she laughed. “That eyeliner!” she said. “What a colour!”

  “I can’t wait to tell Phuti about this,” said Mma Makutsi.

  There was a silence, which Mma Ramotswe tried to fill. “I’m sure that you will see him soon,” she said. “Then you can tell him.”

  She was not sure, though. She had a bad feeling about that aunt of Phuti’s. That was the problem, she thought. You deal with one difficult person in this life—Violet Sephotho, for instance—and another one pops up.

  But for a short while she could put such difficulties aside. Now she had the pleasant duty of going to tell Mr. Kereleng that he had his house back; it had never really been Violet’s anyway, thanks to the faulty deed, but now he could go and claim it back, and then sell it to raise the money for his laboratory. There were so many things in this world that did not turn out well; she was glad that here, at least, was one that had turned out very well indeed.

  She went to his office. He was embarrassed at first, and explained to her in a lowered voice that they were not meant to receive personal callers at work. But when she told him what had happened, his demeanour changed. He let out a whoop of delight, and then began to cry. His colleagues watched in amazement, and then one came over to Mma Ramotswe and asked her if Mr. Kereleng had received bad news. “No,” she said. “It is very good news. Sometimes people cry if they are very happy, or very relieved.”

  “That is very odd,” said the colleague.

  “No, it is not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We should all cry a bit more, Rra. We really should.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  INTO THE DELTA

  THE DRIVE NORTH took longer than they had expected. In spite of their early start, the road was busy for the first part of the journey, with large stock carriers occupying both lanes and inconsiderately making it difficult to pass. In the days of the tiny white van that would have been neither here nor there—that van had been unable to pass anything much, although it usually managed to get past bicycles, and pedestrians, if conditions were right. The new blue van, of course, experienced no such difficulties, having reserves of power deep in its engine that Mma Ramotswe could release with a simple movement of her right foot. That ability, though, was such a novelty that she hardly dared use it. What would happen, she wondered, if she put her foot down hard to the floor and left it there? She had done that frequently enough in the old van, and there was rarely any reaction. It was as if that engine did not receive its instructions, or, if it did, it merely shrugged them off, as an aged beast of burden, a donkey or an ox, may ignore its owner’s exhortations, saying, effectively, I am just too old to be doing this any more. Leave me alone please.

  Mma Makutsi proved to be a helpful companion and co-driver. She did not possess a driving licence—not yet—but she took the view that the obtaining of ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College, if not amounting to an actual driving qualification, entitled her to hold views and to advise. So she kept a lookout when Mma Ramotswe wanted to pass something. Now, Mma, right now. Just go a bit faster. There is nothing coming. Go now. She also navigated—which was not an exacting task given that the road to Francistown, which marked the end of the first leg of the journey, ran straight
and true from Gaborone northwards and neither meandered nor diverted. “You go straight here, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “That sign over there says Francistown. That is the route to take.” Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes,” she said. “These are good signs, don’t you think, Mma? They make it quite clear which way you should go.”

  Mma Makutsi, interpreting this as veiled criticism of her navigating, searched for an objection to this remark. “But what if there is a blind person?” she challenged. “What use would they be then?”

  “But a blind person shouldn’t be driving,” said Mma Ramotswe. And added, as if the matter required further resolution, “That is well known, Mma.”

  There could be no answer to that, and the subject of signs was pursued no further. There were other things to talk about, though, and as their conversation wandered this way and that the long miles clocked up. Towns passed, some well known—Mahalapye and Palapye—some small and unimportant to all except those who lived in them, for whom they were everything. Each had associations or memories for Mma Ramotswe, and, to a lesser extent, for Mma Makutsi. One of them would know somebody who came from there, or had relatives there; one of them would know a story that came from that place—a story of envy or overreaching ambition or simple human need.

  “That place,” said Mma Makutsi as they drove past a small settlement called Serule. “That is the place where they have discovered uranium. I read about it in the Botswana Daily News. They are going to mine it some day. And then those people living in Serule will have a lot of uranium.”

  “I do not want to have any uranium,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are welcome to it.”

  “Of course they won’t keep it. You do not need to keep uranium.”

  “There are other things that have happened there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Apart from finding uranium. I knew a man who came from Serule. He had a sister who did very well at school. High marks … like yours, Mma.”

  The compliment pleased Mma Makutsi. She liked people to refer to her results, even if she tried to wear the ninety-seven per cent gracefully. “I see,” she said demurely. “And then?”