She glanced at Mma Makutsi, who was staring at the shoes in what seemed to be a state of near-rapture. She was aware of the fact that Mma Makutsi had an interest in shoes, and she had witnessed the pleasure that she had derived from her new pair of green shoes with sky-blue linings. She had entertained her doubts about the suitability of those particular shoes, but now, beside this pair that she was staring at in the window, those green shoes seemed practicality itself. She drew a breath. Mma Makutsi was a grown woman and could look after herself, but she felt, as her employer and as the person who had inducted her into the profession of private detection, that she had at least some degree of responsibility to ensure that Mma Makutsi did not make too many demonstrably bad decisions. And any decision to buy these shoes would be unambiguously bad—the sort of decision that one would not want a friend to make.
“They are very pretty shoes,” Mma Ramotswe said cautiously. “They are a very fine colour, that is certainly true, and …”
“And the toes!” interrupted Mma Makutsi. “Look at how pointed those toes are. Look at them.” And, as she herself looked, she let out a whistle of admiration.
“But nobody is that shape,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have never met anybody with pointed feet. If your feet were pointed like that, then you would have only one toe.” She paused, uncertain as to how her comments were being received; it was difficult to tell. “Perhaps those are shoes for one-toed people. Perhaps they are specialist shoes.”
She laughed at her own comment, but Mma Makutsi did not.
“They are not for one-toed people, Mma,” she said disapprovingly. “They are very fine shoes.”
Mma Ramotswe was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mma. I know that you do not like to joke about shoes.” She looked at her watch. “I think that we should move on now. There is much to do.”
Mma Makutsi was still gazing intently at the shoes. “I did not think we had all that much to do,” she said. “There is plenty of time to look at pots and pans.”
It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that looking at pots and pans, as Mma Makutsi put it, was a rather more useful activity than looking at blue shoes in shop windows, but she did not say this. If Mma Makutsi wished to admire shoes in a window, then she would not spoil her fun. It was an innocent enough activity, after all; like looking at the sky, perhaps, when the sun was going down and had made the clouds copper-red, or looking at a herd of fine cattle moving slowly over the land when rains had brought on the sweet green grass. These were pleasures which the soul needed from time to time, and she would wait for Mma Makutsi until she had examined the shoes from all angles. But a word of caution, perhaps, would not go amiss, and so Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat and said, “Of course, Mma, we must remember that if we have traditionally shaped feet, then we should stick to traditionally shaped shoes.”
For a moment, in spite of all the hustle and bustle about the shops, there was a cold silence. Mma Makutsi glanced down at Mma Ramotswe’s feet. She saw the wide-fitting flat shoes, with their sensible buckles, rather like the shoes which Mma Potokwane wore to walk around the orphan farm (though perhaps not quite so bad). Then she glanced at her own feet. No, there was no comparison, and at that moment she decided that she must have those blue shoes. She simply had to have them.
They went inside, with Mma Makutsi in the lead and Mma Ramotswe following passively. Mma Ramotswe remained silent during the resulting transaction. She watched as Mma Makutsi pointed to the window. She watched as the assistant reached for a box from a shelf and took out a pair of the blue shoes. She said nothing as Mma Makutsi, seated on a stool, squeezed her foot into one of the shoes, to the encouragement of the assistant who pushed and poked at her foot with vigour. And she remained silent as Mma Makutsi, reaching into her purse, paid the deposit that would have the shoes set aside for her; the precious, hard-earned Bank of Botswana notes being placed down on the counter; those notes with the pictures of cattle, which in their heart of hearts the people of Botswana thought were the real foundation of the country’s wealth.
As they left the shop, Mma Ramotswe made amends and told Mma Makutsi that she really thought the blue shoes very beautiful. There was no point in disapproving of a purchase once the deed had been done. She remembered learning this lesson from her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, about whom she thought every day, yes, every day, and who had been, she believed, one of the finest men in Botswana. He had been asked for his view of a bull which a man in Mochudi had bought, and although he had already confided in Precious that the bull would not be good for the herd—too lazy, he had said; a bull who would often say to the cows that he was too tired—although that was his view, he had not said that to the new owner.
“That is a bull who will give you no trouble,” he had said.
And that, she thought, had been just the right thing to say about that particular bull. But could she say the same thing about Mma Makutsi’s new shoes? She thought not. For those shoes would most certainly give Mma Makutsi trouble—the moment she tried to walk anywhere in them. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was glaringly obvious.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AT DINNER
THAT EVENING, Mr Polopetsi had his dinner early, almost immediately after he had returned from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. It had been a hard afternoon for him, as he had been replacing tyres on a large cattle truck owned by a loyal friend of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This client, who had a fleet of such trucks, could have taken his vehicles to one of the large garages which specialised in looking after such concerns, but chose instead to stick with his old friend. With the growth of the cattle transport firm, their business had become increasingly valuable, and now accounted for almost one eighth of the income of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.
Changing the tyres on such large trucks was very physical work, and Mr Polopetsi, who was a relatively slight man, found that it sorely taxed his strength. But it was not physical tiredness that caused him to ask for an early dinner; there was quite another reason. “I have work to do tonight,” he announced to his wife, slightly mysteriously. “Work for the agency.”
Mma Polopetsi raised an eyebrow. “Does Mma Ramotswe ask you to do overtime? Will she pay you?”
“No,” he said. “She does not know that I am doing this work. I am doing it quietly.”
Mma Polopetsi stirred the pot of maize meal. “I see,” she said. “It’s nothing illegal, is it?” She remembered her husband’s imprisonment—how could one forget that spell of loneliness and shame?—and she had not been very enthusiastic about the thought that he would engage in detective work, which could so easily go wrong. And yet everything she had heard about Mma Ramotswe had inspired confidence, and she shared her husband’s gratitude to one whom she regarded as the family’s saviour.
Mr Polopetsi hesitated for a moment, but then shook his head. “It is not illegal,” he said. “And the only reason I have not told Mma Ramotswe is that it is a problem which is worrying her. I have found out what is happening and I can fix it. I want it to be a nice surprise for her.”
The surprise, as he called it, had required some planning, and the co-operation of his friend and neighbour David, who had a battered old taxi which he used to ferry office-workers home from a parking place under a tree near the central mall. David owed Mr Polopetsi a favour, going back to an argument which had flared up with other neighbours over the ownership of a goat. Mr Polopetsi had sided with him and helped his side of the case to prevail, and this had cemented the friendship between the two men. So when Mr Polopetsi had asked him to drive him down to Mokolodi and to help him with something that needed doing down there, he readily agreed.
They set off shortly after seven. In town, this was still a busy time, with the traffic quite heavy, but by the time they reached the last lights of Gaborone and the dark shape of Kgale Hill could be made out to their side, it was difficult to imagine that there were people about, not far behind them. There was the occasional car on the Lobatse Road, but nothing very much, and on either side of the road ther
e were just the dark shapes of the acacia trees, caught briefly in their headlights and then lost to the night. Mr Polopetsi had not told David about the precise nature of the errand, but now he did so.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “You just park the car nearby. I’ll do the rest.”
David stared at the road ahead. “I’m not happy about this,” he said. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It is quite safe,” said Mr Polopetsi. “You aren’t superstitious, are you?”
It was a challenge that had to be met. “I am not scared of these things,” said David.
They reached the turn-off to Mokolodi, and David nosed the taxi down the road which led in the direction of the game park. There were several houses in the bush to one side, and lights shone out from one or two of these, but for the rest they were in darkness. After a while, Mr Polopetsi tapped his friend on the shoulder and told him to extinguish the headlights.
“We can go very slowly from here,” he said. “Then you can park under a tree and wait until I come back. Nobody will see you.”
They stopped, and the car’s engine was turned off. Now Mr Polopetsi got out of the car and closed the door quietly behind him. It was utterly still, apart from the sound of insects, the persistent chirruping sound that seems to come from nowhere and from everywhere. It was a curious sound, which some people said was the sound of the stars calling their hunting dogs. He looked up. There was no moon that night, and the sky was filled with stars, so high, so white, that they were like an undulating blanket above him. He turned round to find south, and there it was, low down in the sky, as if suspended by something that he could not see, the Southern Cross. He had seen that constellation at night from the window of the prison, from the board and blankets that was his bed, and it had, in a strange way, sustained him. He was unjustly imprisoned; what had happened had not been his fault, and the sight of the stars had reminded him of the smallness of the world of men and their injustices.
Now he made his way to a point in the fence below the main gate. He pulled the strands of wire apart and slipped through. To his right there were the lights of the staff houses, squares of yellow in the black. He paused, waiting to see if there was anybody about; people might sit outside their houses on a warm night like this, but tonight there was nobody. Mr Polopetsi moved on. He knew exactly what he had to do, and he hoped that there would be no noise. If there was, then he would have to run off into the bush and crouch down until it had subsided. But with the bag that he had in his hand, there was no reason why it should not be quiet, and quick. And in the morning they would find out what had happened and there would be talk, but the fear, the dread that he had sensed, would be over. They would be pleased—all of them—although they would never be able to thank him because he would have acted in complete secrecy. Mma Ramotswe would thank him for it; he was sure of that.
AS IT HAPPENED, at the precise moment that Mr Polopetsi was creeping through the darkness, imagining the gratitude of his employer, Mma Ramotswe was sitting with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni at their dining table, having just completed a short conversation on the subject of Mr Polopetsi and his good work in the garage. The two foster children, Motholeli and Puso, were sitting at their places, eyes fixed on the pot of stew which she was about to serve. At a signal from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, the children folded their hands together and closed their eyes.
“We are grateful for this food which has been cooked for us,” he said. “Amen.”
The grace completed, the children opened their eyes again and watched as Mma Ramotswe ladled their helpings onto their plates.
“I have not seen this uncle,” said Motholeli. “Who is he?”
“He is working at the garage,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is a very good mechanic, just like you, Motholeli.”
“He is not a mechanic,” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni corrected her. “A mechanic is somebody who has had the proper training. You are not a mechanic until you have completed an apprenticeship.” The mention of apprenticeships seemed to make him sombre, and he stared grimly at his plate for a few moments. He had reminded himself of his two apprentices, and as a general rule he did not like to think too much about them. He was not sure when they would finish their apprenticeships, as both of them had failed to complete one of the courses they had been sent off on, and would have to repeat it. They had said that they had failed only because of a mix-up in the papers and an ambiguity in one of the questions about diesel systems. He had looked at them with pity; did they really expect him to swallow such a story? No, it was best not to think too much about those two when he was away from the garage.
“What I mean is that he is good with cars,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And he is a good detective too.”
“But is he really a detective?” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni asked, loading his fork with a piece of meat. “You cannot call just anybody a detective. There must be some training …” He tailed off. Mma Ramotswe had had no training, of course, although she had at least read The Principles of Private Detection by Clovis Andersen. He doubted whether Mr Polopetsi had read even that.
“Being a private detective is different from being a mechanic,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can be a detective without formal qualifications. There is no detective school, as far as I know. I do not think that Mr Sherlock Holmes went to a detective school.”
“Who is this Rra Holmes?” asked Motholeli.
“He was a very famous detective,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He smoked a pipe and was very clever.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stroked his chin. “I do not know if he really existed,” he said. “I think that he was just in a book.”
Motholeli looked to Mma Ramotswe for clarification. “Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps.”
“He is from a book,” said Puso suddenly. “My teacher told us about him. She said that he went to a waterfall and fell over the edge. She said that is what sometimes happens to detectives.”
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “I have never been to the Victoria Falls,” she said.
“If you fell over the Victoria Falls,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cheerfully, “I do not think that you would drown. You are too traditionally built for that. You would float over and bounce up at the bottom like a big rubber ball. You would not be hurt.”
The children laughed, and Mma Ramotswe smiled, at least for a moment. Then her smile faded. She normally paid no attention to any references to her traditional build—indeed, she was proud of it and would mention it herself. But now, it seemed to her, rather too many people were drawing attention to it. There had been that remark from Mr Polopetsi, an ill-considered, casual remark it is true, but still a suggestion that lions would like to eat her because she was large and juicy. And then the nurse had said that she should watch her blood pressure and that one way to do this was to go on a diet. And now here was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni himself suggesting that she looked like a round rubber ball and the children laughing at the idea (and presumably agreeing).
Mma Ramotswe looked down at her plate. She did not think that she ate too much—if one excluded cake and doughnuts and pumpkin, and perhaps a few other things—and the fact that she was traditionally built was just the way she was. And yet there was no doubt but that she could afford to shed a few pounds, even if only to avoid the embarrassment which had arisen the other day when she had stooped to sit down on her office chair and the seams of her skirt had given way. Mma Makutsi had been tactful about this, and had pretended not to hear anything, but she had noticed and her eyes had widened slightly. There were many arguments in favour of being traditionally built, but it had to be said that it would be pleasant if these digs from other people could be headed off. Perhaps there was an argument for going on a diet after all and showing everybody that she could lose weight if she wanted to. And of course what they said about diets was that you had to start straightaway—the moment the idea crossed your mind. If you put it off, and said that your diet would start the following day, or the following week, then you would never do i
t. There would always be some reason why it was impossible or inconvenient. So she should start right now, right at this very moment, while the tempting plate of stew lay before her.
“Motholeli and Puso,” she said, sitting up straight in her chair. “Would you like the stew on my plate? I do not think I am going to eat it.”
Puso nodded quickly and pushed out his plate for the extra portion, and his sister soon followed his lead. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, though, looked at Mma Ramotswe in astonishment. He lowered his fork to his plate and let it lie there.
“Are you not feeling well, Mma Ramotswe?” he asked. “I have heard that there is something going round the town. People are having trouble with their stomachs.”
“I am quite well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have just decided that from now on I shall eat just a little bit less.”
“But you will die,” said Puso anxiously. “If you do not eat, then you die. Our teacher told us that.”
“I am not going to stop eating altogether,” said Mma Ramotswe, laughing at the suggestion. “Don’t worry about that. No, it’s just that I have decided that I should go on a diet. That is all. I shall eat something, but not as much as before.”
“No cake,” said Motholeli. “And no doughnuts.”
“That is right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Next time Mma Potokwane offers me any of that fruit cake of hers, I shall say, ‘No thank you, Mma.’ That is what I shall say.”
“I shall eat your share of fruit cake,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I do not need to go on a diet.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She was already beginning to feel hungry, and the diet had only been going for a few minutes. Perhaps she should have just a little bit of the stew—there was still some left in the pot in the kitchen. She rose to her feet.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Is that you going into the kitchen to help yourself to stew in secret?” he asked.
Mma Ramotswe sat down. “I was not going into the kitchen,” she said hotly. “I was just adjusting my dress. It’s feeling rather loose, you see.”