‘Is late,’ the official supplied. ‘Yes. That is right, Mma. It is quite simple, you see. If you know what you are talking about, that is.’ She paused, reaching for the folder of documents. ‘Have you found out what you wanted to find out?’
‘Maybe,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
Chapter Fourteen
Washing the Feet of Another
S
he could not contain herself. Now that her vague suspicions about Mma Sheba had turned into actual knowledge – the proven fact that the lawyer stood to benefit from the Molapo estate – everything was changed. She wanted – she needed – to talk to somebody about this and, as she drove back to the office, she realised that the only person with whom she could discuss the afternoon’s discovery, the only person who would truly understand the implications, was Mma Makutsi. She could talk to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni about it, of course, and he would listen courteously, as he always did; but for all his attentiveness, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked at situations as a man, and men, for all their merits, thought about things differently from the way women thought about them. And without wishing to belittle men whatsoever, Mma Ramotswe felt that on balance, just on balance, women often saw things that men might miss. So a man, considering this matter, might say, ‘That Mma Sheba is simply accepting a gift from an old friend’; while a woman was far more likely to say, ‘Well, well, she may be a lawyer but she’s clearly used her female wiles to get that poor late man to leave her this so-called residue’. And what a residue it was: not merely a few scraps of otherwise unwanted property, bits and pieces left over when relatives had taken their pickings – as the term residue might imply – but the most valuable asset that Rra Edgar had possessed: his farm.
Halfway back to the office, while driving through a pool of storm water that had suddenly appeared at the edge of the road, she decided that she would not go back to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency after all and would go instead to the Radiphuti house. Mma Makutsi would be bound to be in and would surely welcome a visit. She had confessed to Mma Ramotswe that staying at home with nobody to talk to could be tedious, and so the chance to discuss the Molapo case would be a welcome break. There was no doubt that motherhood was a great privilege, Mma Makutsi had said, but it could bring loneliness too.
Mma Ramotswe turned the van on to the track that led from the Radiphuti gate to the house some six hundred yards into the plot. Had she given the matter more thought, the possibility might have occurred to her that this track, recently created from the virgin bush and not properly flattened by grader and steamroller, might not be in a good condition to receive the heavy rain that had fallen a few hours ago. As it was, with her mind full of residues and legacies and the questions to which such matters gave rise, she did not think about mud at all until she had already encountered it and she felt the tiny white van sinking beneath her. For a few moments she allowed the wheels to turn as they sought purchase in the glutinous mass, but then she removed her foot from the accelerator lest the van should dig itself further in, perhaps even disappear altogether as vans were said to do in quicksand. There was no point in racing the engine of a mud-engulfed vehicle; she would have to be pulled out by a stronger, four-wheel-drive vehicle – Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s rescue truck, for example, or a friendly tractor.
She prepared to step out of the van. This was not the simple operation it normally was; as a traditionally built woman, Mma Ramotswe was accustomed to occasional issues of manoeuvrability in awkward spaces, but what greeted her now was something more daunting than that. What had been a track was now a river, a spreading delta indeed, of shimmering mud, stretching almost as far as the house itself. Here and there, tufts of grass and small shrubs made for tiny islands, but for the rest there was only a red-brown sea. She looked up at the sky. The Israelites had received help in crossing the Red Sea, she recalled, when an unseen hand had parted the waves; no such help would be forthcoming here.
She sighed again and removed her shoes. Then, holding one shoe in each hand as a tightrope walker might use weights to balance himself, she stepped into the mud.
From the veranda Mma Makutsi waved and shouted. Mma Ramotswe tried to make out what she was saying but could not hear her very well. So, taking a deep breath, she made her viscous way along the mud-locked path and into the yard. Her traditional build did not help, and she felt herself sinking deeper with every step. The mud was between her toes, and that was a strange sensation but not unpleasant.
Mma Makutsi came out to meet her. ‘Mma, I was worried,’ she said. ‘I was going to phone Phuti to come and rescue you.’
‘That would not have been necessary,’ said Mma Ramotswe, surveying her mud-covered feet and ankles. ‘There is nothing wrong with a little mud. Some people say it is very good for the skin, Mma.’
Mma Makutsi looked with concern at her employer’s feet. ‘It is good for the face,’ she said. ‘I have not heard it is good for the feet.’ She frowned. ‘But there are different views, Mma. There are always different views on these things.’
She invited Mma Ramotswe to sit on the parapet of the veranda while she went to collect a basin for her to wash her feet. When she returned, she was carrying a small towel, a bar of soap and a plastic basin filled with warm water.
‘Let me wash them, Mma,’ she said. ‘You sit there, I’ll wash your feet for you.’
Mma Ramotswe felt the warm embrace of the water and the slippery caress of the soap. The intimacy of the situation impressed itself upon her; that an old friend – and that was how she looked at Mma Makutsi – should do this for you was strangely moving. Washing the feet of another, she thought. She tried to remember whether any other friend had done this for her. She thought not; and she had not done it for another. People were used to doing these things for children – washing them, changing them, tending to their physicals needs – but one so easily forgot what it was to do this for another adult, or to have it done for you.
Over a cup of tea, Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi what she had learned from the will. Mma Makutsi listened gravely, interrupting her guest only to fetch the baby, who had awoken from a sleep. The rest of the story was heard with Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti clasped to his mother’s breast. Mma Ramotswe looked at the little head – so perfect, so untroubled by the world, so tiny. It was for this, exactly this, that people sought advantage over others, denied themselves, risked everything, and would, if pressed, even give their lives.
The baby finished his feed. ‘So,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘You know what I think, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe said that she would very much like to find out. ‘I have some ideas, Mma, but if you tell me yours, I shall have some more, I think.’
Mma Makutsi smiled. ‘It is as if we were in the office,’ she said.
Mma Ramotswe tried not to look sad. ‘Yes.’
‘The lawyer is using you,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘She does not want to find out the truth about that young man on the farm.’
‘That is what I thought,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
‘She is determined that he will not inherit the farm.’
Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘I think you are right.’
Mma Makutsi was silent for a few moments. ‘The aunt knows about her brother’s affair with the lawyer and does not approve.’
Mma Ramotswe was surprised that Mma Makutsi had drawn the same conclusion as she had. ‘I thought exactly that, Mma,’ she said. ‘There is no evidence that they were having an affair, but I thought that.’
‘It is the only thing one can think,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘People don’t leave legacies to their lawyers unless they are very friendly, Mma. I think we can assume that they were lovers.’
‘And so?’
Mma Makutsi gently brushed away a fly that had settled on her baby’s brow. ‘The original Liso, the real Liso, can’t be traced, for whatever reason. Or she did not bother to trace him. So she has substituted her own son. Every mother would like her son to inherit a farm. That hardly needs any discussion.’
&nbs
p; ‘No.’
Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe. ‘We need to confirm that the boy who claims to be Liso is, in fact, the aunt’s son. How should we do that, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe noticed the use of the word we. Mma Makutsi was back. ‘We go and see her, I suppose. We confront her with the truth and see how she reacts. People reveal themselves, Mma.’
‘They do, Mma Ramotswe. You have always said that, and I have always thought you were right. You are right most of the time.’
‘Thank you, Mma Makutsi – that is very kind of you. But sometimes I am wrong.’
‘This is not one of those times, Mma. This is a very simple case, and you have solved it without any difficulty. This is what Mr Andersen would call an open-and-shut case, I believe.’
Mma Ramotswe now spoke hesitantly. ‘When shall we go, Mma?’
Mma Makutsi seemed to take some time to prepare her answer. ‘I have reached a decision,’ she said eventually. ‘I am coming back to work tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, Mma —’
Mma Makutsi raised a hand. ‘No, Mma. It is the right decision. Perhaps I can bring Itumelang in for the first few days. We shall stay just a few hours for the first little while, and then we can work out a regime. I have my young woman here who is helping with the cooking and with the baby. She used to work for Phuti’s parents before they became late. She looked after Phuti when he was a boy, you know.’
Mma Ramotswe could not stop herself imagining Phuti as a boy: she saw an ungainly little boy with spindly legs and a perplexed expression on his face. Beside him there appeared another child, a little girl with ribbons tied into her hair and childish, round glasses. It was the young Mma Makutsi. So that was what she looked like.
‘I am sure that woman is very good, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She wanted to rise from her chair and embrace her assistant. She wanted to say to her: We are back again in the team that has always worked so well. She wanted to say to her: You were only away for a very short time, Mma, but I’ve missed you so much; I’ve missed your odd remarks; I’ve missed your talking shoes; I’ve missed your going on and on about the Botswana Secretarial College; I’ve missed everything, Mma, everything. But she did not – she simply said what she said and smiled. For once again she sensed that our heart is not always able to say what it wants to say and frequently has to content itself with less.
The extraction of the tiny white van, now spattered brown with mud, was arranged by Mma Makutsi, who telephoned one of Phuti’s men. He came round with a four-wheel-drive truck that pulled the van out of the mud with ease while the two women shouted encouragement from the veranda. After that, Mma Ramotswe decided not to go back to the office. She had left the Back Sometime notice on the door – the notice that she displayed when there was a chance that she might return that day but when there was also a chance that she would decide to do something impulsive. That often turned out to be a drive out to Mochudi, for no reason other than a desire to get back to the village where she had been brought up and which was, in a sense, her real home.
But it was not the prospect of a drive to Mochudi that made her choose not to go back to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency that afternoon; rather, it was a sense of excitement and anticipation, a feeling bordering on joy, about Mma Makutsi’s return to work. Admittedly there was an aspect of this return that gave cause for concern – the bringing of Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti into the office might prove to be awkward – but any difficulties would no doubt be sorted out. People took babies everywhere, and babies seemed to be happy enough with such arrangements. And Mma Makutsi, surely, would be reasonably flexible if the baby proved to be too much of a distraction in the office. The important thing was that she would be around for at least a couple of hours each day, and that would make all the difference.
Mma Ramotswe wondered where Itumelang would be put. Mma Makutsi had mentioned a portable crib that could be brought in and set up near her desk. It was a good spot, as the light from the window was blocked by Mma Makutsi’s own desk and so the baby would not get too hot. Of course, one of the drawers in the filing cabinet could be cleared out and he could be placed there on folded blankets… It would be entirely appropriate if such a devotee of filing as Mma Makutsi were to place her baby there, under BABIES perhaps, or some other suitable category. She smiled. It was an absurd thought, but one never knew with Mma Makutsi, and stranger things had happened.
Determined not to return to the office, she was briefly tempted to drive over to see Mma Potokwani. She had not seen the matron for some time, and it would be pleasant to spend half an hour or so with her over a cup of tea and a slice of fruitcake. But then she remembered that she had to call in at the bank to deposit a cheque. She was not far from the Riverwalk now, where there was a branch of the bank, and she could go there before heading home and indulging in the luxury of a rest. The children would not be home until shortly after four and the house would be quiet. There were three or four magazines that had been passed on to her by her friend Mma Moffat, and she could page through these while lying on her bed, until sleep caught up with her and the magazines fell from her hand. It was exactly the sort of afternoon to which she liked to treat herself, and this was a perfect day for it. After her rest she could spend some time working in the garden now that the ground had been refreshed by the rain and was soft and receptive.
She parked the tiny white van at Riverwalk. A shopping cart had been left in a parking place, where an unwary driver might easily reverse into it. She started to wheel this cart out of harm’s way, but what she saw lying on the bottom of the cart made her stop: there were several leaflets, the usual bright detritus – money-off coupons, a loud listing of cut-price tinned foods – and, strangely, what looked like a homemade notice with Be Warned! printed across the top in large letters.
Her curiosity was aroused. It is not easy to ignore a notice headed: Be Warned! Be warned about what? There were so many dangers in the world and always plenty of people warning you about them. It was difficult, she felt, to do anything without being warned by somebody about the dangers of whatever it was that you were about to do. Even walking was risky, especially while wearing the sort of high-heel shoes favoured by Mma Makutsi. It would be easy to find that a heel had become trapped – in a grid, for example, or a hole in the ground – and then you might be felled as surely as if somebody had come and chopped you down. And breathing had its dangers too: she remembered all those years ago in Mochudi being told by one of her classmates that she had almost lost a brother when he had breathed in a number of flying ants that had blocked his air passages. An unlikely story, perhaps, but one that lingered in the back of the mind.
She peered closer at the leaflet.
BE WARNED!
Yes, that means you! On no account venture into that place they call the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. Minor Adjustment? The major adjustment they make is to your purse – it will be much lighter after only a few minutes in that place. And what about your face? Bad news for your face. Many people are now having expensive medical treatment to undo the damage that this so-called beauty salon has caused. Be warned! Be careful! Don’t let vanity lead you into something you will always regret!
Mma Ramotswe read this text with horror. She looked for a signature, some sign of authorship, but there was none. All that was written at the bottom of the leaflet was: This message is brought to you by one who cares.
She felt her heart racing with outrage. One who cares was clearly one and the same person who had been spreading the rumour about somebody’s face coming off in the salon. This had all the signs of an organised campaign, and a vituperative one at that.
Abandoning the shopping cart in a safe corner, Mma Ramotswe made her way as quickly as she could to the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. The door was open and she saw Mma Soleti inside with another woman. When Mma Ramotswe entered the salon, Mma Soleti turned round. Mma Ramotswe could tell immediately that she knew about the leaflet and its contents.
‘Mma
,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘This is very bad.’
‘Yes,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘It is the end, Mma. The end.’
The woman who was with her, an older woman, reached out and took Mma Soleti’s hand. ‘No, Mma. You must not give up.’
Mma Soleti introduced her companion. ‘This is my cousin,’ she said. ‘She found one of those leaflets on the windscreen of her car. She had parked it in the car park and when she came back she found the leaflet there.’
‘This person is a criminal,’ said the cousin. ‘There is only one word for it: criminal.’ She paused. ‘You must find her.’
Mma Ramotswe assured her that she would do her best. ‘But it is difficult, Mma. Anonymous letters and anonymous leaflets are often very hard to deal with. They are written by cowards who hide away under rocks. It is not easy to find them.’
‘I am finished now,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘Nobody is coming to my salon. How will I pay the rent? This place is expensive.’