Mma Ramotswe frowned. ‘I drink tea in the mornings, Mma. I drink redbush tea.’
‘That is very good for the skin too,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘You can put cold redbush tea on your skin if you have a rash. Then you can drink what’s left over so that you are cleansed inside and outside.’
Mma Ramotswe relaxed. She liked the idea of being cleansed inside and outside. And then she thought of Mma Makutsi and her difficult complexion. She had never broached the matter with her assistant, but she knew that skin problems had troubled Mma Makutsi for some time, although more recently her complexion seemed to have settled down. She was not the easiest person with whom to raise delicate issues, but Mma Ramotswe wondered whether she might suggest that her associate put lemon juice in her tea rather than milk. Perhaps it would be possible to do that tactfully, for instance by saying that she had heard that people who were concerned about their skin spoke highly of lemon juice. Not that she would be implying that Mma Makutsi was a person who needed to worry about her skin; she would not say anything like that.
Of course, having a husband always took the sting out of your minor imperfections. Now that Mma Makutsi was married to Phuti Radiphuti she would no longer have to be concerned about attracting men and could stop worrying about skin issues and having to wear very large round glasses and so on. Mind you, no woman, Mma Ramotswe thought, should give up entirely and not concern herself with looking good for her husband. The best solution lay somewhere in the middle, as it always did: you could relax a bit but you should always remember that it gave your husband pleasure to gaze at a beautiful wife over the breakfast table. And beauty, she reminded herself, was both an inside and an outside quality. You could be very glamorous and beautiful on the outside, but if inside you were filled with human faults – jealousy, spite and the like – then no amount of exterior beauty would make up for that. Perhaps there was some sort of lemon juice for inside beauty… And even as she thought of it, she realised what it was: love and kindness. Love was the lemon juice that cleansed and kindness was the aloe that healed.
Neither woman spoke for the rest of the treatment. Mma Ramotswe found herself feeling drowsy and at one point came close to sleep. It was very comforting sensing the potions on one’s skin and breathing their perfume. It was highly relaxing to feel Mma Soleti’s fingertips coaxing tension out of the skin. And so, when the creams were rubbed off and some final unguent applied, Mma Ramotswe found herself feeling vaguely disappointed, as when the final drops of a much looked-forward-to cup of tea are drained.
‘There we are,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘You can open your eyes now, Mma. The treatment is over.’
Mma Ramotswe sat up. Her face felt as if it was glowing, as if she were basking in the first rays of an early morning sun. She raised a hand to touch her cheek. ‘It feels very smooth, Mma.’
‘That is because the creams have done their work and now it is smooth,’ said Mma Soleti, a note of pride in her voice. ‘Just like a baby’s skin.’ She paused. ‘Mma Ramotswe, I’m glad that you have enjoyed being my first customer in this new salon. First free customer. Free, remember.’
Mma Ramotswe noticed the emphasis on the word free. Some things that are free are not free, she thought. She was wary.
‘You were very kind, Mma. Thank you.’
Mma Soleti had her back turned to her as she was replacing the jars on the shelf. ‘Mma Ramotswe,’ she said, ‘there is something that is worrying me.’
Mma Ramotswe realised that her instinct had been right: this free beauty treatment came at the cost of a favour. Well, that was how the world worked, and she knew that she should not be surprised. Life was a matter of exchanges; you did things for people and they did things for you. And it had to be that way because you started life with the assistance of the one who brought you into the world – the midwife – and you ended it with the assistance of those who laid you in the ground. Between those two extremes, you often needed the help of others; you needed their company, you needed their love, and they, in turn, needed those things from you.
She did not show her feelings. She was there to help, after all – that was what being a private detective was about, even if whatever problem Mma Soleti had looked as if it would not involve any remuneration. It would not be the first pro bono case she had undertaken; there had been many of those and there would no doubt be many more. One client had even suggested that she – Mma Ramotswe – should pay her to investigate her case. That was unusual by any standards, but the fact that it had occurred went to show that one should not be surprised by anything that people suggested – or did, for that matter.
‘Tell me what is worrying you, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Sometimes, you know, the things that worry us are not so bad when you tell another person about them.’
Mma Soleti turned to face her. She looked at the shop’s glass front door. ‘Can we speak in the office at the back, Mma?’
Before Mma Ramotswe had the chance to reply, Mma Soleti took her by the arm and started to lead her into a room at the back of the salon. This was furnished with a desk, some chairs and a telephone. An unopened cardboard packing case labelled Beauty Products: Urgent stood on the floor near the desk. Mma Ramotswe could not conceal a smile. She wondered how anybody could consider beauty products to be urgent. Medicines yes, but not aloe extract and lemon juice. Of course, everybody considered their own orders of supplies urgent. Mma Makutsi often became concerned if her stationery orders took longer than a week to arrive. ‘How do they think we are going to be able to write to people, Mma?’ she complained. ‘Perhaps on scraps of old newspaper? Perhaps on the back of envelopes?’
Mma Soleti invited her to sit on one of the chairs and then settled herself on the other one. ‘I have received a parcel,’ she said. ‘Through the post.’
Mma Ramotswe looked down at the case of beauty products.
Mma Soleti shook her head. ‘Not that, Mma. This was a very small parcel – about the size of a packet of cigarettes.’
Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue. Mma Soleti had lowered her voice, although there was nobody who could possibly hear them. People did that, Mma Ramotswe had observed – and it was usually a sign that they were frightened.
‘I opened it,’ went on Mma Soleti.
Mma Ramotswe nodded her encouragement. ‘And, Mma?’
‘I wish I hadn’t.’
Mma Ramotswe reached out to soothe her. Mma Soleti was shivering. This was unfeigned fear.
‘It is very difficult not to open a parcel, Mma Soleti.’
‘I know that. But in this case I wish that something had happened to this parcel before it arrived at my house.’
‘May I ask why, Mma?’
‘Because it contained something very bad, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe was silent. She had an idea what Mma Soleti was going to say.
‘It was a feather,’ whispered Mma Soleti.
Mma Ramotswe had not been expecting this. She had expected a bone, or a powder of some sort. Those were the usual devices of witchcraft, and no matter how logical or modern one was in one’s outlook, such things were capable of bringing terror. People had died simply because they received such things. There was no scientific reason for them to do so, but the heart and the head were not the same thing in the darkness of the night.
‘Was there anything with the feather?’ she asked. ‘Any muti?’ She used the word commonly used for such things. Muti was at the heart of curses and spells – at least for those who believed in such things, which she did not. But she knew very well that it took only a handful of gullible people to give a witchdoctor his lucrative practice.
Mma Soleti shook her head. ‘I did not know what the feather meant, and so I took it to a person I know who is a big expert in birds. He took one look at it and told me. It was a feather from a ground hornbill.’
Mma Ramotswe let out a sigh. ‘So, they have sent you a sign from that bird.’
Mma Soleti nodded miserably. ‘I threw it away immediately. I washed
my hands, more than once – three or four times, I think – but I had already touched it. I already had had it in my pocket.’
Mma Ramotswe tried to make light of the incident. ‘But, Mma, listen to me: I know people say that this poor bird is bad luck, that it will bring all sorts of bad things —’
‘Including death,’ interjected Mma Soleti. ‘If that bird comes to your house then…’
Mma Ramotswe wagged a finger. ‘Hush, Mma! That is complete nonsense. It is untrue. How can an innocent bird bring death? That is nonsense.’
‘It is not innocent,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘It is a wicked bird.’
‘A bird cannot be wicked. It cannot.’ She paused. ‘Birds don’t think, Mma. Look at their heads – they are very small. All that a bird can think about is food and things like that. They do not think about harming people.’
Mma Soleti was not convinced. ‘Even if a bird can do nothing, a person can. And there is some person somewhere who wants to frighten me, who would like me to be late.’
Mma Ramotswe became firmer. ‘No, Mma, you cannot say that. You cannot say that there is anybody who wishes you to become late. There is some person – some very foolish and childish person – who wants to frighten you, yes. But what power has that person got if you refuse to be frightened? A rock rabbit, a tiny little dassie, can laugh at a leopard. Even he will not be frightened if he does not let himself feel that way.’
‘Until the leopard eats him,’ said Mma Soleti.
‘I think my example was not very good,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But look at…’ She racked her brains for a more suitable example. Surely there were instances of small and plucky people standing up to larger bullies and facing them down, but now that she needed them she could not bring any to mind. Meerkats were plucky, no doubt about that, but when they saw the shadow of a hawk they ran for cover.
‘So what do I do, Mma Ramotswe?’
‘Ignore it,’ she answered. ‘If you ignore stupid people, they lose interest. That is very well known, Mma.’
‘Is it, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe was adamant. ‘Definitely, Mma. It is definitely well known throughout Botswana and, I’m sure, elsewhere.’
Then her example came to her: Sir Seretse Khama, the first President of Botswana. People had tried to frighten him when he declared his intention of marrying Ruth, the woman from a very different background whom he loved. Everybody had leaned on him, scolded and cajoled him, including the tribal elders of the Bamangwato people, for whom he was royalty; the British and the South Africans had done the same. But he had refused to be cowed and had triumphed in the end, creating modern Botswana, with all that it stood for in terms of decency and courage.
‘Think of Seretse Khama,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘What would he say to you, Mma?’
Mma Soleti looked nonplussed.
‘I’ll tell you, Mma,’ supplied Mma Ramotswe. ‘He would say: Do not be afraid of people who lurk in the shadows. Stand up for what you believe in. The people in the shadows are no match for people who are not afraid of light. That is what he would say, Mma. I am sure of it.’
She watched the other woman and thought: Yes, she is becoming stronger. But then she thought – strictly to herself and without saying anything about it – what sort of enemies has this Mma Soleti acquired, and how?
Mma Soleti was watching her, a look of disappointment on her face. Noticing this, Mma Ramotswe understood that she would have to say something.
‘You may be wondering what to do, Mma,’ she said.
‘I was. Yes.’
Mma Ramotswe nodded her head. ‘At the moment, nothing,’ she said. ‘There are some situations where it is best to wait and watch.’
‘Is this one of those?’ asked Mma Soleti.
‘Yes,’ answered Mma Ramotswe. ‘This is one of those cases where doing nothing is doing something, if you see what I mean, Mma.’
Mma Soleti hesitated, but then she said, ‘If that’s what you say, Mma.’
‘It is,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
Chapter Six
That is My Baby, Mma
L
ater that day Mma Ramotswe received word from Phuti Radiphuti that Mma Makutsi had returned home from hospital, and was back on her feet and looking forward to a visit in the afternoon. She sent a message back saying that she was very happy to hear all this and that she would be at the Radiphuti house shortly after four. She said that she would not stay long, as she knew how tired people could be after childbirth, and that it would not be necessary even to make so much as a cup of tea for her.
The hours before four dragged. Without Mma Makutsi, the office was a disturbingly quiet place, and although Mma Ramotswe had a number of reports to write, she found that she could not settle to the task. Shortly before three, she rose from her desk, put aside a barely begun report, and made her way into the garage workshop next door.
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, her husband and by all accounts the finest mechanic in Botswana, was busy attempting to instruct his two assistants, Charlie and Fanwell, on an obscure point of engine tuning. They had broken off from their technical discussion and turned to an issue that Mma Ramotswe believed was causing a degree of friction – how they should be referred to at work. They had both been taken on as Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s apprentices, but Fanwell had now qualified and so had to be addressed as an assistant mechanic. Charlie had failed his examinations, several times, and seemed doomed to perpetual apprentice-status, but did not like to be described as such.
‘I know as much as Fanwell,’ he protested, ‘and you do not call him an apprentice. So why should I be called that?’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni tried to explain that there were formalities in life that had to be completed, and examinations were just such formalities. ‘Take Mma Makutsi, for instance,’ he said. ‘She did not get her job just like that – she had to write exams and get her ninety-seven per cent, or whatever it was.’
Charlie sniggered. ‘Ninety-seven per cent of nothing is nothing, boss. Or it used to be.’
‘You may laugh, Charlie,’ warned Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, ‘but ninety-seven per cent is ninety-seven per cent more than you ever got. You got no marks at all for the last exam – they sent me the result. Nought per cent. Nothing. Nix.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘What counts is this: can you fix a car? Exams are nothing beside that. Would you want Miss Ninety-seven Per Cent to fix your car? No? Neither would I, boss.’
‘She has a baby now,’ remarked Fanwell. ‘She will not have the time to fix any cars.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘A baby! A ninety-seven per cent baby! And that baby will be sitting there with big round glasses like his mother’s. A secretary-baby!’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni glanced at Mma Ramotswe, who was following this conversation from the sidelines. ‘You were a baby once, Charlie. Don’t you forget that.’
‘Ha!’ said Fanwell. ‘An apprentice-baby! Trying to fix a little toy car…’
Mma Ramotswe decided to go back into her office. There was a curious thing about male conversation that she had noticed – men often ended up poking fun at one another. Women did this only rarely, but men seemed to love insulting one another. It was very strange. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni followed her into the office, wiping his hands on the ubiquitous lint that he kept for the purpose.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Those boys…’
‘They are young men,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘They’ll grow up one of these days.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. He looked at her enquiringly. ‘Did you want to discuss anything with me back there?’
‘No,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I was killing time. I’m going to see Mma Makutsi at four.’ She paused, fiddling for a moment with a manila file that was sitting on her desk. ‘May I ask you something, Rra?’
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni stuffed the lint into his pocket. ‘You may ask me anything, Mma – anything at all. You know that.’ He thought it unlikely that there was anything tha
t he knew that she did not – unless, of course, it was about cars. But on all other subjects, he deferred to his wife.
‘What would you do if somebody sent you a ground hornbill feather?’
For a moment Mr J. L. B. Matekoni did not answer. Then, when he did, his voice was strained. ‘Those birds are very bad luck.’
Mma Ramotswe waited for him to say something more.
‘If I were sent a feather like that, I would know that there was somebody who wanted me dead.’ He looked at her severely. ‘I would say that it was very serious, Mma. I would say that sending somebody a feather like that would not be a joke at all.’
‘Who does that sort of thing these days? It’s so… so old-fashioned.’