“You have to be careful of ants,” she said.
“Oh yes, you do. The ants are watching us, you see, Mma. They are watching us all the time. If we let down our guard, the ants will make their move and then…goodbye Botswana.”
They had reached the end of the corridor and were standing outside a door marked Records. “This is the place,” said the clerk. “This is where we will find what you’re looking for, Mma.”
The clerk unlocked the door. The room inside was a large one, and lined on all four walls with high shelving. Box files and ledgers took up most of the shelf space, although here and there were stacks of papers neatly bundled and tied with red tape.
“That is the famous red tape,” said the clerk, pointing to the bundles of documents. “You have heard the expression ‘red tape,’ Mma?”
“I have heard it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Red tape is always making things go slower.”
“We have big supplies of it here,” said the clerk, smiling. “Some people find it very useful. But remind me, Mma, what is the address of this place you are enquiring about?”
She gave him the details. It was Plot 2408 Zebra Drive, and she gave him the dates she was interested in.
The clerk listened attentively. Then he said, “Can you time me, Mma?”
“You want me to time how long it takes you to find what you’re looking for?”
He nodded brightly. “That’s the idea, Mma. They call that a ‘time and motion study.’ ”
She looked at her watch. “Very well, Rra. I’m timing you.”
The clerk stepped sharply forward to one of the higher shelves and took down a box file. Opening it, he ruffled through a sheaf of documents before extracting one of them.
“Stop the clock, Mma,” he called.
“That was forty-five seconds, Rra.”
He looked at her proudly. “And here is the list of transactions to do with Plot 2408 Zebra Drive. It covers the period from the construction of the house, through its various tenancies, and then finally to its sale when the Commission decided to reduce its housing stock.” He handed the document to her. “It is all there, Mma. The whole early history of that place.”
She looked at the paper. It was easy to interpret, and the information she was looking for leapt to her eyes immediately.
“I see that there was a lease to the hospital,” she said, pointing to the line in question.
The clerk looked over her shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “The Commission let the house to the hospital authorities for twelve years in all. And there, you see, just down at the bottom is the list of the sub-tenants that the hospital arranged. We always insisted on knowing who had signed a sub-lease.”
She looked at the names. The one she was looking for was there. Handing the paper back to the clerk, she thanked him for his helpfulness.
“I am happy to have been able to help you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “It’s all part of the service.”
“But you have been especially helpful,” she said.
He shrugged modestly. And then he said, “You’re a private detective, aren’t you, Mma? You have that place out on the Tlokweng Road—near that garage?”
“I’m that person,” she said.
There was a silence. “Do you think you could do me a favour, Mma?”
She had not expected the request quite so soon, and she knew it would be hard to turn him down. She hoped that his request would not be too bizarre; sometimes people wanted to know the strangest things.
He lowered his voice as he revealed his request. “There is a certain young woman, Mma. She is a very beautiful young woman and there are many men who think that she would make a good wife.”
“And are you one of those, Rra?”
He looked embarrassed. “You could say that, Mma.”
“Well, I wish you success,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I cannot make a woman like a particular man, you know.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to do that, Mma. No, I know you couldn’t do that.”
“So what would you like me to do?”
He hesitated. “She has a boyfriend, Mma. He’s a useless fellow. You only need to look at him and you think useless.”
“I see. But obviously she doesn’t think that, does she?”
He sighed. “I don’t think she knows her own mind. But I feel that if we could find out some concrete facts about this man—about how useless he is, then the scales would fall from her eyes and she would get rid of him.”
She looked at him, bemused. “I’m sorry, Rra. I can’t do that.”
She had expected more of a reaction, but his response was muted. “Oh well, I thought I’d ask.”
“I’m sure you’ll find another young woman. There are many nice girls around. Many of them would like to marry a handsome young man like you.”
“Couldn’t you find one for me, Mma?”
“Don’t you have any aunts to do this for you?”
He shook his head. “I had two aunts, Mma, but they are late now. That’s why I’m asking you.”
It came as a sudden, heartfelt plea, and she was taken aback. She was on the point of saying that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was not a marriage bureau, and then, looking at him, she suddenly relented.
“I could try,” she said.
“Oh, Mma, that is all I ask. Find a nice girl who will not be troublesome and who does not have greedy uncles expecting too many cattle. Please could you try that for me?”
“I will, Rra. I’ll need a bit of time, but I shall do what I can.”
“You can have more than forty-five seconds,” he said, and laughed.
Good sense of humour, she thought. You saw that in matrimonial advertisements sometimes, and it seemed important. Well, she could specify that if she had to talk to any prospective brides about him. That, and his speed of approach to any problem. These were both very positive points that she could, in good conscience, bring to the attention of any suitable women. If they existed, of course; presumably they did, and it was just a question of finding them. Well, one favour deserved another—that was how the world worked.
—
SHE MADE HER WAY back to the office in good spirits. The confirmation that the house she had been looking for was in Zebra Drive—of all places—was a major step forward in what could have been a rather vague and unsatisfactory enquiry, and once she had spoken again to Mma Rosie, she felt that she would be able to present Mma Susan with what she was looking for. If she were looking for her past—and Mma Ramotswe was beginning to have her doubts about that. But those doubts could be addressed in due course; for the time being she had achieved what she had set out to find, and that was something to be pleased about. Her leg, too, felt completely normal, and the possibility that venom had entered her system was now discounted. That had been a close thing, and it could have ended very differently, but it had not—and that was another thing to be thankful for. Mma Ramotswe was a bit hazy about statistics, but she imagined that it might be possible to work out the odds of stepping on a puff adder at some point in one’s life. Well, she had just done that, and surely this meant that the odds of her doing it again would be infinitesimal, which meant that she was safer now than she had been before that unfortunate night-time encounter—or so she hoped. She might discuss those statistics with Mr. Polopetsi, who, as a chemist, knew a little bit about statistics.
Mr. Polopetsi’s problems were, of course, far from over, but at least she had a plan that might extract him from the difficulties he had created for himself. A happy outcome could not be guaranteed, but she could try, and if it worked, she was reasonably confident that he would not do anything quite so foolish again. Her plan would have to be implemented before too long, before more people were sucked into the pyramid scheme by Mr. Polopetsi’s friend, but she had a few days, she imagined, to make the necessary arrangements. That would include a frank discussion with Mr. Polopetsi himself, who would have to agree to the risk entailed. She was not looking forward to that conversation, but the
re was no way round it.
Now was not the time to worry about Mr. Polopetsi; now was the time to announce to Mma Makutsi and to Charlie that the search for Susan’s house was over. As she entered the office, they were both there—Mma Makutsi at her desk, and Charlie leaning against the filing cabinet, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Mma Makutsi looked up and greeted Mma Ramotswe with a broad smile. “So you’re back, Mma—none the worse for your terrible ordeal.”
“I don’t think it was quite that bad, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But yes, I am now back.”
Charlie exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Mma Makutsi. “And there is interesting news,” said Charlie.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have some very interesting news.”
Charlie looked nonplussed. “No, Mma, I did not mean that you had interesting news. I meant there is interesting news.”
“Very interesting,” said Mma Makutsi. “Something arrived in the post. Charlie collected it this afternoon.”
Charlie nodded towards Mma Ramotswe’s desk. “It is on your desk, Mma—it’s an invitation.”
Mma Ramotswe crossed the room. There were several letters on her desk—Mma Makutsi always opened every envelope, irrespective of whether it was addressed to Mma Ramotswe or herself. That, she said, was sound secretarial practice, as advocated by the Botswana Secretarial College. “If one person opens everything,” she said, “fewer things go missing. That has been scientifically proved.”
Mma Ramotswe picked up the topmost letter. She recognised the letterhead immediately—it was from the Gaborone Chamber of Commerce, on a committee of which she had briefly served the previous year. They still wrote to her from time to time, notifying her of talks or events that might interest her. So the invitation was from them…probably to one of their drinks parties, which she always politely declined as they went on for far too long and you always ended up hungry at the end.
“The President and Council of the Gaborone Chamber of Commerce,” she read out loud, “have great pleasure in inviting you and one guest to the presentation of the Woman of the Year Award to…” She hardly dared read on, but then there was the name, and she breathed a great sigh of relief. “…to Ms. Gloria Poeteng.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi, who was beaming with pleasure. “Well,” she said, “that is very good news.”
“It was a close-run thing,” said Mma Makutsi. “It could easily have gone the other way. I’d heard that Violet Sephotho was everywhere, telling everybody to cast their votes for her.”
“Well, it didn’t work,” said Charlie. “Nobody must have voted for her.”
Mma Ramotswe was not so sure. “Oh, I think she has her supporters. Perhaps this other lady, this Gloria Poeteng, asked more people to vote for her than Violet did. It could be as simple as that.”
“We must go, Mma. You and I should accept the invitation. We can represent the agency.”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Violet will be there,” she pointed out. “Remember that she will be the runner-up.”
“I know that, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is why I’m particularly keen to go. It will be a great pleasure to see Violet get second prize. She will not like that, you know.”
Mma Ramotswe did not like the thought of going off to crow over somebody, even somebody as unpleasant as Violet Sephotho. But Mma Makutsi was adamant. “We must be represented,” she said. “It is good for business.”
Mma Ramotswe did not argue. She understood why Mma Makutsi should feel as she did. Over the years Violet Sephotho had shown her contempt for Mma Makutsi, right from those early days at the Botswana Secretarial College; she had missed no opportunity to mock or belittle her, and had even tried to lure Phuti away from her. There was no excuse for such behaviour, in Mma Ramotswe’s view, and if Mma Makutsi should take some pleasure in witnessing a defeat of Violet, then that was understandable. Of course you should never rejoice in the misfortune of another—the Bishop had said something about that in his last sermon at the Anglican Cathedral and Mma Ramotswe had thoroughly agreed with him, even if now she found it difficult to remember his exact words. Still, she could recall the general gist of his remarks well enough, even if she could not really quote them to Mma Makutsi now, it being difficult to quote words that you’ve somehow forgotten.
“Very well, Mma,” she said. “We shall go. Will you send off a reply…or should I do it?”
“Gladly,” said Mma Makutsi, reaching for a piece of paper. “I shall write and accept without delay.”
“Without delay,” echoed Charlie. “Those are very good words, I think. Without delay. Please will you pay my bill without delay. Please leave without delay. Please improve your attitude without delay…”
Mma Makutsi shot Charlie a warning glance. Their working relationship had improved beyond all measure—she attributed that to his growing up at last—but there were still rough edges to it. In particular, she did not like it when Charlie appeared to mimic her, although he always denied that he was doing it.
It was not this issue that Mma Ramotswe was thinking about, though; she was contemplating the delicacy of asking Mma Makutsi to do anything these days. She had hesitated before asking her to write the reply to the Chamber of Commerce invitation, but in the end that proved easy enough because it was something that Mma Makutsi was especially keen to do. The difficulty lay more in those routine tasks that she did not enjoy so much, or in respect of those instances that unambiguously involved one person giving an order and another complying. Was she still entitled to ask Mma Makutsi to take a letter that she dictated? That had been simple when Mma Makutsi had been the agency’s secretary, but as she had been promoted, becoming an assistant detective and then an associate director and then co-principal director (had she remembered that correctly?), could you say to a co-principal director, “Please take a letter, Mma Makutsi”?
Mma Ramotswe thought you could not. And yet if you could not ask Mma Makutsi to take dictation, then whom could you ask? Charlie? The problem with Charlie was his spelling, which was erratic. He was willing enough to transcribe what you said, but it took a great deal of time, as he had no knowledge of shorthand and wrote out every word with intense concentration and a frown on his brow that made one imagine that there was some fundamental problem with what was being said in the letter.
So if Mma Makutsi was too elevated now to perform ordinary secretarial tasks, and if Charlie, although willing, was not much good at them, what was she to do? Should she write her own letters? Many quite high-ranking people did that these days—Mma Makutsi had pointed out an article in a magazine she received, Secretarial News, which suggested that now the secretarial role had been transformed into an executive one, people who previously relied on others to type their letters were now typing them themselves. “That’s the future,” said Mma Makutsi. “That’s the way things have been going, and I spotted it a long time ago, Mma. It is not news to me.”
Of course none of this applied to filing. That was, as Mma Makutsi had often said, an art, and it was an art that she was both keen and proud to practise. Moreover it was not a skill that could be acquired by anybody—you had to have the right sort of mind to do it properly. “Some people think they can file, Mma,” she said, “but they are wrong. Filing is not a mechanical business—you have to understand why a particular letter should go in a particular file.”
But now the reply to the invitation had been typed and Mma Makutsi was reading through it. “I shall sign it for both of us,” she said. “That will save you the bother, Mma Ramotswe.”
“But it’s no real bother, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said.
Her protest went unheard. The reply was folded and put into an envelope.
Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. The sky was heavier now and that meant there was a prospect of rain—not that day, perhaps, but some day soon; rain—the country’s relief, the blessing for which the land called out so desperately.
Charlie addressed her: “You s
aid something about interesting news, Mma.”
“Oh yes. Interesting news.” She sat back in her chair. “This business of Mma Susan’s house…”
Charlie’s face lit up. “You’ve found it, Mma?”
“Yes, Charlie, I’ve found it.”
Charlie clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “Well done, Mma. I thought we would never find it. All those houses…”
Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi looked doubtful.
“Are you sure, Mma Ramotswe? Many of these houses look the same, you know.”
“I am very sure, Mma. I have been to the Botswana Housing Commission and checked their records. It’s all there. The name of the doctor on the lease is there, Mma. Her father’s name.”
“Well that settles that,” said Charlie. “Where is it?”
“It’s exactly where Mma Rosie said it was. Right next door to me, as it happens. It’s an extraordinary coincidence, I know, but I have checked everything. It is my neighbour’s house.”
Mma Makutsi fiddled with a piece of paper on her desk. “That doesn’t prove anything about that woman,” she said quietly.
“What woman?” asked Charlie.
“That woman who claimed to be Rosie. That woman we had in the car. The one whose story was inconsistent.”
Mma Ramotswe drew a deep breath. Whenever an argument arose, a tactic that she had long practised was to imagine herself in the skin of the person disagreeing with her. It was a simple device—one she had learned from her father—and it seemed to work. Obed Ramotswe had employed it when negotiating the purchase of cattle. If you thought yourself into the skin of the other side, he said, then you might see the shortcomings of the cattle you were trying to sell. And if you did that, you could address those issues. Yes, that cow was a bit thin, but she had been in an overgrazed area and time was needed to get her back up to her proper weight; and yes, that bull was limping, but there was a positive side to it: a bull who limped would not wander, would not waste the energy he needed for his real task on pointless meandering through the bush—such a bull would be on permanent duty, and surely that was a good thing, was it not?