Precious and Grace

  Now, sitting at her desk and facing Mma Makutsi on the other side of the room, she imagined that she was the one behind that other desk, behind those outsized spectacles with their round lenses, with that whole hinterland of Bobonong and the Botswana Secretarial College behind her, not to mention the ninety-seven per cent. What would you see from such a position, and with what eyes would you see it? You would see a desk with Mma Precious Ramotswe behind it, looking back at you; Mma Ramotswe, who started the business and still owned it, who was widely known as the private detective, when nobody, or virtually nobody, knew that there was a Mma Makutsi in the business too, who had dealt with many delicate cases rather successfully, but who never really got the credit; who had to contend with Charlie and his young man’s impetuousness; who had to answer the telephone and then pass on the caller to Mma Ramotswe because nobody seemed to call and ask for Mma Makutsi in the first instance. That is what you would see.

  The insight was instructive.

  “Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can understand why you are suspicious of that woman.”

  “Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “Because she is suspicious—it’s not a case of my making things up.”

  There was quick reassurance. “You would never do that, Mma. You are very careful with your facts.”

  “Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “Because I am. I’m very careful with the facts.”

  “But,” began Mma Ramotswe. “But how…”

  Mma Makutsi was staring at her. The spectacles flashed a warning—a shard of light from the window flashed across the room like a signal from a mirror held to the sun.

  The issue could not simply be ignored, and Mma Ramotswe persisted. “But how could she have identified the right house if she was an impostor?”

  The question hung in the air between them, almost tangible in its awkwardness.

  Mma Makutsi sucked in her cheeks, and for a moment, and without thinking about it, Mma Ramotswe did the same. It was a consequence of the exercise in empathy; having imagined herself to be Mma Makutsi, the sucking in of cheeks when faced with a difficult question seemed entirely natural.

  “She might have known the real Rosie,” said Mma Makutsi. “She might have been a friend of that woman—a sister, even. If that were so, then she would have known quite a bit about the family. She would have known where they lived because the real Rosie would have told her.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about this. Mma Makutsi was right—up to a point—but you could be right but still be unreasonable. It was feasible, but then all sorts of alternative—and unlikely—explanations of anything were perfectly feasible, and you could not go through life suspecting that other people were impostors. Holding such a default position would make life impossible. You would think of everybody whom you met: You might not be who you claim to be. It would be impossible. You would have to ask everybody for identification the moment you met them.

  “I think we’re going to have to trust her, Mma Makutsi. She spoke about a dog’s grave in the garden, and it’s there, you know…”

  “There are dogs’ graves all over the place,” said Mma Makutsi. She spoke with determination in her voice that Mma Ramotswe realised was not going to be shifted easily.

  “Dogs’ graves all over the place? But there aren’t, Mma. They are very unusual. We do not give dogs graves—we bury them and then just leave them covered with bare earth. They may be our friends, but we do not mark their passing very much.”

  “That is because they do not have souls, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Dogs do not have a soul inside them. They are just meat.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at the window. It needed cleaning, as the dust had built up. But there was the branch of the acacia tree outside—the branch upon which those two doves so often sat. Did they not have souls? Those loyal spouses? Did they not mourn when one of them died, and how could you mourn if you had no soul? And if birds had souls, then how much more likely was it that dogs did too—dogs who, if they could talk, would have so much to say to us about the world and its smells.

  “I do not think that a dog is just meat,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Well, I’m sorry to say it, Mma, but you’re wrong.”

  It rarely came to that. They rarely ended up in such an impasse, and Mma Ramotswe did not want to remain there. “Perhaps we are both wrong, Mma,” she said mildly. “Perhaps you are a bit right and I am a bit right. But perhaps we are both mostly wrong, and the answer lies elsewhere.”

  Mma Makutsi appeared to consider this. “Possibly,” she said. “But unlikely. I think I am right about that woman, Mma, but I am not going to insist. You can treat her as genuine and then you will get a nasty surprise, I think. But I will not say, ‘I told you so,’ Mma. I will not say that.”

  Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes. It helped, she found, to close her eyes. In any situation where you encountered something you did not like, or something you could not deal with, you had only to close your eyes. It always worked.

  “You’re very kind, Mma Makutsi,” she said, opening her eyes again. “But perhaps we should have a cup of tea now, because tea is always very welcome after one has been thinking very hard, as we have been doing.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled. “You’re right about that, Mma,” she said.

  Even if you think I’m wrong about other things, thought Mma Ramotswe. But she could not say that, and did not—possibly because Mma Makutsi had succeeded in making her think that she might be wrong after all.

  —

  MMA MAKUTSI LEFT THE OFFICE that afternoon an hour early, giving Mma Ramotswe the opportunity to phone Susan and arrange to see her the next day. Could they meet, she asked, at the coffee place at Riverwalk? It was a good place to talk, and she had something important to tell her.

  Had she found the house? Yes, she had. And Rosie? Had she found Rosie? There was a moment of hesitation, but then she said, “Probably. Yes, probably.” They would talk about it the following morning.

  “I’m so happy,” said Mma Susan.

  Mma Ramotswe thought about that. People who said they were happy were often unhappy—not at the moment when they said they were happy—they might be happy right then, but before that. Happiness was like sunlight; we only really noticed it when there were clouds about.

  She put down the telephone. There was a noise directly outside the door—a scratching, and then a bump. She stood up and walked across the room. Something told her to be careful; it was broad daylight, even if it was the late afternoon; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was still in the garage, as was Fanwell. But there was an unexplained noise…

  Fanwell’s dog, Zebra, looked up at her. He was sitting directly outside the doorway, his tongue protruding from his mouth, a moist pink band. He was panting.

  “So it’s you,” she said.

  Zebra looked at her, with complete trust.

  “Do you have a soul, Zebra?” she asked.

  There was movement. She looked up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had emerged from the garage and was staring at her in a puzzled way.

  “Why do you ask that dog if he has a soul?”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “It’s very complicated, Rra. You see…Well, you see: Mma Makutsi said dogs were just meat inside. Those were her actual words.”

  “She’s wrong,” he said.

  “I think so. I think dogs might have a soul.”

  He wiped the grease off his hands. “Same thing with cars,” he said. “They have souls—or some of them do. Old cars have souls. Modern cars…well, I think the Japanese don’t put souls into them. They save money, perhaps, by not putting in a soul.”

  She laughed. And then she thought of something. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she asked, “do you think that our souls grow as we get older?”

  He did not answer immediately, but when he did, she thought his answer quite perfect. “Yes,” he said. “Our souls get wider. They grow like the branches of a tree—growing outwards. And more birds come and make their homes in these branches. And sing a bit more.” He stopped, an
d looked a little awkward. “I’m talking nonsense, Mma.”

  “You’re not,” she said.

  She looked down at Zebra. The protruding tongue was even further out of his mouth now and his eyes, for some reason, seemed to have widened. She could not help but smile, and she thought for a moment that he was grinning back at her; but that was just the way some dogs looked, she reminded herself—they were satisfied with the slightest scraps of human interest, and their grin was no more than a reflection of that.

  Zebra had found his way back to the garage, presumably in search of Fanwell. He could be taken back to Zebra Drive, but she wondered whether that was more than a temporary solution to his problems. He was, in a sense, an orphan dog, and there was often no place for such dogs unless…The idea struck her suddenly, but with great clarity. Of course there was a place for him—it was so obvious.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  REMEMBER TO FORGET

  SUSAN WAS ALREADY THERE when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the café in Riverwalk. She saw her sitting at an outside table, under the shade of one of the large standing umbrellas, looking out over the market traders’ stalls.

  “I wish I needed more scarves,” said Susan. “These ladies make such fine scarves, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “And wooden hippos, Mma? Do you wish you needed more wooden hippos and elephants?”

  Susan laughed. “Yes. But people do buy them, don’t they? I saw somebody buy one a few moments ago—a big wooden hippo with tusks carved out of bone.”

  Mma Ramotswe sat down opposite Susan. It was not a comfortable chair; too small, as so many chairs were. The trouble with café furniture was that it was not made for traditionally built people. What were they meant to do? Remain standing while all the modern-shaped people perched on these small stools and chairs?

  She surveyed the row of wooden carvings that a hopeful trader had lined up at the foot of one of the stalls: lion after lion, giraffe after giraffe, all caught in the same pose as their neighbour. “There are some people who like such things, Mma Susan,” she said. “It reminds them of Africa, I think.”

  Susan nodded. “Perhaps.” She paused. “I prefer the memory of things you can’t carve in wood.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited for her to expand on this.

  “The sky,” she said, and looked up. “That. And the air…That special air you have. The air in the morning, before the heat of the day. The smell of rain—when it eventually comes. That special smell, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew what she meant. “It is a very good smell, Mma.”

  “You can’t record any of that in wood, can you?”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No. You can’t.”

  “Or paint it. Or draw it. Or take a photograph of it.”

  “No,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “You can’t do any of those things, Mma.”

  A waitress began to hover. Mma Ramotswe ordered tea for herself; Susan already had her coffee.

  “You said you’d found the house, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Mma Ramotswe confirmed that she had—and told Susan where it was.

  “It is right next door to me,” she announced. “I could not believe it at first. But sometimes the things you’re looking for are right under your nose, Mma.”

  She put a finger directly under her nose and suddenly, uncontrollably, felt the urge to sneeze. It was a forceful, voluble sneeze, a convulsion of the upper part of her body; cathartic in its intensity.

  Susan looked concerned. “Are you all right, Mma?” she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe wiped her eyes. “Yes, thank you, Mma. I have sneezed.”

  “Yes, I noticed.”

  The waitress reappeared. “Do you need water, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No, thank you, Mma. I shall wait for my tea.”

  The waitress did not leave. “Because that was a very big sneeze. Perhaps some water…”

  “There is no need, Mma. Thank you.”

  “But water is free, Mma. There is no charge for water.”

  Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Susan. “In that case…”

  The waitress was all efficiency. “I’ll fetch you a glass of water, Mma.”

  Susan smiled. “That wouldn’t happen elsewhere, you know, Mma Ramotswe. You can sneeze away for hours in some places, and nobody would pay much attention. But here…”

  Mma Ramotswe dabbed at her eyes again. “It was because I pointed at my nose. I think that’s why I sneezed.”

  The waitress appeared with a glass of water. “This is for your sneeze,” she said, as she placed it on the table. “You should drink it, Mma, before you sneeze again.”

  “I’m not going to sneeze again,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That sneeze was just a…just a one-time sneeze.”

  “If you sneeze once,” said the waitress, “then you can sneeze again. My aunt, my late aunt, sneezed many times…before she died.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a sip of the water. Turning to the waitress, she said, “That water was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Mma.”

  The waitress nodded and went back inside.

  “What I really want is tea,” confessed Mma Ramotswe. “But we shouldn’t talk about me and all this sneezing of mine.”

  “One sneeze,” said Susan. “And that waitress should not try to alarm you with stories like that.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I’m not too worried, Mma.”

  “This house,” said Susan. “Is it really the place?”

  Mma Ramotswe was sure about it, and she conveyed that certainty. “It is definitely the right house. I have checked with the Botswana Housing people and it is in the records. It was let to the hospital authorities and they allocated it to your father. It is on Zebra Drive. So I think that—”

  Susan stopped her. “Zebra Drive?”

  “Yes. That’s where I live. It is not a very big road—not many houses. I’ve lived there since I came to Gaborone and started my agency.” She paused. “Do you remember something, Mma?”

  Susan looked uncertain. “It sounds familiar. I think that my parents must have talked about it, but that was years ago. They loved Botswana. They often spoke about it. They said it was a very good country.”

  “My late father loved this country too,” said Mma Ramotswe. He did, she thought; he did.

  Susan looked over her shoulder, towards the entrance to the café. “They’re taking their time with the tea.”

  “They must be busy in there.”

  “They might have forgotten about us.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Perhaps I should sneeze again. That will bring the waitress out.”

  Susan steered the conversation away from sneezes. “Tell me about Rosie,” she said. “You’ve found her?”

  Mma Ramotswe explained that the house had been identified by somebody claiming to be Rosie. There were other reasons, too, for her to think that she was genuine. “Did you have a dog when you were a girl?” she asked.

  Susan shook her head. “No, I didn’t have a dog.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The tea arrived. “I hadn’t forgotten about you,” said the waitress. “Our kettle is broken, you see, and it takes a long time to boil.”

  “Like a watched kettle,” said Susan. “They never boil.”

  “The important thing is that the tea is here,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And now you would like something to eat?” asked the waitress.

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We are fine, Mma. We have everything we need.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Mma. I’m quite sure.”

  The waitress looked disappointed as she walked away.

  “That is a very unusual waitress,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was puzzled by the dog story. Rosie had brought it up quite naturally, as part of her spontaneous outburst in the car, and she felt that this added to its credibility. And then there had been the rectangle of stones in the yard; that could have been anything, of course, but she had treated it as confirmation.

  ??
?Why do you ask if I had a dog, Mma?”

  She explained, and Susan listened intently. “But I don’t remember any of that,” she said after Mma Ramotswe had finished. “May I ask her about it?”

  “Yes. I shall try to arrange for you to meet her soon.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. It was cold. She looked at her watch. She had told her neighbour about Susan and her quest, and he had agreed to stay in to show them round the house; she did not want to keep him.

  “We must go, Mma,” she said. “I have my van parked nearby. We can go to see…your house.”

  Susan looked at her in a way that Mma Ramotswe found slightly disconcerting. It seemed to her that it was almost as if she was reluctant to go; and yet this was what she had come all this way for. Of course there were some people who did not want to find what they were looking for; she had observed that before. It was very strange, but it did happen. And why? Was it because what they were looking for was not what they were really looking for…so to speak?

  —

  MMA RAMOTSWE GOT ON well enough with Mr. Vain Kwele and his wife, Daffodil, even if they did not see a great deal of one another. Daffodil was listless in her housekeeping, and showed no pride in the place. She spent much of her time sitting on her verandah, paging through old copies of magazines, while Vain, whose lucrative bottle store had a competent and conscientious manager, spent much of his time on his private pursuits, one of which was collecting maps. One room of his house was devoted to his map collection, stored on roughly constructed shelves and in stacked boxes. This room, which Mma Ramotswe had glimpsed only briefly on a couple of occasions, was more than usually dusty. “It’s the Kalahari’s fault,” Vain had said to Mma Ramotswe. “What can anybody do if they live so close to that place. That’s where all this dust comes from, you know.”

  Mma Ramotswe had offered to lend them her powerful vacuum cleaner, but had been politely rebuffed. “That is very kind of you, Mma,” he said. “But vacuum cleaners and maps do not mix. What if it attached itself to one of my maps? What if it sucked one up entirely? What then?” He spoke as if he feared that entire regions, entire countries could be lost in this way; whole swathes of territory would be siphoned up, lost to view and to memory.