The Good Husband of Zebra Drive

  Phuti reached for the bottle of peri-peri sauce and fiddled with the cap as he spoke. “It is because you are such a fine person,” he said. “That is why.”

  Mma Makutsi gave the chicken a final stir and then sat down. What had begun as a reproach had turned, it seemed, into a compliment. And she could not remember when she had last been complimented for anything; she had forgotten Mma Ramotswe’s complimentary remark about her red dress.

  “That’s very kind, Phuti,” she said.

  Phuti put down the bottle of sauce and began to fish for something in the pocket of his jacket. “I am not one to make a speech,” he said.

  “But you are getting better at it,” said Mma Makutsi. Which was true, she thought; that dreadful stammer had been more or less banished since she had met him, even if it manifested itself now and then when he became flustered. But that was all part of his charm; the charm of this man, her fiancé, the man who would become her husband.

  “I am not one to make a speech,” Phuti repeated. “But there is something that I have for you here which I want to give you. It is a ring, Mma. It is a diamond. I have bought it for you.”

  He slipped a box across the table to Mma Makutsi. She took it with fumbling hands and prised it open there on the table. The diamond caught the light.

  “It is one of our diamonds,” he said. “It is a Botswana diamond.”

  Mma Makutsi was silent as she took the ring from the box and fitted it onto her finger. She looked at Phuti and began to say something, but stopped. It was hard to find the words; that she who had been given so little, should now get this; that this gift, beyond her wildest yearnings, should come from him; how could she express what she felt?

  “One of our diamonds?”

  “Yes. It is from our land.”

  She pressed the ring, and the stone, to her cheek. It was cold to the touch; so precious; so pure.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE GOOD IMPRESSION PRINTING WORKS

  EVERYBODY, apart from Mr Polopetsi, and the younger apprentice of course, now had something to investigate. They approached this task with differing degrees of enthusiasm—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who believed that his investigation was almost over, felt buoyant. He now had photographic evidence—or at least one photograph of Mr Botumile’s love nest—and all he had to do now was to find the name of the person who lived there. That was a simple enquiry which would not take long, and armed with the answer he could go to Mma Botumile and give her the information she needed. That would undoubtedly please her, but, more than that, it would impress Mma Ramotswe, who would be surprised at the speed with which he had managed to bring the enquiry to a satisfactory conclusion. The exposed film had been deposited at the chemist for developing and would be ready later that morning; there was no reason, then, why he should not see Mma Botumile the following day. To this end he telephoned her and asked if she would care to come to the office at any time convenient to her. He might have expected a snippy response even to that simple invitation. And that is what he got: no time, she said, was convenient. “I am an extremely busy woman,” she snapped. “But you can call on me, maybe I will be in, maybe not.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed as he replaced the receiver. There were some people, it seemed, who were incapable of being pleasant about anything; that was what they were like when it came to the mending of their cars, and that was what they were like in relation to everything. Of course, the cars that such people drove tended to be difficult as well, now that he came to think about it. Nice cars have nice drivers; bad cars have bad drivers. A person’s gearbox revealed everything that you could want to know about that person, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  He wondered whether Mr Botumile had been aware of his wife’s irascible nature before he had asked her to marry him. If he had ever proposed marriage; it may well have been the other way round. Sometimes men cannot remember the circumstances in which they asked their wives to marry them, for the very good reason that no identifiable proposal was ever made. These are the men, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who are trapped into matrimony, who drift into it, who are eventually cornered by feminine wiles and find that a date has been set. In his own case he remembered very well the circumstances in which he had asked Mma Ramotswe to be his wife, but the memory of the way in which the day was actually selected was very much hazier. He had been at the orphan farm, he believed, and Mma Potokwane had said something about how important it was for a woman to know when a wedding would be—something like that—and then the next thing he knew was that he was standing under that big tree and Trevor Mwamba was conducting the wedding service.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, of course, was very content being the husband of Mma Ramotswe, and he would never conceive of a situation in which he would be unhappy with her. But how different it must be—and what a nightmare—to discover that the person whom one has married is somebody one just does not like. People did make such a discovery, sometimes only a week or two into the marriage, and it must be a bleak one. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew that you were supposed to make an effort with your marriage, that you should at least try to get on with your spouse, but what if you found that she was somebody like Mma Botumile? He shuddered at the thought. Poor Mr Botumile having to listen to that shrill, complaining voice every day, no doubt running him down, criticising his every move, his every remark, making a prison for him, a prison of put-downs and belittlements. There but for the grace of God, he thought, go I. This feeling for Mr Botumile, this sympathy, was the only drawback in the way he felt about the whole enquiry. And even then, in spite of his understanding of Mr Botumile’s plight, he was proud of the fact that he had been able to be so professional about the whole matter. He had sympathised with the husband in this case, but he had not let it obscure the fact that he was working for the wife.

  For Mma Makutsi, the investigation of Teenie’s problem with her dishonest employee was less clear-cut. It might well be that one of the employees at the printing works looked shifty, but she very much doubted that his shifty looks alone meant that he was the thief. He might be, of course, and she would keep an open mind on that, but she could certainly not allow her investigation to be skewed by any presumption of guilt. Or that, at least, is what she told herself as she paid off the taxi that she had hired to take her from the agency office to the premises of Teenie’s printing company. Thirty pula! She tucked the receipt carefully into the pocket of her cardigan; it would have cost two pula, at the most, to make the journey by minibus, but the exorbitant cost of the taxi could properly be passed on to the client, and anyway, she told herself, it would be quite inappropriate for her to arrive at the printing works in a battered and over-loaded vehicle, complete with hands and feet sticking out of the windows. People noted how people travelled, and if she was going to pass herself off as a potential client of the company, then she should arrive in fitting style. Clovis Andersen probably said something about this in The Principles of Private Detection, but even if he did not, common sense dictated it.

  The Good Impression Printing Company occupied half of a largish building in the industrial site that lay beyond the diamond-sorting building. It was not a very impressive building—one of those structures that look like cheap warehouses and which have few windows. Above their door was a sign saying Words mean business. Business means money. Make a good impression with the Good Impression Printing Company! And below that was a picture of a glossy brochure out of which, as from a cornucopia, banknotes cascaded. It was a powerful message, thought Mma Makutsi, and it made her think that perhaps it was time to speak to Mma Ramotswe about a new sign for the agency. That might also have an illustration of some sort to brighten the signboard, but what might it be? A tea-pot was the image that most immediately sprang to mind, but that would hardly do: there was no particular association in the public mind between private detection and tea, even if tea-drinking was an important part of their day’s activities. Mma Ramotswe drank six cups a day—at the office; she had no idea how much bush tea was cons
umed at home—and she herself drank four, or perhaps five, if one counted the occasional top-up. But this was no time to think about such things, she decided; this was a delicate enquiry, conducted under cover, and she would have to think herself into the part she was about to play—a client inspecting a potential supplier.

  Mma Makutsi entered a reception area at the front of the building. It was not a large room and the receptionist’s desk dominated the available space, leaving only a cramped corner for a few chairs. Beside these chairs was a small table on which paper samples and some trade magazines had been stacked.

  There was a curious smell in the air, an almost acrid smell that took her a moment to recognise as the smell of ink. That took her back to the school in Bobonong, where they had a room with a duplicating machine and supplies of the ink that it used. It was an old machine of the sort that nobody used any more, and it had been forgotten by the authorities, but the school kept it going. The children had helped with the task of duplication, and she had watched in wonder as the newly printed pages emerged from beneath the circulating drum. And now, a world away from that place and those days, she remembered the smell of ink.

  She gave her name to the receptionist, who telephoned and called through to Teenie Magama. Then she sat down on one of the chairs in the corner and waited until Teenie arrived.

  She looked at the receptionist, a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a housecoat but which she decided was actually a loose-fitting dress. Her outfit was far from smart, and Mma Makutsi found herself thinking, It’s not her. This woman has no spare cash. If she were stealing, then one would expect … Or would one? Desperation drove people to theft, did it not? She looked at her more closely.

  She decided on a general question. If you could think of nothing to say to somebody, you could always ask them how long they had been doing whatever it was that they were doing. People always seemed willing to talk about that. “Have you worked here very long, Mma?” Mma Makutsi asked.

  The receptionist, who had been typing, looked up from her keyboard.

  “I do not belong to this place,” she said. “I am here because my daughter is sick. She is the one who has this job. I am standing in for her.” She paused. “And I do not know what I am doing, Mma. I am just sitting here, but I do not know what I am doing.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed, but the woman shook her head. “No, I am serious, Mma. I really don’t know what I’m doing. I try to answer the phone, but I end up cutting people off. And I do not know the names of any of the people in the works back there. Except for Mma Magama herself. That Teenie person. I know her name.”

  “There are many people who do not know what they are doing,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is not unusual. In fact, maybe even most people do not know. They pretend to know, but they do not really know.”

  The receptionist smiled. “Then I am not alone, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi tried another tack. “Is your daughter happy here?” she asked.

  The woman’s answer came quickly. “Very happy. She is very happy, Mma. She is always telling other people what a good boss she has. Not everybody can say that.”

  Mma Makutsi was about to say that she could, but stopped herself in time. She could not tell this woman about Mma Ramotswe because that would give away what she did and she was meant to be a prospective client, not a private detective. So she said nothing, and they drifted back into silence.

  A few minutes later, Teenie appeared through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. She was more plainly dressed than she had been when she had come to Mma Makutsi’s office, and for a moment Mma Makutsi did not recognise her.

  “Yes,” said Teenie. “I am not looking smart now. These are my working clothes. And look, see what my hands look like. Ink!”

  Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and examined Teenie’s outstretched hands. “If I were a detective,” she said as she saw the large ink stains, like continents, on Teenie’s upturned palms, “I would say that you are a printer.” Then she added hurriedly, glancing down at the receptionist as she spoke, “But I am not a detective, of course!”

  “No, of course not,” said Teenie. “You are not a detective, Mma.”

  The receptionist, who had been following the conversation between the two of them, looked up sharply. “You are a policewoman, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi noticed the concern in the woman’s voice. “I am nothing to do with the police,” she said. “Nothing at all. I am a businesswoman.”

  The receptionist relaxed visibly. Her sharp reaction, thought Mma Makutsi, was unusual. She clearly had something to hide, but it was probably nothing to do with her daughter or the job at the printing works. Unless, of course, she knew that her daughter had been stealing from the works. Mothers and daughters can be close; they tell each other things, and the knowledge that one’s daughter was a thief would obviously make one dread the arrival of the police. But then she reminded herself that there were plenty of people who were afraid of the police, even if they had clear consciences. These were people who had been the victims of bullying when young—bullying by severe teachers, by stronger children; there were so many ways in which people could be crushed. Such people might fear the police in the same way in which they feared all authority.

  Mma Makutsi smiled at the receptionist and followed Teenie through the door into the works. The other woman was so small that even though Mma Makutsi was herself only of average height, she found herself looking down at the top of Teenie’s head; at a small woollen bobble, in fact, which topped a curious tea-cosy style knitted cap which she was wearing. She looked more closely at it, wondering if she could make out an opening through which a tea-pot spout might project; she could not see an opening, but there was a very similar tea-cosy in the office, she remembered, and perhaps she or Mma Ramotswe might wear it on really cold days. She imagined how Mma Ramotswe would look in a tea-cosy and decided that she would probably look rather good; it might add to her authority, perhaps, in some indefinable way.

  On the other side of the door was a short corridor. The smell she had picked up when she first came into the building was stronger now, and there was noise too, the obedient clatter of a machine performing some repetitive task. From the background somewhere, there came strains of radio music.

  “Our new machine is on,” said Teenie proudly. “That is it making that noise. Listen. That is our new German machine printing a brochure. They make very good machines, the Germans, you know, Mma.”

  Mma Makutsi agreed. “Yes,” she said. “They do. They are …” She was not sure how to continue. She had been about to pass a further comment on the Germans, but realised that she actually knew very little about them. The Chinese one saw a lot of, and they seemed quiet and industrious too, but one did not see many Germans. In fact, she had seen none.

  Teenie turned and looked up at her. The expectant, plaintive look was there; as if there was something important that Mma Makutsi might say about the Germans and which she desperately wanted to hear.

  “I would like to go to Germany,” said Mma Makutsi lamely.

  “Yes,” said Teenie. “I would like to visit other countries. I would like to go to London some day. But I do not think I shall ever get out of Botswana. This business keeps me tied up. It is like a chain around my ankle sometimes. You cannot go anywhere if you have a chain around your ankle.”

  “No,” said Mma Makutsi, raising her voice now to compete with the sound of the German printing machine.

  Mma Makutsi gazed about her. If she needed to act the part of the interested client, then it was not a difficult role for her to fill; she was very interested. They were in a large, high-ceilinged space, windowless but with an open door at the back. The sun streamed through the back door, but the main lighting was provided by a bank of fluorescent tube lights hanging from the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood the German printing machine, while four or five other complicated-looking machines were arranged around the rest of the area. Mma Makutsi noticed an electric guillotin
e, with shavings of paper below, and large bottles of what must have been ink on high racked shelves. There were several large supply cupboards, walk-in affairs, and stacks of supplies on trolleys and tables. It was a good place for a thief, she thought; there were plenty of things.

  Next, she noticed the people. There were two young men standing at the side of the German printing machine: one engaged in some sort of adjusting task, the other watching a rapidly growing pile of printed brochures. At the far end of the room, two women were stacking piles of paper onto a trolley, while a third person, a man, was doing something to what looked like another, smaller printing machine. Just off the main space there were two blocked-off glass cubicles, small offices. One was empty, but lit; a man and a woman were in the other, the woman showing a piece of paper to the man. When Mma Makutsi looked in their direction, the woman nudged the man and pointed at her. The man looked across the room.

  “You should introduce me to the staff,” said Mma Makutsi. “Why don’t we start with those two?” She indicated the two young men attending to the large printing machine.

  “They are very nice young men,” said Teenie. “They are my best people. They have a printer’s eye, Mma. Do you know what a printer’s eye is? It means that they can see how things are going to turn out even before the machine is turned on.”

  Mma Makutsi thought of the two apprentices. If there was such a thing as a mechanic’s eye, then she doubted whether the apprentices had it.

  “Printers used to be able to read backwards,” said Teenie as they approached the machine and its two young attendants. “They could do that when type was set in metal. They put the letters in backwards.”

  “Mirrors,” said Mma Makutsi. “They must have had mirrors in their heads.”

  “No,” said Teenie. “They did not.”

  As they approached the printing machine, the two young men stopped what they were doing. One flicked a switch and the machine ground to a halt. Without the noise it had been making the works now seemed unnaturally quiet, apart from the radio in the background somewhere which could still be heard churning out the insistent beat of a rock tune, the sort of music that Mma Ramotswe described as the sound of an angry stomach.