Mma Ramotswe made a face. “Poor man.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her in surprise. “He is no good, that man.”
“Of course not,” Mma Ramotswe corrected herself. “But I would not wish anybody to be uncomfortable, would you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?”
He thought for a moment, and then agreed. He did not wish misfortune on anybody, he decided, even if they deserved it. Mma Ramotswe was undoubtedly right about that, even if she was inclined to be a little bit too generous in her judgements.
“They started to talk, and I pretended to be very interested in reading the menu which the waiter had brought me.” He laughed. “I read about the price of a Castle lager and about the various sorts of sandwich fillings. Then I read it all again.
“In the meantime, I was listening as closely as I could to what they were saying. It was a bit hard, as there was somebody sitting nearby who was laughing like a donkey. But I did hear something.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Excuse me, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said. “But why were you listening to them? Where was the woman?”
“What woman?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“The woman with whom Mr Botumile is having an affair,” Mma Ramotswe replied. “That woman.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the ceiling. He had expected to see Mr Botumile meeting a woman, and when he had sat down next to Charlie Gotso he thought that perhaps the woman would arrive a bit later; that they both knew Mr Gotso. But then, even when it became apparent that no woman would be joining them, he found himself engrossed in the encounter that was taking place at the neighbouring table. This was more interesting than mere adultery; this was the edge of something much more important than that. He imagined now that he would be able to reveal to Mma Botumile that her husband was up to something far worse than that which she had imagined; he was consorting with no less a person than Charlie Gotso, the least salubrious of Gaborone’s businessmen, a man who used intimidation and fear as instruments of persuasion; a bad man, in fact, to put it simply. And Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had no reluctance to use unadorned, direct language, whether about cars, or people. Just as there were some bad cars—cars that were consistently slow to start or that invariably had inexplicable, incorrigible rattles—so too there were bad people. Fortunately there were not too many of these in Botswana, but there were some, and Mr Charlie Gotso was certainly one of them.
“There was no sign of that woman,” he conceded. “Maybe it was not his evening for seeing her. There will be time enough to find her.”
“I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “All right. But what did they talk about anyway?”
“Mining,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Mr Botumile said something about bad results. He said that the cores had come in and that the results were not good.”
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Prospecting,” she said. “People do that all the time.”
“Then he said: the share price will come down in two weeks, in Johannesburg. And Mr Gotso asked him if he was sure about that. And he replied yes he was.”
“And then?” prompted Mma Ramotswe.
“Then Mr Gotso said that he was very pleased.”
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. “Pleased? Why would he be pleased about bad news?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought for a moment. “Perhaps it’s because he is such an unpleasant man,” he said. “Perhaps he likes to hear of the misfortune of others. There are people like that.”
Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. There were such people, but she did not think that Charlie Gotso was like that. He was the sort of person who would be unmoved by the misfortune of others; completely uninterested. All that he would be pleased about would be those things that were in his interests, that made him richer, and this raised a very difficult question: Why should the failure of prospectors to find minerals be good news for a bad man?
They finished their conversation on that note. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had nothing further to report, and the pumpkin and the lamb, judging from the smell from the pot and from the oven, were both ready, or just about. It was time for dinner.
CHAPTER NINE
THE UNDERSTANDING OF SHOES
MMA MAKUTSI AWOKE the next morning slightly earlier than normal. It had been another cold night, and her room, which had no heating apart from a one-bar electric heater—which was turned off—was still chilly. When the sun came up properly, the light would flood in through her window and warm the place up, but that would not happen for twenty minutes or so. She looked at her watch. If she got up now, she would have fifteen minutes or so in hand before she went off to catch her minibus into work. She could use this time to do something constructive, some sewing, perhaps, on the new sewing machine which Phuti Radiphuti had bought her. She was making a dress for herself and had all the panels cut out, pinned together, and ready for the machine. Now all she needed was a bit of time. She could do fifteen minutes of work on it that morning and then, when she came home from work, she could devote at least two hours to the task, which might well be enough to finish it off.
But there would be no going to work that day, and now that she remembered this she opened her eyes wide, astonished by the realisation. I do not have to get up, she said to herself. I can stay in bed. She closed her eyes again, and nestled her head back into her pillow; but she could not keep her eyes closed, she could not drift back to sleep, for she was wide awake. On a cold morning an extra few minutes of sleep, snatched in denial of the imminent call of the alarm clock, would normally be irresistible. But not now; that which we have, we suddenly find we do not want. She sat up in bed, shivered, and tentatively lowered her feet onto the cement floor of her room. There might be running water in the house, and electric light, but in the villages and in the country they still had floors, here and there, which did not freeze your feet like this—floors made of the dung of cattle, sweet-smelling dung, packed down hard and mixed with mud to give a surface that was cool in the heat and warm to the touch in the cold weather. For all that modern buildings were more comfortable, there were some things, some traditional things, that could not be improved upon.
This thought of things traditional reminded her of Mma Ramotswe, and with a sudden jolt of regret she realised that she would not be seeing her former employer today. A day—a weekday too—with no Mma Ramotswe; it seemed strange, almost ominous, like a day on which something dark was due to happen. But she put that thought out of her mind. She had resigned and had moved on. That’s what people said these days—they talked about moving on. Well, that’s what she had done, and presumably people who moved on did not look back. So she would not cast an eye back to her old life as an assistant detective; she would look forward to her new life as Mrs Phuti Radiphuti, wife of the proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Store, former secretary.
It was strange having breakfast and not having to rush; strange eating toast without glancing at the clock; and strange, too, not having to leave the second cup of tea half-finished simply because time had run out. Breakfast that morning seemed not to finish—it merely petered out. The last crumbs of toast were cleared from the plate, the last sip of tea taken, and then … nothing. Mma Makutsi sat at her table and thought of the day ahead. There was the dress—she could easily finish that this morning, but somehow she did not want to. She was enjoying the making of that garment, and she had no material for another one. If she finished the dress, then there would be one less thing to do, and her new sewing machine would have to go back into the cupboard. She could clean the house, of course; there was always something to attend to in a house, no matter how regularly one swept and scrubbed. But although she kept the house spick-and-span, that was not a task that she actually enjoyed, and she had spent almost the entire last weekend giving it a thorough cleaning.
She looked about the room. Her living room, where she ate her breakfast, was sparsely furnished. There was the table at which she now sat—a table condemned by Phuti Radiphuti who had promised to replace it, but had not yet done so; there was a small sec
ond-hand settee that she had bought through a newspaper advertisement and which now sported the satin-covered cushions which Phuti Radiphuti had given her; there was a side table on which she had placed several small framed pictures of her family in Bobonong. And that, apart from a small red rug, was it.
She could do something more about decorating the room, she thought. But then if she was going to get married in January, when she would move to Phuti Radiphuti’s house, there seemed little point in doing much to her own place. The landlord would be pleased, no doubt, if she went to the hardware store and bought some paint for the walls, but again there seemed to be no point in doing that. Indeed, there seemed to be little point in doing anything.
No sooner had she reached that conclusion, than she realised how absurd it was. Of course there was a point in doing something. Mma Makutsi was not one to waste her time, and she now told herself that her resignation should be a challenge to her to work out a new routine of activity. Yes, she would take advantage of this and do something fresh, something exciting with her life. She would … She thought. There must be something. She could get a new job, perhaps. She had read about a new employment agency which had opened which would specialise, it had been announced, in the placing of high-class secretaries. “This agency is not for everyone,” the press announcement had read. “We are for the cream of the crop. We are for people who go the extra mile—every day.”
Mma Makutsi had seen the advertisement in the Botswana Daily News and had been struck by the wording. She liked the expression go the extra mile, which had the ring of a journey to it; and that, she thought, was what life really was—it was a journey. In her case, the journey had started in Bobonong, and had been by bus, all the way down to Gaborone. And then it had become a metaphorical journey, not a real one, but a journey nonetheless. There had been the journey to her final grade at the Botswana Secretarial College, with the marks as milestones along the way: sixty-eight per cent in her first examination, seventy-four in the second; then on to eighty-five per cent; and finally, in a seemingly impossible leap, ninety-seven per cent, and the glory that had come with that. That had surely been a journey.
And then there had come the hunt for the first job—a journey of disappointing blind alleys and wrong turnings, as she discovered that at that level of secretarial employment a crude form of discrimination was at work. She had gone to interview after interview, dressed in the sole good dress that she possessed, and had discovered time and time again that the employer was not in the slightest bit interested in how she had done at the College. All that was required was that one should have passed and got the diploma; that was all. What was on the diploma did not matter, it seemed; all that counted was that one should be glamorous, which Mma Makutsi was realistic enough to know she was not. She had those large round glasses; she had that difficult skin; her clothes spoke of the hardship of her life. No, she was not glamorous.
Here was an agency, though, that implied that hard work and persistence would be rewarded. And the reward would come, no doubt, in the shape of a challenging and interesting job, with a large company, she imagined, in an office with air conditioning and a gleaming staff canteen. She would move amongst highly motivated people, who would be smartly dressed. She would live in a world of memos and targets and workshops. It would be a world away from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, with its battered old filing cabinets and its two tea-pots.
She had made up her mind, and the decision made her feel more optimistic about the day ahead. She rose from the table and began to wash up the breakfast plates. Two hours later, having made satisfactory progress with her new dress, she put away the sewing machine, locked the house, and began to walk into town. It was a cool day, but the sun was still there; it was perfect, she thought; it was weather for walking, and for thinking as one walked. The doubts of the earlier part of the day had disappeared and now seemed so baseless, so unimportant. She would miss Mma Ramotswe, just as she would miss any friend, but to think, as she did, that her life would be empty without her was a piece of nonsense. There would be plenty of new colleagues once she started her new job and, without being disloyal to Mma Ramotswe, many of them would perhaps be a little bit more exciting than her former employer. It was all very well being of traditional shape, believing in the old Botswana values, and drinking bush tea, but there was another world to explore, a world filled with exciting, modern people, the people who formed opinions, who set the pace in fashion and in witty things to say. That was the world to which she could now graduate, although of course she would always have a soft spot for Mma Ramotswe and the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Even a thoroughly modern person would like Mma Ramotswe, in the way in which modern people can retain affection for their aunts back in the villages even though they really had nothing in common any more with those aunts.
She had kept the issue of the paper in which the advertisement appeared, and had noted down the address of the agency. It was not a long way away—a half hour walk at the most—and this walk went quickly, made all the quicker by the thoughts she was entertaining of the interview that no doubt lay ahead of her.
“Ninety-seven per cent?” the agency person might say. “Is that correct? Not a misprint?”
“No, Mma. Ninety-seven per cent.”
“Well, that’s very impressive, I must say! And there’s a job which I think would be just right for you. It’s a pretty high-level job, mind you. But then you’ve been …”
“An associate detective. Second from the top in the organisation.”
“I see. Well, I think you’re the lady for the job. The pay is good, by the way. And all the usual benefits.”
“Air conditioning?”
“Naturally.”
The thought of this exchange was deeply satisfying; absorbing too, with the result that she walked past her destination and had to turn back and retrace her footsteps. But there it was, the Superior Positions Office Employment Agency, on the second floor of a slightly run-down, but still promising-looking building not far from the Catholic church. Once she had climbed the stairs, she saw a sign pointing down a corridor inviting visitors to ring the bell on the door and enter. The corridor was dark, and had a slightly unpleasant smell to it, but the door of the agency office had been recently painted and, reflected Mma Makutsi, she was not going to work there, in that building, which was only a means to a much-better-appointed end.
It was a small room, dominated by a desk in the middle of the floor. At this desk there was a slight young woman with elaborately braided hair. She was applying varnish to her nails as Mma Makutsi entered, and she looked up with a vague air of annoyance that she should be disturbed in this task. But she greeted Mma Makutsi in the proper way before asking, “Do you have an appointment, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “Your advertisement in the Daily News said that none was necessary.”
The receptionist pursed her lips. “You should not believe everything you read in the papers, Mma,” she said. “I don’t.”
“Even when it’s your own advertisement?” asked Mma Makutsi.
For a moment the receptionist said nothing. She dipped the varnish brush into the container and dabbed it thoughtfully on the nail of an index finger.
“You’re an experienced secretary, Mma?” she asked at last.
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I’d like to see somebody more senior, please.”
A further silence ensued. Then the receptionist picked up her telephone and spoke into the receiver.
“She’ll see you in a few minutes, Mma,” she said. “She’s seeing somebody else at the moment. You can wait over there.” She pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. Beside the chair was a small table laden with magazines.
Mma Makutsi sat down. She had encountered rude receptionists before and she wondered what it was about the job that seemed sometimes to attract unfriendly people. Perhaps it was that people did the opposite of what they really wanted to do. There were gentle prison guards an
d soldiers; there were unkind nurses; there were ignorant and unhelpful teachers. And then there were those unfriendly receptionists.
She did not have to wait long. After a few minutes the door to the inner office opened and a young woman walked out. She was carrying a folded piece of paper and was smiling. She walked over to the receptionist and whispered something into her ear. There was laughter.
When the young woman had left, the receptionist glanced at the door and gestured for Mma Makutsi to go in. Then she continued with her nail-painting. Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and made her way to the door, knocked, and without waiting for an invitation, went in.
THEY LOOKED at one another in astonishment. Mma Makutsi had not expected this, and the sight of this woman behind the desk deprived her of all the poise she had summoned for her entry. But in that respect she was equal with the woman behind the desk; equal in other respects too, as it was her old classmate from the Botswana Secretarial College, Violet Sephotho.
It was Violet who recovered first. “Well, well,” she said. “Grace Makutsi. First the College. Then the Academy of Dance and Movement. Now here. All these crossings of our paths, Mma! Perhaps we shall even find out now that we are cousins!”
“That would be a surprise, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, without saying what sort of surprise it would be.
“I was only joking,” said Violet. “I do not think we are cousins. But that is not the point. The point is that you have come here looking for a job? Is that correct?”
Mma Makutsi opened her mouth to reply, but Violet continued. “You must have heard of us. We are what are called head hunters these days. We find top people for top jobs.”
“It must be interesting work,” said Mma Makutsi. “I wondered whether …”
“It is,” said Violet. “Very interesting.” She paused, looking quizzically at Mma Makutsi. “I thought, though, that you had a good job,” she went on. “Don’t you work for that fat woman who runs that detective business next to that smelly old garage? Don’t you work for her?”