Mma Ramotswe smiled indulgently. She would not have put it quite like that, but she knew what Mma Makutsi meant. Women did not give one another nicknames. For some reason it was always men, and the names chosen were indeed absurd: private jokes that meant nothing to others; a small humiliation hung around the neck of some unfortunate. Why, she wondered, did men behave like this? You would think that they would learn— and some of them were learning, a bit—but most of them did not. “I know all about Big Man,” she said. “He's the goalkeeper and he is very small. He's not big at all.”
“There you are,” said Mma Makutsi. “That proves it. Why call a small man Big Man? That is very stupid—just as I said.” She peered at the list. “And who is this man called Rops? It says here that he is the captain. Why is he called Rops?”
“Rops is a name I have heard before,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is a perfectly good name. Unlike this one here. You see that he is called Joel ‘Two Feet’ Koko.”
“Another silly name,” said Mma Makutsi. She moved back to her desk and sat expectantly. “Well now, Mma Ramotswe, what do we do with this list? How do we find the traitor?”
Mma Ramotswe laid the list down. “Let's think, Mma Makutsi. What have we done in the past?”
Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “We've never had anything to do with a football team, Mma. Not that I recall.”
“I know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But we have had to deal with dishonest employees, haven't we? And the simplest way of finding people like that is to see who's richer than he should be. That's always a good way of exposing somebody who's being paid to do something dishonest or who has his fingers in the till.”
Mma Makutsi contemplated this. It was, she agreed, the best first step, but would it necessarily work in this case? What if the traitor acted for some reason other than a financial one? People betrayed others, their country even, for so many different reasons: because they had a score to settle with their employer, because they were in love with somebody who wanted them to commit the act of betrayal, because of jealousy; there were as many sorts of reasons as there were sorts of people.
Mma Ramotswe saw the logic in this. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is always possible that there is somebody in the team who is feeling angry with Mr. Molofololo. Perhaps there is somebody who thinks he should be captain instead of Rops. If you were that person, and you thought that you should be playing up in the front, where all the opportunities to score goals will be had, then you might think, I'll show him. You might think that, might you not, Mma Makutsi?”
Mma Makutsi confirmed that she might. So Mma Ramotswe continued, “And what if you were a footballer who had a girlfriend and this girlfriend was stolen away by the owner of the team or even the captain? What then? You might also say, I'll show them.”
Mma Makutsi listened to this intently. The stealing of a girlfriend was not all that different from the stealing of a fiancé. And that made her mouth go dry with fear. What if Violet succeeded in stealing Phuti, as she so clearly planned to do? What future would there be then for her, for Grace Makutsi? She would never find another man, she feared, or at least she would never find one half as nice as Phuti, let alone one who had his own shop and a great number of cattle. She would continue to be an assistant detective all her days, a woman who had to watch her pennies and see other women, married women, leading more comfortable lives because they had men to go out and earn a living for them. Oh, the injustice of it; oh, the hateful, hateful thought.
She became aware that Mma Ramotswe had said something. “What was that, Mma? I was thinking of something else.”
“I pointed out that we already have a bit of help here from Mr. Molofololo,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You may have noticed that there is a tick against three names on the list. That is something that I asked him to do. And do you know what that means, Mma? Can you guess?”
Mma Makutsi could only guess that these were the ones whom Mr. Molofololo himself suspected. But no, said Mma Ramotswe, that would be too simple. “Remember what Clovis Andersen says, Mma,” she warned. “He said that you should never take account of those who may be suspected by others because that may lead you up the wrong track altogether. That is what he said, Mma. And I think he is right. So these are not Mr. Molofololo's suspects—it is something much simpler. The names ticked are those members of the team who drive a Mercedes-Benz.”
Mma Makutsi looked surprised. “Is there something dishonest about driving a car like that, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Of course not. They are very fine cars, and some very honest people drive them. No, there is another reason. A Mercedes-Benz is not a cheap car. So if somebody drives one, then there must at least have been some money. So, if you are looking for signs of money, follow the Mercedes-Benz, Mma!”
Their conversation was interrupted at this intriguing point by the entry into the office of Mr. Polopetsi, the half-trained mechanic employed by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage, who occasionally helped out in the detective agency. Mr. Polopetsi had been taken on as an act of charity but had proved himself to be a valuable member of staff, now quite capable of carrying out a full service on most makes of car and every bit as accomplished as the apprentices in handling a number of other mechanical procedures. He came in now bearing the chipped white mug from which he drank his tea.
“I see that you have had doughnuts,” he said, looking pointedly at the greasy wrapping paper on the side of Mma Makutsi's desk. “I thought doughnuts were for Friday.”
“There has been a change of policy,” said Mma Makutsi. “A forward-looking business must be flexible.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. She was looking at Mr. Polopetsi, and she remembered that he was often rather good at shedding light on a problem. His ideas were frequently unusual but quite astute for all their unexpectedness.
“Tell me, Mr. Polopetsi,” she asked. “How would you deal with this thing, Rra?” She passed him Mr. Molofololo's list of football players. “Do you recognise that?”
Mr. Polopetsi ran an eye down the list of names and then looked up with a grin. “The Kalahari Swoopers, Mma. That's who these people are.” He pointed to one of the names. “Quickie Chitamba. He used to live out at Tlokweng, near my cousin. They saw him sometimes, driving past the house. His wife is a friend of my wife's brother.”
Mma Ramotswe gave a casual wave of the hand. “Yes,” she said. “Quickie Chitamba. I've seen him play.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked at her in astonishment. “I would never have guessed, Mma. You're interested in football, Mma Ramotswe? I didn't know that!”
“There are always new things to find out about a person,” said Mma Makutsi.
“Oh, I know that,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “It's just that I can't see Mma Ramotswe at a football match.” He closed his eyes, the better to envisage the scene. “No, Mma, I can't see you there. I just can't.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “And that is not surprising, Rra. I have only been once. You see, we're working on a football case now. You may smile, Rra, but that is what we're doing. We are football detectives now.”
While Mma Makutsi made Mr. Polopetsi a cup of tea, Mma Ramotswe explained the background to the Molofololo case. Mr. Polopetsi listened intently, raising an eyebrow at the allegation of treachery. When she had finished, he shook his head in wonderment. “I noticed that they were not doing very well. I thought that maybe their coach was trying new tactics, or something like that. I would never have dreamed that there was somebody deliberately losing. That is very serious, Mma. Ow!”
“So, Mr. Polopetsi,” Mma Ramotswe said. “So here are Mma Makutsi and I sitting and wondering where to start. And I said to Mma Makutsi that we should look at anybody in the team who appears to have more money than one might expect. That's always a clue, I think.”
Mr. Polopetsi scratched his head. “Well, maybe. Maybe.”
“You don't sound convinced.”
“I said maybe, Mma. I didn't say no. I said maybe.”
Mma Ramotswe poin
ted to the list. “You see, what we have done is to get Mr. Molofololo to mark who has a Mercedes-Benz. We can start with those ones.”
For a few moments Mr. Polopetsi looked at Mma Ramotswe doubtfully. Then he shook his head. “Because those people will be the ones who have money they're not entitled to? Bribes? Is that what you're saying, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “More or less, Rra.”
Mma Makutsi passed him his mug of tea and he nursed it carefully before raising it to his lips. “Thank you, Mma. This is very good tea.” He took a sip and then lowered the mug. “Absolutely not, Mma Ramotswe,” he said firmly. “You can forget about those ones.”
“Why?”
“Because football players are no fools,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They know that they are in the public eye. They are watched all the time. People write about them in the papers. People talk. If you had money you were not entitled to, then a Mercedes-Benz is the last thing you would buy.”
Mma Makutsi leaned forward over her desk. “He may be right, Mma Ramotswe. I can see what he means. Don't buy a Mercedes-Benz if you don't want people to start asking questions.”
Mma Ramotswe had not expected such a firm rejection of her theory, which, after all, had the stamp of Clovis Andersen's authority to it. But now that she thought of what Mr. Polopetsi had said, she realised that he was probably right. It was a pity, as she thought that the Mercedes-Benz theory had its strong points, not the least of which was that it gave them a convenient starting point. But on mature reflection she decided that Mr. Polopetsi was right. It would be a foolish man who invited attention where none was wanted.
And then Mr. Polopetsi had an idea. It was a qualification, really, to the proposition that he had advanced earlier. “Of course,” he said, “their mothers are a different matter. If the mother of a football player has a Mercedes-Benz, then there is every reason to be suspicious.”
CHAPTER TEN
A BIT OF BOTSWANA'S HISTORY
THROUGHOUT THE REST of that morning, Mma Ramotswe could settle to nothing. She had some letters to write, and these she dictated to Mma Makutsi, whose pencil hovered over the pad while Mma Ramotswe struggled to keep her thoughts from wandering. It was the tiny white van, of course, that was preying on her mind. She felt as a relative might feel in a hospital waiting room, anticipating the results of an operation, ready to judge the outcome by the expression on the surgeon's face. In this case her vigil was made all the more trying by the fact that she could hear noises coming from the garage, a clanking sound at one point, a thudding of metal on metal at another; at least relatives of those in hospital were not treated to quite such vivid and immediate sound effects.
“You have already said that, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Makutsi pointed out politely. “You have already said that you will be available for a meeting on that day. Now I think you need to say …”
“Oh, I cannot concentrate, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I'm sitting here and just through the wall over there my van is being taken to pieces. And it will not be good news, you know, at the end of it all.”
Mma Makutsi thought that this was probably true, but she did her best to comfort her employer. “You never know, Mma. There are miracles from time to time. There could be a miracle for your van.”
Mma Ramotswe appreciated this but knew that there would be no miracle. And when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni came into the office half an hour or so later, wiping his hands on a piece of lint, she knew in an instant what was to come.
“I'm very sorry, Mma Ramotswe,” he began. “The engine is just too old …”
He did not finish, for Mma Ramotswe had let out a wail and Mma Makutsi had leapt to her feet to comfort her.
“Don't cry, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “You mustn't cry.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stood awkwardly witnessing this show of female distress and the solidarity it provoked. He would have liked to have comforted his wife, too, to put his arm about her, but he was still covered in grease, and this seemed to him now to be a moment to which he could add little. So he inclined his head and slipped discreetly out of the office, leaving the two women together.
“I'm sure that he'll get you another van,” said Mma Makutsi. “And you'll come to love that one too. You'll see.”
Mma Ramotswe struggled to control herself. “I should not cry over a little thing like this,” she sniffed. “There are big things to cry over, such big things, and I am wasting my tears. It is only a van.”
“It's a van you have loved a lot,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know how it feels.” She had loved her lace handkerchief, a small thing really, but one which for a time had been her only special possession. Everything else had been entirely functional, designed to meet the requirements of a life of poverty and hardship; that handkerchief had been about beauty, and fineness, and the possibility of something better.
“It is like a bit of Botswana's history,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is like a bit of Botswana's history that is about to be thrown on the heap. Just like that.”
Mma Makutsi was not entirely convinced by this analogy but at least it gave her an idea. “Perhaps the museum would take it,” she ventured. “They have some old ox-carts there. Your van could stand beside them.”
Mma Ramotswe thought this unlikely. They would not want an old white van; there were plenty of old vehicles about and there was no reason for her van to be singled out. She was not famous in any way, and nobody would be interested in a van just because she had driven it. She pointed this out to Mma Makutsi, who shook her head vigorously. “Museums are very interested in ordinary things these days,” she said. “They like to show how life is for ordinary people—for you and me.”
As Mma Makutsi spoke, Mma Ramotswe imagined how the museum might have a section devoted to ordinary people themselves, perhaps keeping a few ordinary people on display, sitting in chairs or reading newspapers, cooking possibly, washing their clothes, and so on. Mma Makutsi herself could be an exhibit, or at least her glasses could be on show in a special case, together with her ninety-seven-per-cent certificate from the Botswana Secretarial College. Some people might be interested in that— Mma Makutsi, for one.
“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “I see you are smiling. You'll feel better soon, Mma. It's not the end of the world, you know.”
BUT IT WAS—or so it increasingly seemed to Mma Ramotswe as the day wore on. She ate her lunch alone at her desk—Mma Makutsi had shopping to do—and when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni popped his head round the door to say that he was going off on some errand, she barely heard him, hardly acknowledged him. She was not to know that his errand was to a colleague in the motor trade, whom he had telephoned that morning to arrange for the purchase of a van, a small blue one, that had done a relatively low mileage and that was described, in the language of the trade, as “very clean.”
This van he brought back to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors less than an hour later. He parked it outside the entrance to the garage and went inside to fetch Mma Ramotswe.
“You just come outside and see something,” he said, taking her hand.
For a moment she thought that he might be leading her to see her triumphantly restored van; but then she thought, no, that cannot be—he has bought a new one. He seemed pleased and excited, and she made an effort to smile. He may not understand how I feel about my old van, she thought, but he is trying to do his best for me and I must make him think I am pleased.
The two apprentices, who were standing conspiratorially at the entrance to the garage, watched as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni led her round the side of the building. Charlie made a thumbs-up sign, a sign of encouragement. Fanwell did nothing; he caught Mma Ramotswe's eye and then looked away.
“There,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There it is!”
The blue van was parked under the acacia tree, in the precise spot that the old van used to occupy. It was slightly bigger than the tiny white van—a medium-sized blue van, one might say—and it had been lovingly washed and polished, its chrome fittings gli
nting even in the shade of the tree.
Mma Ramotswe stopped in her tracks. “It is a very beautiful van,” she said. She made a supreme effort to sound enthusiastic, but it was hard. She swallowed. “Very beautiful.” She turned to face her husband. “And you have bought it for me?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni inclined his head graciously. “I have bought it for you, Mma Ramotswe. It is yours. Your new van.”
She reached out to take his hand, and squeezed it. “You are a good husband,” she whispered. “You are a kind man.”
He looked proud. “It is no more than you deserve.”
He led her by the hand to stand beside the new van. She saw herself reflected in its gleaming surface; a white van would reflect nothing—the world vanished beside it—but in the blue of this van there was a traditionally built woman standing beside a man in khaki. Both were distorted, as in a mischievous hall of mirrors; the man had become squat, mostly trunk, with stunted limbs; the woman had become more traditionally built than ever—a wide expanse of woman, bulging like the continent of Africa itself.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reached forward and opened the driver's door. The old van's door had squeaked when opened; this one moved silently on well-greased hinges, revealing a pristine interior. It was hard to believe that the van was not brand-new, that it had not rolled fresh from a factory floor down in Port Elizabeth.
Everything was in place, and perfect. On the floor, which was covered with a dark rubber mat, specially cut squares of paper had been laid to protect the shoes of the driver; and on this paper was printed the motto of the garage that had supplied the van: At Your Service, Sir! Or Madam, thought Mma Ramotswe, although she understood that cars and vans were usually the preoccupation of men, while women thought of keeping families going, of the home, of making the world a bit more beautiful and comfortable, of the stemming of humanity's tears. Or some women did. And some men, too, did not think of cars.