Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gestured that Mma Ramotswe should get in. “It is all ready to drive,” he said. “We can go down the road and back again. You can get the feel of it, and I can help you with anything.”
Again she forced a smile. She tried to show her gratitude, for she did feel gratitude, profound gratitude, that she had a husband like this, who loved her so, he would seek out a special van for her and make a gift of it.
“It is very beautiful, Rra,” she said. “And this blue. It is like the sky.”
“That is why I chose it,” he said. “They had a red van, but I said no. You were not a person to drive a red vehicle. I told them that. Red vehicles are for young men.” He tossed his head in the direction of the two apprentices, who were watching from a distance. “You know how young men are.”
She knew. But she also remembered her visit to Fanwell's house, and learning that his entire salary kept that large family alive. She could not talk about this, though. The mission had been a clandestine one, so she could not say, Well, there are some young men who do good things—which is what she would have said otherwise.
She lowered herself into the driver's seat. It felt so different from the seat of the old van, which was much smaller and less padded. Over the years, though, the tiny white van's seat had moulded to her particular shape, with the result that it was like a supporting hand beneath her. This seat was an alien shape; it might give in the right places in the future, but for now, comfortable though it was, it felt unfamiliar and rather disconcerting. Driving along in such a seat would be a bit like driving an armchair, Mma Ramotswe thought, but did not say. What she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was, “It is the last word in comfort, Rra. It is very, very comfortable. Surely this seat comes from the Double Comfort Furniture Shop!”
He appreciated the joke. “Maybe, Mma Ramotswe. Maybe. We shall have to ask Phuti Radiphuti about it.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni walked round the front of the van and got into the passenger seat. “We can go for a drive now,” he said. “That is the ignition there. See? See how easily the engine starts. And listen—listen to how quiet it is.”
Mma Ramotswe had to admit that the engine was indeed quiet. But then, “Where are the gears, Rra?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “Gears are largely a thing of the past, Mma Ramotswe. Or at least changing them is a thing of the past. This is an automatic van.”
Mma Ramotswe had been in an automatic vehicle before but had not paid much attention to what was going on. She remembered thinking that some people might find it useful not to have to change gear all the time, but she was not sure whether she was one of those drivers. In fact, she felt that she probably was not, as she found that leaving one hand on the gear lever and steering with the other was a comfortable driving position. She suspected, too, that Mma Potokwane would agree with her; the matron of the orphan farm, Mma Ramotswe had observed, changed gear in the same way as she stirred the mixture for one of her famous fruit cakes: with vigour and a strong circular movement.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni instructed Mma Ramotswe in the ways of automatic gearboxes and helped her through the initial steps of starting and stopping such a vehicle. Then they left for a brief drive down the Tlokweng Road before doubling back and returning to the garage.
“It runs very sweetly,” said Mma Ramotswe as she finally drew to a halt beside the garage. “And the ride is so smooth.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni beamed with pleasure. “It will be a great change after your late van,” he said. She nodded her agreement. Yes, it would be a great change. Her late van, with all its quirks and noises, its unpredictability at times, its modesty and discomfort, was a world away from the insulated, air-conditioned cocoon that was the driving cab of this new van. And although reliable transport was always a reassurance, and this new van was clearly reliable, the tiny white van was somehow more human, more like us, more natural than this gleaming construction of blue-painted metal.
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not entirely insensitive. “I know,” he said quietly, laying a hand on her arm, “I know that you will miss the old van. But you'll get used to this one soon, you know. And then it will become your new friend.”
She nodded grimly. Her pretence at cheerfulness and gratitude had slipped; she simply could not keep it up. “I loved my tiny white van,” she stuttered. “I loved it, you know.”
He looked down. “Of course you did. You're a loyal lady, Mma Ramotswe, but machines come to the end of their lives, Mma— just like people. And I know it can be as hard to say goodbye to them as it is to say goodbye to people. I know that.”
They got out of the new blue van. Mma Ramotswe did not dare to look in the garage as she went back to the office. She did not want to see the tiny white van sitting there, alone, facing whatever fate it was that awaited machines that had served their purpose and now had no further work to do for us.
BY THE END of her first day at the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, Violet Sephotho had sold four beds. It was Phuti Radiphuti's practice to speak to the head of each department at a meeting convened immediately after closing time—to take a report on sales and to discuss delivery requirements for the following day. That afternoon had been a busy one, and there had been strong activity in the dining-room department, where two large tables and a dozen chairs had been sold between lunch time and the time of the sales meeting. In soft furnishings, a large leather sofa that had been slow to sell, and that was about to be discounted further, had suddenly been snapped up by a rather mousy man who had been brought in by his larger, domineering wife. That sale was the subject of warm congratulations by Phuti. “We shall never stock a sofa that large again,” he said. “The people in this country do not like big sofas like that. It is not the way we see things in Botswana.”
There had been murmurs of agreement on this. The sofa would not be missed, it was felt.
Then came the turn of the bed department. All eyes turned to Violet Sephotho, whose appointment, over the heads of one or two internal candidates, had been an unpopular one. There were those present who secretly wished her to have made no sales, which would have allowed them to mutter about the dangers of appointing an outsider who had no experience of selling furniture, even if she bore impressive credentials from other jobs.
“Four beds,” said Violet. “I have sold only four beds. I shall try to sell more tomorrow—once I have got used to the job.”
The eyes that had been focused on Violet swivelled to Phuti Radiphuti.
“Four beds!” he said. “That is very good, Mma! I would have been happy if you had sold two—or even one.”
Violet shrugged. “It is not hard,” she said, and added, “if you have the right skills.”
“Well, you certainly have those skills, Mma,” said Phuti. “Four beds!”
One or two members of the staff looked away as this praise was heaped upon Violet; others smiled, even if their smiles were perhaps slightly fixed. And afterwards, when the sales meeting broke up, Phuti indicated to Violet that she should stay behind in his office.
“That is a very good effort,” he said. “You have made a fine start, Mma.”
“Violet, please,” she corrected him.
“Yes, Violet. A very good effort.”
Violet made a self-deprecatory gesture—a small wave of the hand—to indicate that she thought such feats to be nothing special. Then, looking at her watch, she said, “I must rush now, Rra. I have to be home soon to cook for my sick aunt. I am looking after her, you see, and she likes to have her meals on time.”
“Of course,” said Phuti. “I do not want to keep you, Mma.” He hesitated. “Would you like me to run you home, Mma … Violet? I was going to be leaving now anyway.”
Violet beamed at him. “You're very kind, Mr. Radiphuti.”
“Phuti, please,” said Phuti.
She nodded. “Phuti, then. Yes, that would be very helpful. My poor aunt gets anxious.”
“Oh, I know how it is, Violet.
When you're looking after an older relative. They are always worrying, worrying. This thing and then another thing. It can be a very great burden.”
“We do our best,” said Violet modestly, picking up her bag. “It is not always enough, but we do it.”
Phuti locked the shop behind him and they got into his car. Violet sat demurely in the passenger seat, but her fingers wandered discreetly to touch the plush surface of the armrest beside her. And she took in, too, the expensive finish of the instrument panel.
“So you're cooking for your aunt,” said Phuti, as they drove off. “I'm sure that you will be a good cook too.”
Violet basked in the pleasure of the too. Saleslady, lady of fashion, top-flight secretary … and cook. It was a litany of qualifications.
“I like cooking,” she said. “And it is always an extra pleasure to be cooking for somebody else. It doubles the pleasure. Like your furniture gives double comfort.”
Phuti thought this very witty and laughed enthusiastically.
Top-flight secretary, cook … and wit, Violet thought.
“Good cooking makes people happy,” said Phuti, adding, “And it makes them full.”
He glanced away from the road at Violet and she realised that he had made a joke. She laughed loudly, and Phuti permitted himself a smile. This is going to be easier than I thought, Violet said to herself. Men. It was all so easy.
Phuti turned off onto the road that led past the Automotive Trades College. There was an intersection ahead, and beyond it a few craftsmen showed their wares under trees: roughly made chairs, some shapeless beanbags for sitting upon, pots of doubtful shape and usefulness. The traffic was heavy as people made their way home, and Phuti, awaiting his turn to go through the intersection, found himself drawing up alongside a crowded minibus. It was not a sight to attract attention in any way; minibuses were everywhere, swaying along like overloaded boats, each a small, optimistic business, the pride of its proprietor. He did not look at this one, for there was nothing out of the ordinary to it, except for the fact that it carried, looking out of the window at that particular point, Grace Makutsi, assistant detective, on her way home from the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency.
Their eyes did not meet. Mma Makutsi, however, immediately recognised Phuti Radiphuti's car and gave a start. She sat bolt upright, face close to the window, taking in first the car, then Phuti at the wheel, and then, in an awful, heart-stopping moment, the figure of Violet Sephotho, false claimant of eighty per cent, writer of anonymous letters, Jezebel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BIG MAN TAFA
A TUESDAY MORNING, thought Mma Ramotswe, is a good day on which to start work on a case. This was largely because of the positioning of Tuesday: Monday was a difficult day for no other reason than that it was Monday the start of another week, with the prospect of another weekend as distant as it ever could be. Wednesday was halfway through the week, and a day on which, for some reason, there always seemed to be rather too much to do. By Thursday one was getting tired, and then on Friday, with the end in sight, one was in no mood to begin anything. That left Tuesday, which it now was; the day on which Mma Ramotswe found herself contemplating afresh the list of names of football players and deciding which of them to investigate first.
She glanced across the room at Mma Makutsi, who was sitting stiffly at her desk, in a way which Mma Ramotswe recognised as her bad-day posture. Mma Makutsi was like that; she could be moody, particularly when there was some problem on the domestic front. Certainly, there was something worrying her, but Mma Ramotswe knew better than to raise it with her at this point. It would come out later in the day, and she would be able to comfort or reassure her. Then the mood would lighten and everything would return to normal. That was what normally happened.
The Molofololo case was difficult not only because of the strange world of football with which it was concerned, but also because of the sheer challenge of looking into the private lives of quite so many men. She would have to delegate, she decided. Mma Makutsi could take on some of the names, Mr. Polopetsi— if things were quiet in the garage—could be allocated a few of the others, and she would do the rest. Now, looking at the list, she picked up a pencil and divided the names. The drivers of the Mercedes-Benzes, each of whom had a tick against his name, were, according to Mr. Polopetsi, unlikely candidates; they could be left to Mr. Polopetsi himself in that case, as he was the least experienced of the three of them. She then divided the remaining names at random between Mma Makutsi and herself.
She had decided that the best approach was to speak directly to the players. Mr. Molofololo's suggestion that she pose as a masseuse was not practical, for a number of reasons. Prominent amongst these was that Mma Ramotswe had no idea of how to perform a massage, and she simply did not fancy pounding and manipulating the limbs of these muscly football players. She might pull the wrong way and make matters worse; she might tickle them inadvertently; anything could happen. No, that was not a good idea; far better to be transparent and to tell the players that she had been asked by Mr. Molofololo to talk to everybody to find out what was going wrong. That had the benefit of being true, but it also gave people the chance to do what they liked to do best—which was to talk. Much as Mma Ramotswe admired Clovis Andersen's The Principles of Private Detection, it had to be said that this was one matter on which she felt she knew better than Mr. Andersen himself. Nowhere in that great book did the author recommend the practice that Mma Ramotswe had found to be the strongest weapon in the private detective's armoury— that of asking people directly about something. That always worked, she found; always. When in doubt, ask somebody; it was as simple as that.
She looked at the list of names and the addresses beside them. She shook her head over the ridiculous football nicknames, smiling, though; men will be boys, she thought, especially when it comes to sporting matters. That was when men forgot their real age and went back to being ten or whenever it was that they were at their happiest. We all have a time, thought Mma Ramotswe— a time when the world was at its most exciting for us. Usually that time is somewhere in childhood, in that faded, half-remembered land that we all once dwelled in; that time of freshness and hope. For me it was … she stopped, and thought of Mochudi and the house she had lived in as a girl. And she saw her father too, the late Obed Ramotswe, with his battered old hat that people laughed at but he loved so much. That was when I was happiest, she thought. Not that she was unhappy now—she was very happy; happy with her business, with her husband, with her tiny white … No, she was unhappy about that, but best not to think about it. Think of football instead and … Her eye moved down the list and came to Big Man Tafa. She would start there because she knew the road where he lived and also because she thought it would be a good idea to start with the goalkeeper. She remembered hearing people talking about him when they came out of the Stadium. Somebody had made a remark about his having been on the wrong side of the goal at the critical moment; not that she would have noticed that herself, but it was clearly obvious enough for somebody to remark on it—somebody who knew what he was talking about, as most people who attended football matches seemed to. There had been a lot of advice given to the players by the crowd; it had been a very well-informed crowd, Mma Ramotswe thought.
She looked across the room at Mma Makutsi. “I am going to go to speak to one of these football people,” she announced. “I have divided the names on this list, and you might like to talk to some of them too.”
Mma Makutsi barely looked up from her desk. “I do not see what is to be gained by talking to these people,” she muttered. “They only like to talk about football.”
Mma Ramotswe was surprised at the degree of grumpiness in this answer, but she was patient. “That's what we need to talk about in this case,” she said mildly. “It is about football, you know.”
Mma Makutsi pouted. “We will never find out anything from them,” she said. “We won't have the faintest idea what they are talking about, Mma. Goals and lines and tackles
and things like that. What is all of that about, Mma Ramotswe? That's what I ask you. What is that all about? What is this offside business? You hear men talking about it all the time. So-and-so was offside. No, he wasn't. Yes, he was. That sort of thing. What is the difference between that sort of language and Double-Zulu, Mma? That is the question.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant in astonishment. “Double-Zulu, Mma? What language is that?”
Mma Makutsi waved a hand in the direction of the border. “Something they speak somewhere over there. It is more difficult than Zulu. Twice as difficult. You cannot understand it. Nobody can.”
“Is there something worrying you, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “You can speak to me about it—you know that.”
Mma Makutsi looked up now, her large glasses catching the sunlight slanting in through the small window behind Mma Ramotswe's desk; the lenses flashed like the eyes of an animal caught at night in the beam of a torch. “Why do you think I am worried?” she snapped. “I am sitting here working and you are talking about football, Mma. Forgive me, Mma, but it is not easy to work if somebody is talking about football all the time.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I'm sorry, Mma. I will try not to disturb you, but if you are unhappy, then please talk to me. It is not easy to be unhappy all by yourself, you know. It is easier if …”
She did not finish. Mma Makutsi had taken off her glasses and sunk her head in her hands. “Oh, I am very unhappy, Mma,” she sobbed. “And I am sorry that I have been accusing you of talking about football. You were not talking about football—it's just that I am a very unhappy lady, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe quickly rose to her feet and crossed the room to Mma Makutsi's side. Bending down, she put her arms around her, feeling the heaving of her shoulders as the sobbing grew deeper.
“I could tell, Mma,” she said. “I could tell that you were unhappy. What is it, Mma? Is it Phuti?”