Precious and Grace (16 page)

Outside in the square, the afternoon sun made shadows under the trees and around the doorways of the buildings, pools of shade where people took languid shelter from the heat of the day. A few traders, those whose stalls were comfortably under the branches of the acacias, continued to offer their wares; others had packed up and left after the morning's business was over.

They walked slowly, as the warmth of the day dictated.

“Rain,” said Mr. Polopetsi.

She barely heard the voice emanating from somewhere under the billowing clothes.

“What was that, Mr. Polopetsi?”

“I said: rain, Mma. I hope there will be rain soon.”

She glanced up at the sky. “I hope so too, Rra. Some people say we're being punished by this drought. They say that God is expressing his displeasure.”

“Nonsense. That's nonsense, Mma.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Polopetsi. This is all to do with the direction of sea currents and things like that.”

Mr. Polopetsi made a sound that indicated agreement. It was a strange sound, and she was not sure quite where it came from. It seemed to issue from one of the flapping sleeves of his jacket, but that surely was impossible. She looked at him. His mouth was very small, she decided. Did he take a very long time to eat a meal? she wondered; with that small mouth, the consumption of food would be a slow business. It was a strange thought to have, and she pulled herself up; the mind was a peculiar thing, suggesting all sorts of things of little or no consequence.

They drew level with a trader's stall on which clothing was displayed. There was a neat stack of T-shirts on which
Bostwana
was printed in various colours.

“We don't need one of those,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We know where we are.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked puzzled. “We're in Gaborone, Mma.”

“That's what I meant,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had stopped, and was looking at some of the other items on display. The woman behind the table had been perched on a small folding stool, and now stood up. She was an ungainly-looking woman, but the eye went to her smile.

“I have many nice things here, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “Even things for your husband.”

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “Oh, this is not my husband, this is just…” She stopped herself. She was not sure that Mr. Polopetsi had noticed, but it was as if she were laughing off the possibility that she could possibly be married to such a…to such a small man. And she had not meant that.

“Unfortunately,” she said quickly. “I would be a lucky woman to have a nice man like this as my husband.”

The woman looked quickly at Mr. Polopetsi—and then at Mma Ramotswe—and she understood. “Yes, my sister,” she said. “A man with a nice face is always a very good catch. Many of the sisters would agree with us on that.”

Mr. Polopetsi beamed. He said nothing, but somehow he seemed to grow back into his clothes; not entirely, but it was at least noticeable.

Mma Ramotswe watched him. He had picked up a tie and peered at the price tag. Shaking his head, he put it back on its rack. She reached for the tie and examined it herself. It was dark red, with a small eagle motif running across it at an angle. “Eagles,” she said. “This is very nice.”

“Those are very popular,” said the woman. “Everyone is wearing them now.”

“The good men are wearing them,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “The bad men are wearing ties with vultures on them, maybe.”

The other woman laughed. It was a loud, raucous laugh that seemed to go perfectly with her ungainly appearance. Mr. Polopetsi smiled. “It is a very smart tie,” he said. “Very smart. But it is too expensive, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe held the tie against the front of his shirt, obscuring the thin grey tie he was already wearing.

“More colour,” said the other woman. “You see what a difference it makes. You see that, Mma?”

“I certainly do, Mma.” She looked at the price tag. “It is not all that expensive.”

“It's a bargain,” said the woman. “Buy cheap, sell cheap, you see. That's the motto of my business.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. She had read in a magazine recently that every business should have a mission statement. She liked the sound of that—a
mission statement
sounded very purposeful. She had discussed the matter with Mma Makutsi, who had been in strong agreement. “At the Botswana Secretarial College,” she said, “they told us to set goals. They said: Put your goals into words—you cannot have goals without words. That is when I made my first mission statement, Mma.”

“And what is that, Mma Makutsi?”

The reply came quickly. “It's confidential, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe had been surprised. The whole point of a mission statement, she had thought, was that you declared your purpose to the world. You judged yourself by it, yes, but far more importantly you invited others to judge you by the extent to which you lived up to your professed aims. So when the Botswana Power Corporation printed its mission statement on their customers' bills, it was to let everybody know that
Getting Power to You
was what they wanted, above all else, to do. That was a modest enough goal, after all; it was not as if they said
Lighting Up the Whole World
or something of that sort.

But a confidential mission statement? That, surely, would encourage speculation that something underhand, or even threatening, was being planned.
To Get to the Top at Any Cost
—there were people who behaved as if that was their mission statement, and perhaps that was exactly what it was. Did Mma Makutsi have a mission statement like that? No, on balance she thought not. It would be something to do with filing; Mma Makutsi had an intense interest in filing and often talked about its finer points. Perhaps her mission statement, then, was
To Put Things in the Right Place.
But if that was what it was, then why keep it confidential? Nobody was threatened by one who wanted to file documents correctly, unless you were one of those people who wanted things to be in the wrong place—if there were such people. And then she had thought of Violet Sephotho: now there was somebody who would definitely have to keep her mission statement confidential, involving, as it no doubt did, goals far too shameful to be revealed, goals related to the number of husbands stolen, or some such thing.

She became aware that Mr. Polopetsi was addressing her.

“That tie will suit Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni very well, Mma. He'll look very smart.”

She handed over a few banknotes to the trader, who counted out her change.

“It's not for him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It's a present for you, Mr. Polopetsi.”

She handed the tie to him. His mouth was wide open in astonishment.

“There you are, Rra,” said the trader. “This is a very kind lady. I can tell.”

Mr. Polopetsi tried to say something, but no words came. He looked at the tie, with its eagle motif, and then, taking off the grey one he was wearing, he began to put the new one round his neck.

“Very smart,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“But why me?” asked Mr. Polopetsi.

She thought for a moment. “Because you have helped me in the past, Rra. Because you have given me your company. Because we have worked together. Because you are a good, kind man, and many people take good, kind men for granted and never say thank you to them. Because of all these reasons I'm giving you a tie.”

They walked on in silence. She noticed, though, that the shoulders of his jacket seemed less empty now, his walk more confident.

“I think we shall have rain rather sooner than we thought,” said Mma Ramotswe as they reached her van.

“Rain,” said Mr. Polopetsi, and nodded.

She started the van and drove off. Before she dropped him at the gates of the school where he was a part-time teacher, she said, “You mustn't worry, Rra. I have a very good idea about how to sort out this…this mess you've got yourself into.”

He looked anxious once more. “I'll do everything I can to help, Mma.”

“I think you'll need to,” said Mma Ramotswe.

I
T WAS UNCOMFORTABLY HOT
in the offices of the Botswana Housing Corporation.

“They promised us air-conditioning a long time ago,” said the clerk who was leading Mma Ramotswe through a narrow, airless corridor. “The senior people are all right—they've got it up in their offices—but down here, not a chance.” He shook his head. “It is always like that, isn't it, Mma? Junior staff don't mind the heat, do they? Junior staff don't mind drinking water from the tap rather than from one of those water fountains they have upstairs. Junior staff don't mind having the last choice of holiday dates, do they? They don't mind all of these things.”

Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic clucking noise. “You are right, Rra,” she said. “It is hard to be junior staff.”

Unless you were Mma Makutsi, she thought. If you were Mma Makutsi, you simply promoted yourself regularly until you ended up as joint co-director, or whatever her current position was—Mma Ramotswe had rather lost track of Mma Makutsi's stellar ascent.

“I have been waiting for promotion to go into one of those offices upstairs,” continued the clerk. “I have been told that I don't have the educational qualifications. They said to me: ‘You need a degree.' But you know something, Mma? Having a degree has nothing to do with being able to do the job they do up there. A degree doesn't teach you how to add up rental income. A degree doesn't teach you how to deal with contractors. A degree doesn't make you good at dealing with builders when they try to cheat you on a contract. Oh no, Mma, none of that is taught at the university. All they do there is teach you big words and long sentences.”

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. She felt some sympathy for the clerk; she herself had left school at sixteen and although she would have liked to have had further education, it had not hampered her unduly. Of course, had she wished to get to the level of somebody like Clovis Andersen and write a book on private detection, then she would undoubtedly need a degree. Mr. Andersen, she knew from the biographical details at the back of
The Principles of Private Detection,
had a BA from Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. She could never aspire to that, but when it came to the work she did, she felt that her education was perfectly satisfactory.

“And then,” continued the clerk, “they send those students out at the end of their course and say, ‘Go off and use those big words and long sentences to get all the good, high-paying jobs. And once you're in those jobs, always remember to use long sentences to protect your position. If you use long sentences, nobody will dare remove you. That is an important rule that we have worked out.' That is what they say, Mma—I have heard it on very good authority.”

“I think promotion should be on merit,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Everybody should be judged the same, whether or not they have a whole cupboard full of certificates. The question should be: Can this person do this job? That is all they need to ask themselves.”

This pleased the clerk. “Oh, Mma,” he said. “It's so good to hear some common sense being talked.”

She had not intended to flatter him, and she had spoken out of conviction, but the warmth that her comments had produced would certainly be useful. Clerks and receptionists were, in her opinion, some of the most powerful people in the country, even if they bemoaned their lowly status and their lack of air-conditioning. A clerk could easily deny the very existence of a file if rubbed up the wrong way, and a receptionist could stop you seeing somebody important simply by saying there were no appointments. That had happened to Mma Ramotswe recently when she had sought a meeting with a senior municipal official who could help her in an enquiry. The receptionist, who was in an uncooperative mood for reasons that Mma Ramotswe could not fathom, but she felt might have something to do with the woman's romantic life, had at first told her that the official in question had no free appointments that day. When asked if there was a slot available for the following day, the receptionist had said that day too was completely full. And the following week? Sorry, Mma, nothing available. It's a very busy time. Next month? No, that was very busy too.

Mma Ramotswe had not argued, but had returned to the office to brief Mma Makutsi and suggest that she try the next day.

“You are very good at dealing with these awkward people,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You're kind to say that, Mma,” came Mma Makutsi's reply. “I have no time for obstructive people.”

The result was that Mma Makutsi was given an appointment immediately—or at least immediately after she had delivered a stern lecture on the subject of managing appointments and suggesting that the receptionist should enroll forthwith in an office administration course at the Botswana Secretarial College. She—Mma Makutsi—could easily facilitate that and would write to the Mayor to follow up her suggestion. The receptionist knew when she was beaten, and surrendered without further resistance, finding an appointment that had fortuitously opened up that very morning—in ten minutes' time, in fact.

There would be no such difficulties with this clerk, who was already voicing views as to where he might find the information she sought.

“Nobody really knows what we have in our archives,” he said. “Apart from me, of course. I know where everything is, Mma. I know it in here.” He tapped the side of his head.

“There are some people who need to write all these things down in notebooks,” he went on. “And then you know what happens, Mma Ramotswe? I will tell you. You know those ants? You know those bad ones? They love notebooks, Mma—it is their biggest treat. Notebooks are like ice cream to them!” He laughed at his witticism.

“You have to be careful of ants,” she said.

“Oh yes, you do. The ants are watching us, you see, Mma. They are watching us all the time. If we let down our guard, the ants will make their move and then…goodbye Botswana.”

They had reached the end of the corridor and were standing outside a door marked
Records.
“This is the place,” said the clerk. “This is where we will find what you're looking for, Mma.”

The clerk unlocked the door. The room inside was a large one, and lined on all four walls with high shelving. Box files and ledgers took up most of the shelf space, although here and there were stacks of papers neatly bundled and tied with red tape.

“That is the famous red tape,” said the clerk, pointing to the bundles of documents. “You have heard the expression ‘red tape,' Mma?”

“I have heard it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Red tape is always making things go slower.”

“We have big supplies of it here,” said the clerk, smiling. “Some people find it very useful. But remind me, Mma, what is the address of this place you are enquiring about?”

She gave him the details. It was Plot 2408 Zebra Drive, and she gave him the dates she was interested in.

The clerk listened attentively. Then he said, “Can you time me, Mma?”

“You want me to time how long it takes you to find what you're looking for?”

He nodded brightly. “That's the idea, Mma. They call that a ‘time and motion study.' ”

She looked at her watch. “Very well, Rra. I'm timing you.”

The clerk stepped sharply forward to one of the higher shelves and took down a box file. Opening it, he ruffled through a sheaf of documents before extracting one of them.

“Stop the clock, Mma,” he called.

“That was forty-five seconds, Rra.”

He looked at her proudly. “And here is the list of transactions to do with Plot 2408 Zebra Drive. It covers the period from the construction of the house, through its various tenancies, and then finally to its sale when the Commission decided to reduce its housing stock.” He handed the document to her. “It is all there, Mma. The whole early history of that place.”

She looked at the paper. It was easy to interpret, and the information she was looking for leapt to her eyes immediately.

“I see that there was a lease to the hospital,” she said, pointing to the line in question.

The clerk looked over her shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “The Commission let the house to the hospital authorities for twelve years in all. And there, you see, just down at the bottom is the list of the sub-tenants that the hospital arranged. We always insisted on knowing who had signed a sub-lease.”

She looked at the names. The one she was looking for was there. Handing the paper back to the clerk, she thanked him for his helpfulness.

“I am happy to have been able to help you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “It's all part of the service.”

“But you have been especially helpful,” she said.

He shrugged modestly. And then he said, “You're a private detective, aren't you, Mma? You have that place out on the Tlokweng Road—near that garage?”

“I'm that person,” she said.

There was a silence. “Do you think you could do me a favour, Mma?”

She had not expected the request quite so soon, and she knew it would be hard to turn him down. She hoped that his request would not be too bizarre; sometimes people wanted to know the strangest things.

He lowered his voice as he revealed his request. “There is a certain young woman, Mma. She is a very beautiful young woman and there are many men who think that she would make a good wife.”

“And are you one of those, Rra?”

He looked embarrassed. “You could say that, Mma.”

“Well, I wish you success,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I cannot make a woman like a particular man, you know.”

“Oh, I wouldn't ask you to do that, Mma. No, I know you couldn't do that.”

“So what would you like me to do?”

He hesitated. “She has a boyfriend, Mma. He's a useless fellow. You only need to look at him and you think
useless.
”

“I see. But obviously she doesn't think that, does she?”

He sighed. “I don't think she knows her own mind. But I feel that if we could find out some concrete facts about this man—about how useless he is, then the scales would fall from her eyes and she would get rid of him.”

She looked at him, bemused. “I'm sorry, Rra. I can't do that.”

She had expected more of a reaction, but his response was muted. “Oh well, I thought I'd ask.”

“I'm sure you'll find another young woman. There are many nice girls around. Many of them would like to marry a handsome young man like you.”

“Couldn't you find one for me, Mma?”

“Don't you have any aunts to do this for you?”

He shook his head. “I had two aunts, Mma, but they are late now. That's why I'm asking you.”

It came as a sudden, heartfelt plea, and she was taken aback. She was on the point of saying that the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was not a marriage bureau, and then, looking at him, she suddenly relented.

“I could try,” she said.

“Oh, Mma, that is all I ask. Find a nice girl who will not be troublesome and who does not have greedy uncles expecting too many cattle. Please could you try that for me?”

“I will, Rra. I'll need a bit of time, but I shall do what I can.”

“You can have more than forty-five seconds,” he said, and laughed.

Good sense of humour,
she thought. You saw that in matrimonial advertisements sometimes, and it seemed important. Well, she could specify that if she had to talk to any prospective brides about him. That, and his speed of approach to any problem. These were both very positive points that she could, in good conscience, bring to the attention of any suitable women. If they existed, of course; presumably they did, and it was just a question of finding them. Well, one favour deserved another—that was how the world worked.

SHE MADE HER WAY
back to the office in good spirits. The confirmation that the house she had been looking for was in Zebra Drive—of all places—was a major step forward in what could have been a rather vague and unsatisfactory enquiry, and once she had spoken again to Mma Rosie, she felt that she would be able to present Mma Susan with what she was looking for.
If
she were looking for her past—and Mma Ramotswe was beginning to have her doubts about that. But those doubts could be addressed in due course; for the time being she had achieved what she had set out to find, and that was something to be pleased about. Her leg, too, felt completely normal, and the possibility that venom had entered her system was now discounted. That had been a close thing, and it could have ended very differently, but it had not—and that was another thing to be thankful for. Mma Ramotswe was a bit hazy about statistics, but she imagined that it might be possible to work out the odds of stepping on a puff adder at some point in one's life. Well, she had just done that, and surely this meant that the odds of her doing it again would be infinitesimal, which meant that she was safer now than she had been before that unfortunate night-time encounter—or so she hoped. She might discuss those statistics with Mr. Polopetsi, who, as a chemist, knew a little bit about statistics.