Precious and Grace (7 page)

“So how did you choose?”

Mma Potokwane hesitated before replying. “You are a traditionally built lady, Mma,” she said. “As am I. We are both traditionally built. So…”

Mma Ramotswe leaned forward in anticipation. “So you…”

“So I chose the most traditionally built lady of the five,” said Mma Potokwane.

Mma Ramotswe let out a whoop of delight. “You didn't, Mma!”

Mma Potokwane nodded. She was smiling now. “I did, Mma. And I did so because I felt that the most traditionally built lady would be the happiest. And the happiest lady would make the children happy, which is what the job of housemother is all about. The children love a traditionally built housemother—such a lady has more acreage, so to speak, Mma, for the children to climb on. Her lap will be big enough for many children to sit on at the same time, and…” She searched for additional reasons.

“And her heart will be traditionally built,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She will have a large heart.”

“There you are,” concluded Mma Potokwane. She looked at Mma Ramotswe enquiringly. “Do you think I did the right thing, Mma?”

“Of course you did,” said Mma Ramotswe, who was sure of her response. It was not just that she was a traditionally built person speaking on behalf of the ranks of traditionally built people; it seemed to her that any reasonable person would agree with Mma Potokwane's reasoning. So she repeated her reassurance to her friend that she had done the right thing, and they moved on to the next subject, which was a conversation that Mma Potokwane had had with Mr. Polopetsi. This gave rise to a rather different issue altogether.

“I had a visit from Mr. Polopetsi,” said Mma Potokwane. “It was a bit of a surprise, as I don't really know him all that well.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Nothing official, Mma? Nothing to do with his work for the agency?”

Mma Potokwane shook her head. “No, nothing to do with business—or not your agency's business. It was more personal.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered what personal business Mr. Polopetsi might have with Mma Potokwane. Mma Makutsi had always hinted that there was a side to Mr. Polopetsi that they knew nothing about, and she was right: they knew little about Mr. Polopetsi's personal life, about his friends, about the place he originally came from.

“He stopped by a couple of weeks ago,” continued Mma Potokwane. “He sat there—in the chair you're on—and asked me whether I was financially secure.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “How strange.”

“Yes, I thought so. So I told him that I got a good salary here and that my husband was doing reasonably well. I said that we were far from being rich, but we did not want for anything.” She paused. “Mind you, I wish we could afford a more reliable car, but then who doesn't wish for that? Can you name one single person who doesn't want a more reliable car?”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I'm happy with my van. It is very old…”

“But very reliable, Mma. I have never seen it break down—ever.”

“No, it does not break down. It just goes on and on. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would like me to get rid of it.”

“You couldn't do that. It would be like getting rid of your aunt. You cannot get rid of these important things just like that.”

“So what was Mr. Polopetsi driving at?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane stared out of the window. Somewhere outside a child was crying, and her matron's antennae had responded. But then the child stopped, and she moved her gaze to Mma Ramotswe.

“He told me that he had become a member of some sort of investment club,” she said. “He said that it was called the Fat Cattle Club and it offered very good returns. He said that the returns were, in fact, better than anything you could get from the banks or the insurance companies. He said that if I had a spare ten thousand pula he could arrange for me to join this club and get—and this was the part that astonished me—twenty-five per cent return on the money I put in.”

Mma Ramotswe's astonishment showed. “Twenty-five per cent! That's impossible, Mma.”

“Not with this scheme,” said Mma Potokwane. “At least, not according to Mr. Polopetsi. He said that he's already drawn his twenty-five per cent profit—and he's only been in the club for a few months. He said that an early pay-out was the reward you got for recruiting new members.”

Mma Ramotswe asked what the Fat Cattle Club did. She imagined that it was something to do with the buying and selling of cattle—a popular activity in Botswana and one that her own father, Obed Ramotswe, had excelled in.

“This Fat Cattle Club,” Mma Potokwane explained, “buys cattle from the drought areas in the north. Then it brings them down to a place near Lobatse and feeds them up until they are ready to sell. That's how it makes its profits.”

“But twenty-five per cent?” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can't make twenty-five per cent just by fattening cattle. You have the cost of the feed—cattle don't get fat on air.”

“He said that's all taken into account,” said Mma Potokwane. “The real return is twenty-five per cent. That's what he said.”

Mma Ramotswe hardly dared ask the next question. But she had to know. “And did you join the club, Mma?”

The answer was the one she wanted. “Certainly not,” said Mma Potokwane. “To begin with, I don't have a spare ten thousand pula. And then, even if I did, I don't think I would invest it with Mr. Polopetsi. It's not that I have anything against him, it's just that he doesn't strike me as being the business type. You know how some people have ‘business type' written all over them, Mma? Well, I don't think that Mr. Polopetsi is like that. He's a chemist and occasional private detective. He's not a business type.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed with that evaluation of Mr. Polopetsi, but she knew that Mr. Polopetsi himself might see things differently. “Was he upset, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane shook her head. “Not in the slightest. But he did ask me whether I could recommend other people to him. So I thought and thought and eventually I came up with a cousin of my husband's. This is a person who has quite a bit of money—he used to own a factory that made ladders—and likes to invest in good ideas.”

“I'm not sure that this is such a good idea.”

“Perhaps not. But there we are. I hope that it continues to do well—this Fat Cattle Club. It's certainly doing a community service.”

Mma Ramotswe looked dubious. “By growing people's money by twenty-five per cent?”

Mma Potokwane explained what she meant. “No, not by doing that. You see, he told me that they buy the cattle from the drought areas…”

“You said that.”

“Yes, but they give the poor farmers ten per cent more than they'd get from the Meat Commission. So they are doing them a favour in their hour of need. Isn't that good, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe knew what it was to have to sell your cattle because of drought. It was a last resort, a shameful thing, brought about by sheer desperation. There was something worse, of course, and that was when the cattle were in such poor condition through lack of grazing that they had no value and had to be slaughtered. That was the end of everything for some; to see the poor beasts so debilitated they could barely walk, standing there passively, awaiting their fate.

She very much approved of the idea of giving people more money for their cattle, but she was puzzled as to how this could be done. The price of cattle was ultimately determined by the market, and the market took all sorts of factors into consideration in deciding what to pay. Alongside supply—the more cattle, the lower the price—there was the cost of feed to be considered, and that was a major influence on price. Ideally, cattle would be left to fend for themselves, finding in grass and leaves all the sustenance they needed. Even in a dry land, such as Botswana, cattle could find enough in what seemed unpromising surroundings, but when drought struck and the last of the vegetation withered, they needed feeding to remain alive. That was expensive, as animal feed had to be brought in from over the border, and if the desiccated fingers of drought stretched out into the rich grasslands, the veld of Gauteng, then the price of foodstuff would soar.

If the Fat Cattle Club bought thin cattle for fattening, then that would only come at a cost. It was possible that they could move them to areas where there was still grazing to be had, but such areas were already under pressure because of the drought further north. And if the cattle were not to be given good grazing, then how was their condition to be improved—other than through the purchase of feed and salt licks? One did not have to be an economist to understand that this would eat into any profit on the eventual sale of the cattle, particularly if you had paid ten per cent above the going rate in the first place.

Mma Ramotswe raised these concerns with Mma Potokwane, who shrugged. “I don't know much about these things, Mma,” said the matron. “All I know, though, from running this place, is that everything costs money, and there's no easy way round that. You can't grow money in the fields, no matter how hard you try.”

“Exactly, Mma. So how does Mr. Polopetsi imagine he'll get twenty-five per cent?”

Again Mma Potokwane shrugged. “But he says he's already had twenty-five per cent return on his original investment.” She paused. “Maybe the cattle were very good beasts, Mma. Maybe they were already quite fat.”

That was impossible, and Mma Ramotswe told her friend that. “Those poor cattle from up north are skin and bone these days. They would need to eat and eat to get into good condition.”

“Then it is a mystery,” concluded Mma Potokwane. She was losing interest in Mr. Polopetsi's scheme, and wanted to talk about Mma Makutsi's baby. “I hear that that baby of hers purrs like a cat, Mma. Is that true?”

“It is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is very strange. I believe it is the only purring baby in Botswana.”

Mma Potokwane shook her head in wonderment. “There is more to Mma Makutsi than meets the eye,” she said. “Is it true that she talks to her shoes?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Or they talk to her. Yes, I believe that something like that is going on, although I cannot believe that shoes would ever talk. That's just nonsense, Mma.”

The practical side of Mma Potokwane was in firm agreement. “Of course it is. I suppose that it's a question of her imagination. She imagines that her shoes are talking to her, but it's really all in her mind. You see a lot of that with children, you know. They imagine things.”

“Oh yes, Mma. They do that all right.”

Mma Potokwane pointed in the direction of one of the cottages. “There's a child in that cottage over there—a very imaginative child. She told the housemother that she has a friend who comes to visit her—a friend called Dolly. She seems convinced that this friend lives somewhere over in the Kalahari and rides a giraffe. Such nonsense. And yet she insists it's all true. She even made a small cake for this friend the other day and left it out for her. Of course the ants got it first.”

“I have heard that children do that, especially if they're lonely.”

Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “I suppose that if I didn't have a real friend called Mma Ramotswe, I could invent one. I could say that this lady comes out here to see me in a tiny white van and we drink tea and eat fruit cake together. I could make up something like that—if I had to.”

Mma Ramotswe looked pointedly at the saucer beneath her teacup. That saucer was often used for a piece of Mma Potokwane's fruit cake, but for some reason none had been offered that day.

“Oh, my goodness!” exclaimed Mma Potokwane. “What a thoughtless person I am—I have forgotten to offer you a piece of fruit cake, Mma. I thought after three helpings of goat stew you might not…”

“That was some time ago, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe politely. “A piece of fruit cake would be most welcome, now that you mention it.”

Cake was produced, and their conversation continued for another ten minutes before Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch and said that she would have to leave. Although it was mid-afternoon, she wanted to call in at the agency and deal with one or two matters before going home. So she said goodbye to Mma Potokwane and began the drive back to town, thinking, as she did, of the story Mma Potokwane had told her of Mr. Polopetsi and the Fat Cattle Club. It was none of her business what Mr. Polopetsi did in his spare time, but she was fond of him and she felt a certain responsibility towards him. He was, after all, an employee—even if only a very part-time one, and a volunteer at that. More importantly, though, he was a friend, and Mma Ramotswe would never allow a friend to do anything stupid without at least issuing some sort of warning. Was that what she needed to do here? Was Mr. Polopetsi being stupid, or, on the contrary, astute? He was an intelligent man, with his degree in chemistry from the university, but intelligence and judgement were two different things—as her work had shown her on so many occasions and as Clovis Andersen, she seemed to remember, said at some point in
The Principles of Private Detection.
The great Clovis Andersen, from Muncie, Indiana—what would he say about the Fat Cattle Club if he were told about it? She thought for a moment, and then she heard his voice:
Be very careful of anything that looks too good to be true.
Because if it looks too good to be true, that's probably because that's exactly what it is!

S
HE COULD TELL
from Mma Makutsi's expression that something had happened. It was not her
Something dreadful's happened
expression; it was more her
You'll never guess what's happened
look
,
and it involved a wry, rather coy smile.

“So you are back,” said Mma Makutsi. “And how was my friend Mma Potokwane?”

“She was very well, Mma. She sends you her good wishes. She was asking after you.”

Mma Makutsi's smile broadened. “I'm glad to hear that, Mma. I haven't seen her for some time—I should go out and visit her, perhaps.” She paused. “Fruit cake?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “It was as delicious as usual.”

“How many pieces?” asked Mma Makutsi, adding hurriedly, “I would never blame you for having more than one, Mma. Her fruit cake really is special.”

Mma Ramotswe was able to be strictly honest; the question had been about fruit cake, not goat stew. “Just one piece, Mma.” She added, “Since you ask.”

Mma Makutsi shuffled a small pile of papers on her desk. “I must do some filing,” she said. “These papers are getting on top of me.”

Mma Ramotswe knew what was expected of her. “Did anything happen round here, Mma?”

She had read the situation correctly. Mma Makutsi did not wait long to reply, and her tone was triumphant. “Have you been round the back?” she asked.

“Round the back?”

“Yes, outside. The back of the garage. Go and take a look.”

The back of the garage was part of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's domain and Mma Ramotswe rarely ventured round there. It was a place for the storage of oil drums, old tyres, empty wooden crates, and the sundry detritus of a small garage business. It was a place where Charlie and Fanwell liked to sit, perched on empty oil drums, and eat their lunchtime sandwiches. It was a male rather than a female place, one devoted to bits and pieces of old garage equipment, to things that were not currently useful but that may come in handy at some point; a place where men would feel at home.

She left the office by its front door and began to walk round the building. She had no idea what would await her, and her surprise was complete when she saw the dog tied to an old engine block. It was the dog that Fanwell had run over and that she had taken back to Old Naledi. It was back, and it greeted her with a frantic wagging of the tail and a combination of barks and howls. There was no sign of Fanwell, but as she stood there she saw him emerge from the back of the garage, hesitate when he saw her, but then come up to her. His expression was apologetic.

“The dog came back, Mma,” he said, pointing at the excited creature at his feet. “It was while you were over at Mma Potokwane's place. He came back.”

“So I see,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I don't know how he did it,” Fanwell continued. “They say that dogs are very good at finding their way. Do you think it's to do with their very strong sense of smell? Do you think that's how they do it, Mma? Don't you think he's clever, Mma?”

His eagerness betrayed his anxiety, and when Mma Ramotswe looked at him, he winced.

“I didn't encourage him to come back,” he muttered. “I promise you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of acceptance. “I know you didn't, Fanwell. This is not your fault.”

“I didn't know what to do, Mma. So I tied him up here.”

“That's all right, Fanwell,” she said. “You mustn't blame yourself.”

His relief was obvious.

“Has Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said anything?” she asked.

Fanwell sighed. “He said that I would have to take him back again. He said we cannot keep a dog in the garage.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We couldn't leave a dog here overnight. He would be miserable. He'd just howl.”

“I know,” said Fanwell. “But I can't take him home. My uncle has said that he will not have a dog about the place. He says there isn't even enough room for the people already in the house.”

Mma Ramotswe had seen the house that Fanwell lived in; she knew that what he said was true: it was a very small house, not much more than a shack, really, and there were at least three people in every room. She thought, too, that there was probably not much spare food in the house, and that even the few scraps that a dog needed would be hard to come by.

She scratched her head. “I will have to think about this,” she said. “We can't leave him here.”

She made her way back into the office, where Mma Makutsi greeted her with an inquisitive look.

“I've seen the dog,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I'm not surprised. These creatures have maps in their heads. I'm not surprised he came back.”

Her calm acceptance caught Mma Makutsi unawares.

“But I never thought…”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “As I said, I'm not all that surprised.”

She crossed the room to switch on the kettle. “Tea helps in these situations,” she said. “It clears the mind. It helps you think of possible solutions.”

“I can see none,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe returned to her desk. She stared up at the ceiling with its criss-cross of fly tracks. For flies, the ceiling board must have been a great white Kalahari, featureless and limitless.

“Mma Makutsi,” she began. “You have a lot of room at that new place of yours. You have a very big yard. You have that man who works in the garden for you. You have all that space.”

Mma Makutsi looked suspicious. “Yes, Mma, all of that is true, but…”

“I just wondered whether you wouldn't find a dog useful. You don't have one at the moment, do you?”

Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them energetically. “You're not suggesting, are you, Mma, that I should take Fanwell's dog? That it should come and live with Phuti and me?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Well, it's out of the question,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “Phuti does not want another dog. He had one, and it was a lot of trouble. It bit people. He does not want history to repeat itself.”

“So I take it that means no?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “I'm sorry, Mma. I'd like to help, but I can't take Fanwell's dog.”

Mma Ramotswe felt that she had to correct her. “It's not Fanwell's dog,” she said. “Not really.”

“It thinks it is,” said Mma Makutsi. “It has adopted him, I think. That's what's happened, Mma. Dogs can sometimes do that. They see somebody and think,
That's a good person who will give me a lot to eat,
and that's that—as far as the dog's concerned.” She rose to her feet. The kettle was beginning to boil and she usually made the tea. As she prepared the teapot and cups, she continued: “We had a case like that in Bobonong, you know. It was a long time ago. There was a very small man—really small, Mma; about half the size of Mr. Polopetsi, although he had a very big nose—and this big dog came into the village and sat outside this small man's house. It was a very large dog, Mma—I'm not exaggerating when I say that when people first saw it they thought it was a donkey, but then it began to bark and they realised that it was a dog.”

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her seat. She had never visited Bobonong, and felt that her idea of the place, as depicted in Mma Makutsi's stories, was an unlikely one; dogs as large as donkeys, very small men with outsized noses…it all sounded rather improbable.

“Anyway,” Mma Makutsi went on, “this dog just sat outside the small man's house, and when the man came out of the house he licked him and almost knocked him over. He really loved that small man, and nothing would keep him away from him. The dog moved in and ate most of the small man's food. He also took over the bedroom, and made the small man sleep outside on some sacking. I'm not making this up, Mma—it all happened.”

Mma Ramotswe watched as Mma Makutsi poured the tea. She hoped that the story would have a proper ending; often Mma Makutsi's stories ended in doubt: she would say, “And I don't know what happened after that, Mma, but it can't have been good.” Or she might conclude, “Nobody knows what became of these people but I think they are late, or maybe not late yet—who knows?”

“So what happened to the dog?” she asked.

“That small man died,” said Mma Makutsi. “Somebody reversed a tractor over him. They didn't see him, because he was so small; it was nobody's fault.”

“And the dog?”

“Oh, that dog was very sad after his owner became late. He sat there and howled and howled, Mma—looking up at the sky and howling. Dogs think that their people will last forever, Mma—they do not understand about becoming late.”

“No, I suppose they do not.” And that made it easier for them—or, perhaps, harder. Mma Ramotswe felt that she would have to think more about that.

“One of the small man's relatives came,” Mma Makutsi continued. “He was also very small—they all were, those people. Same nose too—these things run in families, you know, Mma. We saw that up in Bobonong; we saw that a lot. There was a family there that had only four toes: grandmother, mother, children—four toes. On each foot, of course: eight toes altogether. It was as if God had said, ‘You people are going to get four toes only. No argument. Four toes, so shut up.' ” She paused. “Anyway, this relative of the small man took the dog off somewhere and he was never seen again. It is not a very happy story, Mma, but Fanwell's dog has brought it all back to me.”

Mma Ramotswe took the teacup Mma Makutsi passed her. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “Tea always helps clear the mind. And as for your story about that small man—I'm very sorry to hear about the tractor.”

“These things happen,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I think those small people—that man's relatives—were used to things like that. That is how their life is, you see. They start off underfoot, so to speak, and they remain there.”

Mma Ramotswe imagined the small family, with their prominent noses, putting up with the indignities heaped upon them by larger people. Mma Makutsi could sometimes simplify things, but she was often very good at seeing the world from another perspective. Tall people could forget that the world might look quite different if you were short; and of course well-off people had a marked tendency to forget how things might look if you were poor. We have to remind ourselves, she thought. We have to remind ourselves how the world looked when viewed from elsewhere.

Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles. She began to polish the lenses, thoughtfully, as one might do when contemplating some great truth. “We would like the world to be different,” she said gravely. “We would like things like that not to happen—but they can't be avoided, Mma—particularly if you're very small.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You're right. They can't be avoided.”

Yes, she thought, no amount of wishful thinking could obliterate the hard facts of existence. There were those who prospered, and those who did not. There were those for whom life was easy, not a struggle at all, and those to whom daily existence was painful and humiliating. That was the pain of the world, and it was all around us, washing at the shores of whatever refuges we created for ourselves. She thought of Fanwell, a young man who had very little in this life, and of his dog, who had even less. She could turn away and say that they had nothing to do with her, or she could accept that they had somehow touched her skirt. For that was how she viewed it: we all had a skirt, and those who touched our skirt became our concern.

After a few sips of tea, Mma Ramotswe had reached her conclusion. “Mma Makutsi,” she said, “you're nearer the door. Could you call Fanwell in, please?”

Fanwell came in, wiping his hands. He looked timidly at Mma Ramotswe, expecting further reproach. But that was not what Mma Ramotswe had in mind.