The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (20 page)

Mma Ramotswe sensed that battle was about to be joined. She thought that perhaps she should intervene before things were said that could never be retracted, but now it was too late—Mma Makutsi had taken a deep breath and was ready to begin.

“Oh, so I am just any old person,” said Mma Makutsi, and, turning to Mma Ramotswe, repeated, “any old person—that is who we are, apparently, Mma Ramotswe. Any old person.”

“Oh, I don't think that Mma Sephotho meant it like that, Mma—”

Mma Ramotswe was not allowed to finish. “I can tell what you mean, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, addressing Violet. “I am not so stupid. And I can read too, Mma. I can read that sign that says the No. 1 Ladies' College. I know that that is meant to exploit the goodwill that goes with the name of Mma Ramotswe's business. I can see that, you know. I may be any old person, but I am not any old stupid person.”

“You're talking nonsense,” snapped Violet. “You are talking big nonsense. You cannot claim words in the English language and say those are yours. You cannot stop other people using the words
number
or
one
or
ladies
because those are your private words. You cannot lock words up in the safe, you know.”

Mma Makutsi ignored this point. “I wanted to tell you something as a friend, Mma. I wanted to tell you that we are watching you. I'm going to go and speak to the Botswana Secretarial College people and tell them to watch you too. We do not need another college like this—we have a perfectly good one already, and you know the name of that.”

Violet Sephotho's nostrils flared. “Oh, Mma? Oh, do I? The Botswana Secretarial College—that old-fashioned dump. That place that thinks it's so special, but is only for failures and…and for people from Bobonong and places like that.”

Had she spent hours preparing her insults, had she brooded over them, burnished them, and then brought them out as weapons are brought out before cheering crowds at military parades, Violet Sephotho could not have chosen her words with more devastating effect. For a good minute or so, Mma Makutsi said nothing, but stood where she was, her mouth agape, glaring at the woman in the purple dress seated behind her desk. Then, very slowly, as if muscles that had previously been in a spasm of shock were restored to normal, she inched closer to her adversary.

“You are a very wicked woman,” Mma Makutsi hissed. “You have no loyalty to the college that took you in and made a secretary of you. You clearly have no gratitude for that—no feeling of loyalty; nothing, Mma, nothing. You are full of nothing. There is nothing in your head and nothing inside that heart of yours. Nothing, Mma.”

“Oh, don't be so ridiculous,” said Violet. “The Botswana Secretarial College is irrelevant to the new Botswana. People are looking for better training. They want ideas. They want modern views.”

Mma Makutsi's breathing was now quite audible; laboured and irregular, it was the breathing of one whose heart was pounding wildly within her as adrenaline raced through her system. “Fifty per cent,” she hissed. “That's what you got, isn't it? Fifty per cent. The bare pass mark. Maybe that's a modern result. Hah!”

“Those things mean nothing,” said Violet. “Those things are for children.”

“Oh, do they?” responded Mma Makutsi, now almost shouting. “If they mean nothing, why do they have them, then?”

“To impress people from places like Bobonong,” said Violet. “They are clearly very easily impressed.”

Oh dear,
thought Mma Ramotswe.
Not even the Secretary-General of the UN, not even the Pope, could do much to defuse this crisis,
but she would try. “Perhaps we should think about all this,” she began. “Perhaps we should…”

She did not finish; a young woman had appeared at the door of the office and was clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” said the young woman politely. “Excuse me, but I need to talk to you, Mma Sephotho.”

Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe fell silent.

“I can come back later if you wish,” said the young woman.

Something, some inner voice, seemed to tell Mma Ramotswe that this was important. Perhaps it was Mma Makutsi's shoes—and perhaps Mma Makutsi heard them too, because she looked down at that precise moment.

Those fancy-looking shoes have got something to say, Boss. We'd listen if we were you.

Mma Ramotswe glanced at the young woman's shoes. They were indeed fancy. But surely the voice was illusory; surely it was all in the mind and the voice apparently coming from the shoes was merely an expression of what one was thinking.

Mma Ramotswe acted. “No, don't worry about us,” she said to the young woman. “We have plenty of time. You can speak to Mma Sephotho.”

The young woman did not notice Violet Sephotho stiffen. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I mustn't stay too long because I am expected at my work. I just wanted to check up on how often you needed me to come and sign in—for the regulations. Was it once a week, or was it once a month?”

Mma Makutsi exchanged a glance with Mma Ramotswe. For her part, Violet looked flustered. “We can talk about this some other time,” Violet said.

But it was too late. Mma Makutsi turned to the young woman and smiled. “I think I'm in the same position, Mma. I don't want to be caught.”

It worked. It was a stratagem that she had found in Clovis Andersen's
The Principles of Private Detection.
The author of that seminal work had written that if you suspected that somebody was doing something wrong, then one way of eliciting information was simply to suggest that you yourself were engaged in the same wrong.
They'll fill in all the details you need,
he wrote.

“No,” said the young woman. “That's the last thing I want. I don't want them to think that I'm not a proper student.”

“Of course not,” said Mma Makutsi quickly.

“Because then you have big problems with work permits and tax and so on,” continued the young woman. “This sorts all of that out—as long as we do it right.”

There was a strange sound from Violet, but it did not interrupt the exchange.

“Have you found a job?” asked Mma Makutsi.

Violet opened her mouth to protest, but the young woman seemed unaware of her discomfort. “I've found a great job. The pay is really good and the hours not bad at all. I'm very happy with it.”

Mma Makutsi looked pleased. “And no problem with a work permit?”

The young woman shook her head. “None. If you're a student you're allowed to take on a part-time job. You know that, don't you?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “I know that,” she said, and then looked directly at Violet Sephotho. “This is very interesting, Mma.”

Violet rose to her feet. “You get out of here, Grace Makutsi!” she shouted. “You just get out!”

“Oh, I'll leave, all right, Mma. But where shall I go once I'm out of this office—this so-called office, should I say? Shall I go straight to the police? Or shall I go to the Labour Department? What do you think, Violet?”

Mma Ramotswe stepped forward. “There is no need to go to the police,” she said.

Mma Makutsi shot her a reproachful look. “But this whole thing is a criminal operation, Mma.”

This was the signal for Violet to scream. “You're calling me a criminal? You're calling me a criminal, Grace Makutsi?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe intervened again. “I think we should all calm down,” she said.

“I'm very calm,” hissed Mma Makutsi. “I am as calm as a currant.”

As calm as a currant?
Mma Ramotswe looked perplexed. But this was not the time for a discussion of words and what they mean. “I have a proposal to make,” she said softly. “If this college is a sham…”

“It is a sham, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is a big sham. One hundred per cent sham.”

“If it is a sham,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “then it should be closed. That is very clear.”

“And money refunded,” added Mma Makutsi.

“It is not your money,” said Violet. “It's my money. It is legitimately charged for courses.”

“For rubbish,” said Mma Makutsi. “How can you teach these subjects when you got only fifty per cent in the finals? Answer that, Violet Sephotho!”

The young woman had been silent in the face of this exchange, but now she joined in. “Fifty per cent? A teacher with fifty per cent? The principal of a college with fifty per cent?”

“You shut up,” snapped Violet. “You're just an ignorant student. You know nothing about nothing.”

This was not a wise remark. Drawing herself up to her full height, the young woman fixed Violet with a steely gaze. “You call me ignorant, Mma? Well, I am going to go and discuss that with the other students and see what they think. I shall also tell them that you are a person who has only fifty per cent, and they will say, ‘Oh, this is very sad that we have been hoodwinked by such an ignorant woman.' That is what they will say, Mma.”

“You shut up!” screamed Violet. “You shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“No, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are the one who must shut up, Violet. You must shut up and then you must close this place down. There must be no more fooling of our immigration and labour people. Do you understand that, Violet?”

Violet had been listening carefully and had realised that her best chance lay with Mma Ramotswe.

“I will do what you suggest, Mma Ramotswe. I will do that.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to settle things in that way. There is enough trouble in the world already, don't you think, Mma Sephotho?”

Mma Ramotswe waited for an answer, but none came.

“I said that there is enough trouble in the world already, Mma. Did you hear that?”

Violet now spoke. “I heard that, Mma.”

“And you know what you must do if you wish to avoid further trouble? You know what you have to do?”

“I do,” said Violet.

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is very good.”

She turned to Mma Makutsi. “I think that we should go now, Mma. You have to be in the office and I have to be back at my place.”

“You're not coming back to work, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“I am still on holiday,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I am now planning to go away to Mochudi. It is a good idea to spend your holiday away, if at all possible. It is not compulsory—I am not saying that—but it is definitely a good idea.”

Mma Makutsi went off to the office while Mma Ramotswe returned to Zebra Drive. It was not yet half past nine, and yet she felt she had already crammed several days' work into a few hours. Once home, she prepared herself a cup of red bush tea and took it with her into the garden. The morning was a warm one, but the real heat of the day was yet to come and it was still possible to walk out in the sun without longing for shade.

She stopped to look up at the sky, remembering something her father had told her: “If you look at the sky, the things you need to think about will come into your mind.” It was such a strange thing to say, and yet, on the odd occasion that she had done this, it had worked: she had thought about important things, and it had become clear to her what she had to do.

The sky was empty—a high, singing vault of blue that made her dizzy just to look at it. She closed her eyes, and then reopened them. If you looked up into that blue for long enough it seemed that the air was dancing, as air can do when it is heated and there are currents within it. She thought:
I have been unfair to Mma Makutsi. I have not trusted her to deal with things that she has shown herself to be perfectly capable of handling.

She looked down at the ground, at Botswana beneath her feet. The next time she saw Mma Makutsi, she would repair the situation. She would tell her how highly she thought of her and say, too, that were it possible, she would promote her; but such promotion was not possible, as she was now a partner in the business. But then she thought better of that; she would say nothing about promotion, because even if it were not possible for Mma Makutsi to rise higher in the agency, if she mentioned the idea then Mma Makutsi would be sure to find some way of achieving it. So she would remain silent, for, after all, it is perfectly possible to be both silent and grateful at one and the same time.

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
she drove out to Mochudi, it rained. The storm hit shortly before midnight, announcing itself with a great explosion of thunder that cracked the sky, that shook the land. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni slept through it all, but Mma Ramotswe awoke and lay in bed listening to that most blessed of sounds—rainwater drumming on the tin roof of a house. It was what the country desperately needed if the crops were to be saved and the cattle to flourish. It would heal the earth and soothe the minds of the people and the animals waiting for just this relief. It would lower the temperature and bring cool and green to a land that for months had been hot and brown. The blessing of rain was the one thing in Botswana that would unite those who might disagree about much else:
pula,
the word for rain in the Setswana language, also meant good fortune—
“Pula! Pula! Pula!”
was the encouraging chant that children learned at school and carried in their hearts for the rest of their lives.
“Pula! Pula! Pula!”

At first light she went out into her garden. The rain clouds had passed on, although there were still purple banks in the distance—the good fortune of somewhere to the west that would now be getting its share of the bounty. There had been a large downpour, and the ground was sated; here and there puddles had formed where the earth could cope with no more; here and there, rising from holes in the ground, came clouds of flying ants, wings aflutter, an irresistible target for the birds swooping in and out of the airborne feast.

She filled her lungs with the morning air, so clean now, so sharp and fresh, while at her feet the miracle of transformation was already occurring—tiny shoots of green, appearing between grains of sand, were making their presence known. Within hours there would be a green tinge to the brown; within days there would be fully formed blades of grass.

A few hours later she was on the way to Mochudi, following the road that she knew so well. Not far from the village, this road took her past a small burial ground, a short walk from the road, and she stopped and made her way to one of its corners. There she found the two graves that she had come to visit: the grave of her mother, lost to her when she was not much more than a babe in arms, and that of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe. She had erected a new stone to him a few years earlier, as the old one had been knocked over by a donkey and had split across the top.
Obed Ramotswe, A citizen of Botswana, A much-loved husband and father, now with the Lord Forever.
That was all it said, but it was enough. It might have said
Great Judge of Cattle;
it might have said
Miner;
it might have said
Witness to the Birth of a Country of which he was so Proud;
but it did not, for the words spoken by stone may be brief and to the point, and yet carry so much weight.

As was the custom, above the graves there was a small canopy, a tattered piece of canvas that she renewed every so often, stretched across a rectangle of metal bars that supported it. This provided shade for the sleepers below, and showed that they were still loved by those who kept their shelter there.

She touched this, then took a step back, wiped away her tears, and went back to the van. It became no easier as the years went by. People said that it would; people said that you forgot late people after a few years, that you forgot what they looked like and what they said; but they were wrong—she was sure of that. She had never known her mother, but every detail of her father was etched in her memory—the old hat he wore, the way he looked at her when he spoke, the things he told her about his life. She would never forget all that because it was now part of her, as familiar to her as the weather.

Continuing her journey, she arrived on the outskirts of the village and drove to the house of the cousin with whom she would spend the next few days. She always got a warm welcome there, as she and the cousin had grown up together and had many memories in common.

The cousin embraced her and then asked her what brought her to Mochudi.

“I am on holiday,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have been on a sort of holiday for a little while; now I am on a full-blown holiday.”

“So you want to do nothing?” asked her cousin.

“I want to do nothing,” confirmed Mma Ramotswe. “Nothing except talk to you and drink tea and help you with the children and maybe sweep the yard. And cook, of course. I will go and buy food at the store and I shall cook it for you. That is the sort of holiday I am on.”

The cousin showed her pleasure at this response. “That sounds perfect to me. I was hoping that somebody would come along and say just what you've said.”

“Then let's start my holiday with a cup of tea and a chat about what's been happening in Mochudi.”

“A very good idea,” said the cousin. “I have some very interesting stories to tell you. You remember that girl who was at school with us, whose father was a brother of the Chief? Do you remember her? Well, she found a husband at last. She has married a man who owns a delivery truck. They have two small children now, and those children have both got very large noses.”

“Just like her,” said Mma Ramotswe.

The cousin nodded. “I have always said that our faces tell everything that needs to be known about our history. I have always said that.”

“I think I remember you saying it,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“And then there is a new teacher. This one has got two diplomas, they say—one from the University of Botswana and one from the University of Cape Town. We have not had a teacher with two diplomas ever before.”

“Then the children will end up knowing twice as much,” said Mma Ramotswe.

The conversation continued in this vein while they drank tea. Then it was time for lunch, cooked by the cousin: rice, peas, and chicken, which is what the cousin always made for Mma Ramotswe, because they had eaten that dish on Sundays when they were children and it brought back memories.

“I am a bit tired,” said Mma Ramotswe after she had done the washing-up.

“Then you must go and have a sleep,” said the cousin. “In this hot weather a sleep in the afternoon is always a good idea.”

She led Mma Ramotswe to her room, at the back of the house, where it was cooler and shadier, and where Mma Ramotswe sunk onto the bed and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that the unwinding that should have happened at the beginning of her holiday, but that for various reasons had not taken place, was now beginning. Her limbs felt heavy; her mind gloriously empty; her skin cool thanks to the breeze that blew in through the house, entering by the front door, moving through her room, and passing out of the back.

She dozed, entering into a world half of dream, half of wakefulness. She thought of her garden at home, and saw the first green leaves; she thought of the children making their way to school; she thought of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni cooking for them in her absence—he had assured her that he would cope perfectly well. She thought of rice, peas, and chicken, and of how much she loved that combination. And then she thought of Clovis Andersen's
The Principles of Private Detection;
she saw the book on her desk, and she thought of its author, far away in Muncie, Indiana, which he had told her had great cornfields about it, and she saw those too, the plants waving very gently in the wind. And then, quite unexpectedly, a phrase from the book came to her:
Don't believe everything anybody tells you,
he said.
There are people who will tell you lies because they take a secret pleasure in misleading you.

She suddenly thought of a small boy called Samuel. She saw the woman who had been using him, and she heard her saying,
That woman is late.
She had said that; she had told her that Samuel's mother had died a year before, but she had not told him of this. And then she heard Mma Potokwane saying,
That boy is inconsolable.

A shocking thought occurred. What if it were not true? What if that woman had not wanted her to find Samuel's mother for whatever reason—either because she feared retribution or because she did not want her claim on the boy to be challenged by a real parent?

The thought made her sit up. It was entirely possible. And now that poor little boy had been told that his mother was dead: yet nobody had checked up on that. She had simply accepted the facts as they were told to her, but Clovis Andersen would surely say that she should have verified them.

It was a very uncomfortable realisation, and it made an afternoon sleep out of the question. It meant, too, that she had to say to the cousin, “I know I'm on holiday, but something has cropped up and I need to go back to Gaborone.”

The cousin was disappointed, but did not demur when she heard the nature of the emergency.

“You must go, Mma. There is no doubt about it—you must go.”

SHE DID NOT GO BACK
to the house on Zebra Drive, but made her way directly to the office. There was nobody in the garage, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni having driven off in his tow-truck on an emergency call, and in the agency itself there were only Charlie and Mr. Polopetsi, seated at her desk and Mma Makutsi's respectively.

Charlie looked at her reproachfully. “Mma Makutsi said you were on a real holiday now, Mma,” he said.

She reassured him that she had no objection to his using her desk while she was away. “Don't worry, Charlie,” she said. “I have not come to check up on you. I have come because I need you and Mr. Polopetsi to help me do something.”

“We're ready to help,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “We'll do anything required, Mma.”

She explained that what she had in mind would take several hours and that they might not be home until nine or ten at night. “We have to go to Lobatse,” she said. “Once we are there we have some enquiries to make.” And then, in order to sweeten the pill, she told Charlie that he could drive if he wished. This cheered him up, and after a few minutes of tidying up in the office they left in the tiny white van, with Charlie at the wheel, shooting out into the Tlokweng Road at what Mma Ramotswe considered an excessive speed. She did not criticise him, though, her mind being on what lay ahead at the other end of the hour-long drive to Lobatse.

“Tell me,” she said to Mr. Polopetsi. “You worked down there, didn't you, Rra—when you were a government pharmacist? You know the bars in Lobatse, I take it?”

Mr. Polopetsi looked concerned. “Not really, Mma. I am not a big man for bars. I never really went to those places.”

“But you know where they are?”

“Yes, I heard people talking. Some of the young men in the hospital would talk about them sometimes.”

“And they mentioned the bad bars? Did they talk about the bars where bad women like to go?”

Charlie laughed. “You shouldn't be asking Mr. Polopetsi things like that, Mma! He is a very quiet man. He wouldn't know any bad women.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked at him askance. “I am a man of the world, Charlie. You think that just because you're young and the girls all like you that people like me are no good.”

Charlie apologised. “I was not saying that, Rra. It's just that if you want to know where the lions go to feed, you shouldn't ask a hedgehog.”

Mma Ramotswe intervened. “I don't think any of this helps,” she said. “Now, do you know the names of the bars where a certain sort of woman is most likely to be found?”

“There are two, I think,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I have been to neither, but I have heard that one of them, in particular, is full of bad women all the time and the other is less full of them, although they do go there too.”

“What is the name of the one that is full of these ladies?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“It's called the Good Times First Class Bar,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I can show you where it is—although, as I said, Mma, I have never been inside.”

Charlie sniggered. “I hope not, Rra—otherwise I would have to tell your wife next time I saw her.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are both going to be going there tonight. Anonymously, of course. Now, if you listen to me I shall tell you what I want you to do.”

BY THE TIME
they reached the Good Times First Class Bar in Lobatse it was already dark. It stood at the end of a street in the middle of the town, beside a large jacaranda tree. Behind this tree was a car park for the patrons, and this was almost full when they arrived, making it necessary for the white van to be parked very close to the entrance—not the most discreet of positions, and one that any arriving or departing guests of the bar would have to walk past.
If you need to be discreet, don't park in obvious places,
advised Clovis Andersen in
The Principles of Private Detection.
But there were times, such as this, when one had no alternative, thought Mma Ramotswe. Perhaps it was easier to be discreet in Muncie, Indiana.

Mma Ramotswe repeated their instructions before they got out of the car. “I shall stay here,” she said. “I would look out of place in there. You two go in and buy a drink—here's the money.” She handed them two hundred pula. “Find a lady who looks as if she wants to be bought a drink. Not a very young one—an experienced lady.”

“They're all experienced in there, Mma,” said Charlie, with a snigger.

“You know what I mean,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Find a lady who looks as if she knows everybody. She'll look at home in the bar. She'll have been around. She'll know just about everybody in Lobatse—that sort of lady.”

“I know what you mean,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Worldly wise.”

“Exactly. Find that lady and then ask her if she knows anybody—any lady who goes to bars and likes men—who had a son called Samuel about nine or ten years ago. Understand?”

“A son called Samuel,” said Charlie. “And if she does?”