The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (9 page)

It was as direct a question as could be asked, and there was no escape for Mma Makutsi now. “We have been asked to look into a question of somebody's past.”

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “An employment case, then. That's a fairly common enquiry, isn't it?”

“Not employment,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “A personal past.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi shot Mr. Polopetsi a glance, and she could tell what her message was. She did not want too much divulged.

“Is it matrimonial?” asked Mma Ramotswe. Very occasionally they had a client who wanted to find out something about the intended spouse of a son or daughter—usually a daughter. Those were difficult cases, as the motive for the enquiry was often simple dislike of the prospective spouse rather than any real suspicion that he (or she) may have something to hide.

Mma Makutsi frowned. “No, it isn't matrimonial. It's a very straightforward case, really. The client wants to find out about her brother. It's curiosity, Mma—that's all.”

Mma Makutsi looked at her watch. It was clear that she considered the matter closed and that she did not want any further discussion of the case. And Mma Ramotswe understood: had she been in Mma Makutsi's shoes, then she too would have wanted to handle things on her own—anybody, particularly somebody who had always been an employee rather than an employer, would want a chance to do that. And the actual case, she decided, was probably not all that important. The remark made to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that a well-known name was involved probably meant that it was a footballer or a radio announcer—nothing more glamorous than that.

She finished her tea. “Well, Mma,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “I must leave you to get on with your work.”

Mma Makutsi brightened. “Yes, of course. We must do that. We cannot sit about and drink tea all day, can we? We are not on holiday.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe wryly. “I am the one who is on holiday.”

“I have never had a holiday,” Charlie chimed in.

Mma Makutsi made a strange sound—a sound of disbelief mixed with scorn.

“But I work hard,” protested Charlie. “You've seen me working hard, haven't you, Mma Ramotswe?”

Her tone was emollient. “Of course I have, Charlie. Everybody works hard.”

“Not everybody,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “There is a teacher at the school who certainly doesn't work hard. He is a man who knows nothing and therefore can't teach anything to the pupils. He gets them to read out from a book while he sits in his chair and looks out of the window. He is a very ignorant man and he is making all his pupils ignorant too.” He paused. “There is a tidal wave of ignorance, Mma Ramotswe. It is a great tidal wave and it will drown all of us if we are not careful.”

“You call a tidal wave a tsunami,” said Charlie. “Did you know that, Rra?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I have known that for a long time, Charlie.”

“People say there is no excuse for ignorance,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “But I don't think I agree with that. Not in every case. There are some people who are ignorant because they have never had the chance to find out what is what. That is not their fault. Then there are people who have the chance to be taught things but refuse to learn. That is inexcusable ignorance, I think.”

“I agree with that,” said Mma Makutsi. “Those people have nothing in their heads.”

“That is called a vacuum,” said Charlie.

Mma Ramotswe remembered the other matter she had to raise. “There's another thing,” she said. “I was driving in the van yesterday and something caught my eye. There's a new college.”

Mma Makutsi did not seem particularly interested. “There are new schools all over the place. They're thinking of building one near us. Phuti said that he saw the plans. He thinks it looks as if it's been drawn upside down. He is very rude about some new buildings, you know.”

“I don't think this one is a school,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Well, not a school for children. I think this is a college for—”

“The thing I wonder about,” interjected Mma Makutsi, “is where they get the money to build all these new places. That's what I wonder about, Mma.”

“I think that Violet Sephotho—”

Mma Ramotswe did not finish. Mma Makutsi had raised a hand. “Oh, don't talk to me about that woman. Please don't talk to me about her. I do not want to hear about her, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But this—”

“No, Mma, please. I have too much to think about and I cannot think about her too.”

“But this is something that—”

“No, Mma, please. I cannot think about her. I am far too busy running the office while you are away.”

Mma Ramotswe decided not to press the matter. She would have to try again, but she thought that this was clearly not the right time. “Very well, Mma,” she said. “I must go now. You are obviously very busy.”

Mma Makutsi smiled sweetly. “You go off and enjoy yourself, Mma Ramotswe. Put your feet up. Sit in your garden. Go to tea. There are many things you can do, Mma—many, many relaxing things.”

MR. POLOPETSI
accompanied Mma Ramotswe to her van. He was a very courteous man, and he opened the door for her. She liked that. People could say that such manners were a thing of the past, but even those who expressed such a view appreciated it if a door was opened for them; you could not go wrong, thought Mma Ramotswe, in opening a door for somebody.

“Thank you, Rra,” she said. “You are very kind.”

He acknowledged the compliment, but nonetheless seemed distracted. Mma Ramotswe had seen signs of that earlier on, and she sensed that he was under stress. “One thing, Mma Ramotswe,” he said hesitantly.

She settled herself in the driving seat before she looked up at him. “Yes, Rra?”

He lowered his voice although they were alone. There were the two doves, of course, that had made their home in the acacia tree beside the garage, but there was no human ear to overhear what he had to say.

“Yes, Rra?” she repeated.

“That case Mma Makutsi referred to…”

She did not push him, but waited for him to continue.

“That case, Mma, is a very difficult one. She…” He inclined his head in the direction of the office behind them. “She has no idea how to deal with it.”

Mma Ramotswe looked studiously ahead. “Oh,” she said, and then added, “I see.”

“Yes,” went on Mr. Polopetsi. “I am not being disloyal to Mma Makutsi, Mma. I have the greatest respect for that lady. You know that, I think.”

“I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have always known that you admired Mma Makutsi, even if—” She stopped herself.

“Even if what, Mma?”

“Even if I think you may be a little bit worried about what she's going to say—or do. Not very worried, of course—just a little bit.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement of this truth. “Yes, maybe. She is very strong and she is very good at most things. But for some strange reason—and it is worrying me, Mma, this strange reason—she doesn't know what to do with this case.”

“Oh dear,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes—oh dear. And now she has said that I must sort it out. She says that she has too much filing to do and that I should handle this case with Charlie. And Charlie doesn't have a clue, Mma. I do not want to be rude about Charlie, but there are very clear limits to what Charlie knows and can do.”

“He is a good young man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But he has spent too much time thinking about girls. That is his problem.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I find the same thing with the students I teach at the secondary school. Teenage boys, in particular, will not concentrate on what they are meant to be doing. They are always thinking of how they can impress girls.”

“It is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think there must also be teenage girls who can't stop thinking about boys.”

Mr. Polopetsi agreed. “There are those too,” he said. “But be that as it may, Mma, I have no idea either about how to deal with this case. So I was wondering if you might help me.”

She had not expected this, and she thought for a few moments before answering him. She did not want to undermine Mma Makutsi, but this was a direct plea for help from Mr. Polopetsi, who was, after all, an unpaid volunteer and who therefore deserved any help he wanted. “Come to my house this evening,” she said. “Come at six o'clock and tell me all about it. Then I will give you some advice—if I can think of any to give.”

“You are very kind, Mma.”

“No, Rra, you are the kind one. You are helping us out for nothing. That is a sign of a kind man. That is well known, Rra.”

He looked visibly relieved as he closed the van door. “I'll see you this evening, Mma.”

She started the engine and began to make her way back to Zebra Drive. She was still resolved that she would not interfere with Mma Makutsi's affairs, but she could hardly turn down somebody like Mr. Polopetsi. She would do it tactfully, she thought, so that Mma Makutsi would never find out that there had been an intervention. That, she thought, was the best way to interfere in anything: if you did it in such a way that nobody noticed your interference, then no possible harm was done. That was what distinguished a successful meddler from an unsuccessful one, and she was determined that she would be one of the former rather than one of the latter. And who wouldn't?

M
R. POLOPETSI
did not live very far from Zebra Drive and so he walked rather than drove to see Mma Ramotswe that evening. It had looked as if more rain was due, but the clouds that had built up over the horizon had dispersed, leaving the cloudless sky a soft shade of blue. A cushion of cool air had floated in from the south-west, refreshing the land, providing at least some relief from the heat of the afternoon. Mr. Polopetsi, who had embarked on a programme of exercise, was trying to take ten thousand steps a day; so far that day he calculated that he had walked only one thousand, and some of those, he thought, had been very small steps.

“I am walking for the sake of my heart,” he said to Mma Ramotswe as he arrived. “It is a very good thing for the heart if you do a lot of walking.”

She had been standing on the verandah when she saw him arrive, and had gone out into the garden to greet him. “I should walk more,” she said. “But in this hot weather it is very difficult. It may be good for your heart to walk, but if you die of heatstroke, then that is not too good. The doctors would say, ‘A healthy heart, but now it has stopped because of heatstroke.' ”

Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “If it is not one thing that will kill you, Mma, it is another. There is no way round it. We all become late some day.”

“I am planning to become late in my bed,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall be very old—I hope—and I shall be lying in my bed when they suddenly realise that I am late. Either that, or I shall be sitting under a tree and they will see that I have stopped moving. That is one of the best ways to become late, I think. You're sitting under a tree looking out at the cattle and suddenly—whoosh—you go up.”

“I hope that is not for a long time yet,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I cannot imagine Botswana without you, Mma Ramotswe.”

She was touched by his remark. Mr. Polopetsi was not a flatterer—what he said was sincerely meant—and this was an example of the kind things he said.

“You are very kind, Rra,” she said. “I suppose the truth of the matter is that none of us can imagine the world without ourselves in it, but it always carries on, doesn't it, even after we've left?”

She gestured towards the verandah. “There is a place to sit there, Rra. And there is a pot of tea.”

He followed her and sat down on one of the verandah chairs. “We do not have a verandah,” he said. “I have often thought I would build one, but I have never got round to it.”

“I am sorry that you have no verandah, Rra,” she said as she poured him a cup of tea. It was time, though, to stop this talk of walking and becoming late and verandahs and get down to the real reason for his visit. “But now, Mr. Polopetsi, you might like to tell me what's going on.”

He looked apologetic. “I'm sorry, Mma, I was not trying to conceal anything from you. It's just that Mma Makutsi is a bit…”

She held up a hand. “You don't need to apologise, Rra. I know that Mma Makutsi is a bit…” She paused. “Tell me: What's happening? Who is this client?”

He drained his teacup in a single swig. “I shall tell you, Mma, and I shall begin with that very first day of your holiday. We were in the office and a lady came in. She had not made an appointment, but we were all there—Mma Makutsi, me, and Charlie. I was sitting in Mma Makutsi's chair—at her desk.”

She nodded politely, willing him to continue. “And Mma Makutsi at mine?”

“Yes, she was sitting at your desk. Charlie has no desk.”

“No.” And she thought:
Please, Rra, get to the point!

“There is no room for a desk for him.”

She sighed; she had not intended it, but a sigh escaped.

He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Mma Ramotswe?”

“I am perfectly all right, Rra. I just feel that it is as if we are walking around in the dark and not getting anywhere. You know those dreams we have—those dreams where we are trying to get somewhere and we can't get there because for some reason we can't move? It is a bit like that.”

His expression brightened. “Oh, I have those dreams, Mma; I know what you're talking about. Last night, for instance, my wife woke me up and said that I was kicking about in the bed and she thought—”

She had to interrupt. “Mr. Polopetsi! We are not talking about dreams.”

He was a picture of injured innocence. “But you raised the subject, Mma. You're the one who mentioned dreams.”

She sighed again. “Yes, you are right, Rra. I raised the subject of dreams. But I feel that we need to get back to what you were saying about the office. This woman came in…Carry on from there.”

He became businesslike. “She came in. We were all there—as I have said. She came in and said: ‘I am Mma Potokwane.' ”

Mma Ramotswe gave a start. This was the last thing she had expected. She could not imagine Mma Potokwane as a client—it simply made no sense. And why would she need to introduce herself: even if Mr. Polopetsi had not come across Mma Potokwane, then Mma Makutsi and Charlie had; they knew exactly who Mma Potokwane was.

Mr. Polopetsi realised that an explanation was needed. “Oh no, Mma—not
that
Mma Potokwane. Not the Mma Potokwane who's a friend of yours. Not the matron at that place for orphans. That very big lady.”

Mma Ramotswe did not think of Mma Potokwane as being particularly large; she was not small, of course, but then Mr. Polopetsi was a very slight man. She imagined that in his eyes just about everybody would look big, perhaps even intimidatingly so, and that might explain Mr. Polopetsi's rather diffident manner. “Another Potokwane?” she asked.

“Yes, precisely that, Mma. Another Potokwane.”

She reached for the teapot. “So this Potokwane lady,” she said, “this different Potokwane lady, came into the office. What then, Rra?”

Mr. Polopetsi leaned forward in his seat. “It is a very delicate story, Mma. Some of these matters, as you well know, are very delicate indeed.”

She assured him that her years of experience as a private detective had already taught her that. “Ours is a very delicate profession, Rra. It really is.”

Mr. Polopetsi appeared pleased by the reference to
our
profession. “Yes,” he said, beaming with the pleasure that comes with inclusion in a club. “Yes, we have to be very careful. We have to tread like mice.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe saw Mr. Polopetsi as a mouse. He would suit the role, she thought, with his rather small nose and his dainty feet; he would be a very convincing mouse. She, by contrast, would not be much of a mouse; more of a cat, perhaps—a traditionally built cat.

Mr. Polopetsi continued with his story. “This Mma Potokwane explained that it was a family matter. She said that she is the wife of a man called Pound Potokwane. Her own name—before she got married—was Keboneng.”

Mr. Polopetsi waited for her reaction.

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a well-known name, isn't it?”

Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “That man—the well-known Keboneng—was her brother. It was a small family, with just those two—Mma Potokwane, as she now is, and her brother, Government Keboneng.”

“Of course he's late, isn't he? Government Keboneng was bitten by a snake, wasn't he? It was all over the papers.”

Mr. Polopetsi recalled the story. “I remember it very well. I read all about it. It was a very shocking thing. He was at a church picnic out near the dam. He went into the bush to obey a call of nature and he was bitten by a mamba. They rushed him into the Princess Marina, but it was too late—those snakes are too poisonous. He was already late by the time they arrived in Gaborone.”

“It was very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was a very popular man. He was a politician, wasn't he?”

“He was.” Mr. Polopetsi paused. “It was a good name for a politician. I wonder if it was his real name or whether he just took it when he went into politics. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe?”

She did not. “It would not have suited him when he was a boy, I think. But I agree with you, Rra. If you have a name like that on the ballot paper—Government—then you surely are going to think,
This man is destined for power.
And if you think that, then you may well put your cross right there, opposite the good name.”

“There are some very odd names,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “People seem to like these odd names for some strange reason.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled; she had encountered strange names on many occasions. “But this lady, Rra, this Mma Potokwane—what had brought her to the agency? Is she in trouble of some sort?”

Mr. Polopetsi thought for a moment. “I'm not sure that one would describe it as trouble, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be expecting her to say something.

“Well,” she said, “if she is not in trouble, then is somebody else in trouble?” Many people, she knew, felt too embarrassed to cross the threshold of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and sent friends or relatives in their stead. That could complicate matters, with a layer of misunderstanding, or sometimes embellishment, being added to the account of the facts.

But this was not the case. “No,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “She is the one who wants our help. Her trouble, though, could be imagined rather than real.”

“You must explain, Rra.”

He drew a deep breath. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” he began, “this Mma Potokwane's brother, this Mr. Government Keboneng, had many people who were in his party. These people were very upset when he died, Mma—it was a very sad blow for them. Not only had they lost a friend—somebody they admired very much—but they had lost their leader. He was very good at making a speech.”

Mma Ramotswe remembered that. “Oh yes, Rra, I can vouch for that. I went to hear him one day and we were laughing so much that we cried. He told some very funny stories and then, when we were all in a very good mood, he told us that there was bad economic news and we would all just have to accept it and pay more tax. But because we had been laughing so much, when he finished his speech we all felt very cheerful, and nobody mentioned the tax.”

Mr. Polopetsi raised a finger in the air. “People do not like to pay too much tax,” he said. “I have always said that, Mma. They like to hold on to their money.”

“I think they do,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Yet they like the government to give them as much as possible,” Mr. Polopetsi went on. “They think that the government has a big pot of money somewhere that is always full. That is what they think.”

“Yes,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “People like to be given things.”

“If I stood for election,” said Mr. Polopetsi, “and I said, ‘Free sunglasses for everybody, and free—' ”

“—mobile phones,” interrupted Mma Ramotswe. “And free sandwiches. If you said those things, then you would get many, many votes.”

“It's called bribery,” said Mr. Polopetsi, shaking his head sadly.

“Or politics,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “You could call it politics. But let's get back to Mma Potokwane.”

Mr. Polopetsi took another deep breath. “The people who liked this Keboneng, Mma, did not know what to do, we were told. They ran this way and that. They were looking for a man who was just like Government Keboneng, but the truth of the matter is that there was nobody else in Botswana who was at all like him. His shoes were empty, yes, but there was nobody to step into them.”

Mma Ramotswe understood that. There were some empty shoes that she could never imagine being filled—the shoes of the late Seretse Khama, for instance: How could anyone ever occupy those? Or the shoes of her late daddy, Obed Ramotswe, that great judge of cattle who embodied everything that was finest in Botswana; there was not love or decency or compassion enough in all the land to fill that particular pair of shoes—there simply was not. And all those years ago, when she had said farewell to him on his final afternoon, when she knew that so much would die with him, she had thought there would never be enough tears to weep for him and what he stood for.

She looked at Mr. Polopetsi, who had known sadness in his life, and for a moment they were both silent. What had started as a straightforward account had suddenly become something else: a reflection on how we believe in people, how we need them, and how their loss diminishes us.

He broke the spell. “So these people—the supporters of Mr. Keboneng—were always writing to the newspapers to remind people of what he had done and of how much Botswana owed to him. Some people said that they exaggerated, that, yes, he had been a good man, but there were many other good men whose followers were not always speaking about what they had done and were prepared to start talking about other people—people who were not yet late and who were anxious for people to vote for them and allow them to start doing good things for the benefit of the entire community.”

She did not wish to break the flow, but she felt that she had to say something. So she said, “I see,” and left it at that.

Mr. Polopetsi drew a deep breath. “These people—these Kebonengites, as some people called them—were very persistent, Mma. They were not the sort of people to give up, and they pestered and pestered the mayor. There were more letters to the papers—you probably saw them—and they even said that there should be some new building named after Mr. Government Keboneng. But the mayor said to them that he could do nothing about that, as it was up to the people who built buildings to choose what they called them and nobody had offered to give their new building this name. They even suggested that some new airport building might be called after him.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. She thought that was going too far, as the airport already had a name, Sir Seretse Khama Airport, and to call one of its buildings something different would not only cause confusion, but could well be considered disrespectful.