Morality for Beautiful Girls (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GOVERNMENT MAN

T
HE FOLLOWING morning Mma Ramotswe was at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency before Mma Makutsi arrived. This was unusual, as Mma Makutsi was normally first to arrive and already would have opened the mail and brewed the tea by the time that Mma Ramotswe drove up in her tiny white van. However, this was going to be a difficult day, and she wanted to make a list of the things that she had to do.

“You are very early, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Is there anything wrong?”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. In a sense there was a great deal wrong, but she did not want to dishearten Mma Makutsi, and so she put a brave face on it.

“Not really,” she said. “But we must start preparing for the move. And also, it will be necessary for you to go and get the garage sorted out. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is feeling a bit unwell and might be going away for a while. This means that you will not only be Assistant Manager, but Acting Manager. In fact, that is your new title, as from this morning.”

Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. “I shall do my best as Acting Manager,” she said. “I promise that you will not be disappointed.”

“Of course I won’t be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that you are very good at your job.”

For the next hour they worked in companionable silence. Mma Ramotswe drafted her list of things to do, then scratched some items out and added others. The early morning was the best time to do anything, particularly in the hot season. In the hot months, before the rains arrived, the temperature soared as the day wore on until the very sky seemed white. In the cool of the morning, when the sun barely warmed the skin and the air was still crisp, any task seemed possible; later, in the full heat of day, both body and mind were sluggish. It was easy to think in the morning—to make lists of things to do—in the afternoon all that one could think about was the end of the day and the prospect of relief from the heat. It was Botswana’s one drawback, thought Mma Ramotswe. She knew that it was the perfect country—all Batswana knew that—but it would be even more perfect if the three hottest months could be cooled down.

At nine o’clock Mma Makutsi made a cup of bush tea for Mma Ramotswe and a cup of ordinary tea for herself. Mma Makutsi had tried to accustom herself to bush tea, loyally drinking it for the first few months of her employment, but had eventually confessed that she did not like the taste. From that time on there were two teapots, one for her and one for Mma Ramotswe.

“It’s too strong,” she said. “And I think it smells of rats.”

“It does not,” protested Mma Ramotswe. “This tea is for people who really appreciate tea. Ordinary tea is for anyone.”

Work stopped while tea was served. This tea break was traditionally a time for catching up on small items of gossip rather than for the broaching of any large subjects. Mma Makutsi enquired after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and received a brief report of Mma Ramotswe’s unsatisfactory meeting with him.

“He seemed to have no interest in anything,” she said. “I could have told him that his house was on fire and he probably wouldn’t have bothered very much. It was very strange.”

“I have seen people like that before,” said Mma Makutsi. “I had a cousin who was sent off to that hospital in Lobatse. I visited her there. There were plenty of people just sitting and staring up at the sky. And there were also people shouting out at the visitors, shouting strange things, all about nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “That hospital is for mad people,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is not going mad.”

“Of course not,” said Mma Makutsi hurriedly. “He would never go mad. Of course not.”

Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. “But I still have to get him to a doctor,” she said. “I was told that they can treat this sort of behaviour. It is called depression. There are pills which you can take.”

“That is good,” said Mma Makutsi. “He will get better. I am sure of it.”

Mma Ramotswe handed over her mug for refilling. “And what about your family up in Bobonong?” she asked. “Are they well?”

Mma Makutsi poured the rich red tea into the mug. “They are very well, thank you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I think that it is easier to live in Bobonong than here in Gaborone. Here we have all these troubles to think about, but in Bobonong there is nothing. Just a whole lot of rocks.” She stopped herself. “Of course, it’s a very good place, Bobonong. A very nice place.”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “You do not have to be polite about Bobonong,” she said. “I can laugh about it. It is not a good place for everybody. I would not like to go back, now that I have seen what it is like to live in Gaborone.”

“You would be wasted up there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What’s the use of a diploma from the Botswana Secretarial College in a place like Bobonong? The ants would eat it.”

Mma Makutsi cast an eye up to the wall where her diploma from the Botswana Secretarial College was framed. “We must remember to take that to the new office when we move,” she said. “I would not like to leave it behind.”

“Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe, who had no diplomas. “That diploma is important for the clients. It gives them confidence.”

“Thank you,” said Mma Makutsi.

The tea break over, Mma Makutsi went to wash the cups under the standpipe at the back of the building, and it was just as she returned that the client arrived. It was the first client for over a week, and neither of them was prepared for the tall, well-built man who knocked at the door, in the proper Botswana manner, and politely awaited his invitation to enter. Nor were they prepared for the fact that the car which brought him there, complete with smartly attired Government driver, was an official Mercedes-Benz.

YOU KNOW who I am, Mma?” he said, as he took up the invitation to seat himself in the chair before Mma Ramotswe’s desk.

“Of course, I do, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe courteously. “You are something to do with the Government. You are a Government Man. I have seen you in the newspapers many times.”

The Government Man made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Yes, there’s that, of course. But you know who I am when I am not being a Government Man?”

Mma Makutsi coughed politely, and the Government Man half-turned to face her.

“This is my assistant,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “She knows many things.”

“You are also the relative of a chief,” said Mma Makutsi. “Your father is a cousin of that family. I know that, as I come from that part too.”

The Government Man smiled. “That is true.”

“And your wife,” went on Mma Ramotswe, “she is some relative of the King of Lesotho, is she not? I have seen a photograph of her, too.”

The Government Man whistled. “My! My! I can see that I have come to the right place. You people seem to know everything.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded to Mma Makutsi and smiled. “It is our business to know things,” she said. “A private detective who knows nothing would be no use to anybody. Information is what we deal in. That is our job. Just as your job is giving orders to civil servants.”

“I don’t just give orders,” the Government Man said peevishly. “I have to make policy. I have to make decisions.”

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It must be a very big job being a Government Man.”

The Government Man nodded. “It is not easy,” he said. “And it is not made any easier if one is worried about something. Every night I wake up at two, three and these worries make me sit up in my bed. And then I don’t sleep, and when it comes to making decisions in the morning my head is all fuzzy and I cannot think. That is what happens when you are worried.”

Mma Ramotswe knew that they were now coming to the reason for the consultation. It was easier to reach it this way, to allow the client to bring the matter up indirectly rather than to launch straight into an enquiry. It seemed less rude, somehow, to allow the matter to be approached in this way.

“We can help with worries,” she said. “Sometimes we can make them vanish altogether.”

“So I have heard,” said the Government Man. “People say that you are a lady who can work miracles. I have heard that.”

“You are very kind, Rra.” She paused, running over in her mind the various possibilities. It was probably unfaithfulness, which was the most common problem of all the clients who consulted her, particularly if, as in the Government Man’s case, they were in busy jobs that took them away from home a great deal. Or it could be something political, which would be new terrain for her. She knew nothing about the workings of political parties, other than that they involved a great deal of intrigue. She had read all about American presidents and the difficulties that they had with this scandal and that scandal, with ladies and burglars and the like. Could there be something like that in Botswana? Surely not, and if there were, she would not choose to get involved. She could not see herself meeting informants on dark corners in the dead of night, or talking in whispers to journalists in bars. On the other hand, Mma Makutsi might appreciate the opportunity …

The Government Man raised his hand, as if to command silence. It was an imperious gesture, but then he was the scion of a well-connected family and perhaps these things came naturally.

“I take it that I can speak in complete confidence,” he said, glancing briefly at Mma Makutsi.

“My assistant is very confidential,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can trust her.”

The Government Man narrowed his eyes. “I hope so,” he said. “I know what women are like. They like to talk.”

Mma Makutsi’s eyes opened wide with indignation.

“I can assure you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe, her tone steely, “that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is bound by the strictest principle of confidentiality. The strictest principle. And that goes not only for me but also for that lady over there, Mma Makutsi. If you are in any doubt as to this, then you should find some other detectives. We would not object to that.” She paused. “And another thing, Rra. There is a lot of talking that goes on in this country, and most of it, in my opinion, is done by men. The women are usually too busy to talk.”

She folded her hands on her desk. She had said it now, and she should not be surprised if the Government Man walked out. A man in his position would not be used to being spoken to in that way and he presumably would not take well to it.

For a moment the Government Man said nothing, but simply stared at Mma Ramotswe.

“So,” he said at last. “So. You are quite right. I am sorry that I suggested that you would not be able to keep a secret.” Then, turning to Mma Makutsi, he added, “I am sorry that I suggested that thing about you, Mma. It was not a good thing to say.”

Mma Ramotswe felt the tension ebb away. “Good,” she said. “Now why don’t you tell us about these worries? My assistant will boil the kettle. Would you like bush tea or ordinary tea?”

“Bush,” said the Government Man. “It’s good for worries, I think.”

“BECAUSE YOU know who I am,” said the Government Man, “I don’t have to start at the beginning, or at least at the beginning of the beginning. You know that I am the son of an important man. You know that. And I am the firstborn, which means that I shall be the one to head the family when God calls my father to join him. But I hope that will not be for a long time.

“I have two brothers. One had something wrong with his head and does not talk to anybody. He never talked to anybody and took no interest in anything from the time he was a little boy. So we have sent him out to a cattle post and he is happy there. He stays there all the time and he is no trouble. He just sits and counts the cattle and then, when he has finished, he starts again. That is all that he wants to do in life, even though he is thirty-eight now.

“Then there is my other brother. He is much younger than I am. I am fifty-four, and he is only twenty-six. He is my brother by another mother. My father is old-fashioned and he had two wives and his mother was the younger. There were many girl children—I have nine sisters by various mothers, and many of them have married and have their own children. So we are a big family, but small in the number of important boys, who are really only myself and this brother of twenty-six. He is called Mogadi.

“I am very fond of my brother. Because I am so much older than he is, I remember him very well from when he was baby. When he grew a bit, I taught him many things. I showed him how to find mopani worms. I showed him how to catch flying ants when they come out of their holes at the first rains. I told him which things you can eat in the bush and which you cannot.

“Then one day he saved my life. We were staying out at the cattle post where our father keeps some of his herds. There were some Basarwa there, because my father’s cattle post is not far from the place where these people come in from the Kalahari. It is a very dry place, but there is a windmill which my father set up to pump water for the cattle. There is a lot of water deep underground and it tastes very good. These Basarwa people liked to come and drink this water while they were wandering around and they would do some work for my father in return for some milk from the cows and, if they were lucky, a bit of meat. They liked my father because he never beat them, unlike some people who use sjamboks on them. I have never approved of beating these people, never.