Precious and Grace (11 page)

Mma Ramotswe tried again. “I didn't come here,” she began, “to talk about—”

Once more she was interrupted—this time by a further wail, an incoherent jumble of words and half-words, intermixed with sobs. Charlie, astonished and embarrassed, looked to Mma Ramotswe for guidance, but she was at a loss.

But then she rose to her feet and moved over to stand next to the distraught woman. Putting an arm about her shoulder, she said, “I didn't come here, Mma, to talk about your husband.”

Somehow her words penetrated the haze of distress enwrapping Mma Bothoko. After a few moments, the sobbing stopped.

Mma Bothoko struggled to speak. “Why are you here, then, Mma?”

“I wanted to know who used to live in this house, Mma—that is all.”

Mma Bothoko glanced at Charlie, as if he might have a different, more sinister purpose.

“And this young man was helping me with that,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “You have answered that question for us, and we need not trouble you further.”

Mma Bothoko sniffed loudly. Mma Ramotswe had handed her a handkerchief, and now she used this to wipe her eyes. Her voice was now under control, although there was an edge of fear to it. “I've been talking nonsense,” she said. “You mustn't listen to me, Mma Ramotswe. I have been very upset and when I'm upset I just speak nonsense—nonsense, nonsense.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed that as she spoke, Mma Bothoko's eyes were fixed on her, appraising her reaction. “Of course you were upset, Mma,” she reassured her. “That can happen to all of us. It's only natural.”

There was relief in Mma Bothoko's expression. Now she was the conscientious hostess. “I have only given you water,” she said. “I must give you something to eat.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “You're very kind, Mma, but my assistant and I must be on our way. We still have to look for this house, you see.”

Mma Bothoko did not seek to persuade them but ushered them out onto the driveway. Her conversation now seemed focused on restoring normality.

“Our garden needs the rain,” she said. “I have been trying to keep these plants going, but every year it gets harder, doesn't it, Mma? More and more of a battle.”

“Yes,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “My husband grows beans and he is complaining too.”

“Beans need water,” said Mma Bothoko.

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “A drip system is best. You waste very little water that way.”

Charlie felt that he had to say something. “We mustn't waste water,” he said.

Mma Bothoko said that this was absolutely true, and Mma Ramotswe took the same view. By that time, though, they had reached the gate and were able to make their farewells.

“You must forgive me for being so silly,” said Mma Bothoko. “Talking all that nonsense.”

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have forgotten all about it, Mma. You mustn't worry.”

They walked to the van in silence and it was not until they were well down the road that Mma Ramotswe spoke.

“That was very sad,” she said.

“She thought you'd come about something else?” said Charlie.

“Yes. About her husband—obviously.”

Charlie asked her whether she knew who he was, and she told him. “One of the most important people in the country,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Chairman of this and chairman of that. Mr. Chairman, really.”

Charlie whistled. “But he must have done something bad, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment before she replied. “Who hasn't, Charlie?”

“Not me, Mma.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Perhaps you should think again, Charlie.”

Charlie frowned. “I haven't been really bad, Mma Ramotswe. Not
really
…”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Charlie, you're one of these people who are easily forgiven.” She paused. “Not for everything, of course, but for most things.”

MMA MAKUTSI WAS WAITING
at the office. She greeted Mma Ramotswe and Charlie with a grave look—one in which concern and outrage both played a part. Mma Ramotswe realised immediately that something serious had happened, and she listened in silence as the story of Violet's nomination was related.

“I would not be surprised if you did not believe me,” concluded Mma Makutsi. “It's truly unbelievable, Mma—truly unbelievable.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Sometimes I realise that I'd believe anything,” she said. “There are so many things that happen that are, well, truly unbelievable.”

Charlie joined in. “Like the story of that woman who ate only soap,” he said. “She lived for two years on nothing but bars of soap. That's all she ate—it was in the papers.”

The two women looked at him. “That's different, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “This is about somebody we actually know—not about some mystery lady in…wherever it was.”

“She lived in Indonesia,” said Charlie. “That's what the papers said. They had a photograph of her. She was…” He hesitated. “She was traditionally built.”

“Well, that may be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But this is a more serious matter, Charlie.”

Charlie frowned. “You know, Mma Makutsi, I think I may know how she survived. They have many coconuts in Indonesia, I think. You get coconut oil from coconuts, don't you? And you can make soap from coconut oil. That must be how she survived.”

Mma Ramotswe turned to Mma Makutsi. “I'm very shocked by this, Mma. But I do not think she will win. People will not vote for her—they just won't.”

“Are you sure, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“I am very sure, Mma. I do not believe that our fellow citizens would be so foolish—not in Botswana.”

Mma Makutsi was silent. She wanted to believe Mma Ramotswe, but it was difficult. Violet Sephotho was ruthless and would do anything to get her hands on a title such as Woman of the Year; she would do anything that was necessary.

“I hope you're right, Mma Ramotswe,” she said, trying to convince herself that Mma Ramotswe, who was right in so many other respects, would be right in this.

M
MA MAKUTSI
was shocked. Three women had dared to contact her claiming to be the woman who had looked after Susan. Three Rosies! And there would be more, she thought, as word got round and every opportunist sensed the prospect of gain. People did not come all the way from Canada empty-handed, after all—there had to be something in the offing.

“I cannot believe it, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “Three liars all getting in touch one after the other—just like that. Liar Number One, Liar Number Two, and then Liar Number Three.”

She looked at Mma Ramotswe in a way that expressed outrage. Her glasses flashed in the shaft of sunlight from the office window. This was a band of gold in which flecks of dust floated, weightless, barely moving.

“The country must be full of liars,” she continued. “There must be liars around every corner. Liars hiding behind every bush. Liars just waiting to tell lies about something. Unrepentant liars. Old liars, young liars; perhaps even babies whose first word is a lie. Perhaps even that, Mma.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “By and large, people are truthful, don't you think?”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, Mma, I don't. I think that there are more and more liars. Soon it will be impossible to believe anything that anybody tells you. You'll ask somebody on the street the time and the answer will be a lie. The person will say that it's four o'clock when it's really only three. You'll ask somebody the way to some place, and what directions will you get? The wrong ones, Mma. They'll say go that way when you should go the other way. All lies, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled.

“It's not an amusing matter, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi reproachfully. “It's very serious. You start with a small trickle of lies, and then the trickle becomes a river—a river of lies. And the river becomes a dam, and then you drown in all the lies, Mma, you drown.”

Mma Ramotswe defended herself. “I'm not saying that lying is not a serious matter, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “All I'd say is that you can't assume that somebody is lying just because they make a claim that may not be true.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “But it's not a question of
may not be true,
Mma—it can't be true.” She looked intently at Mma Ramotswe, eager to drive home her point. “Let me put it this way, Mma Ramotswe: There is one Mma Potokwane, is that correct?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, although there are other people with that name.”

“But I'm talking about Mma Potokwane, the matron of the Orphan Farm. There is just one such lady—is that right?”

“I believe that to be true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is only one Mma Potokwane in that sense.”

Mma Makutsi clearly thought she was getting somewhere. “So if somebody comes along and says, ‘I am Mma Potokwane' and she is not the Mma Potokwane we know, then what are we to conclude, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “We would conclude that this is not the Mma Potokwane we have known for a long time.”

“But would we conclude more than that?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, I am, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi forcefully. “I would conclude that the person who says, ‘I am Mma Potokwane' is a liar. That is what I'd conclude.”

“Unless this person was very confused,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If the person were ill, for example, and not thinking straight. Such a person might claim to be Mma Potokwane but would not necessarily be a liar.”

Mma Makutsi grudgingly accepted that there could be such delusions. “But leaving aside such cases, Mma, what if a person who is not ill says, ‘I am Mma Potokwane'? Such a person would have to be a liar.”

“Maybe…”

“Not maybe, Mma. Definitely.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. They were sitting in the office when this conversation took place and she felt hot and uncomfortable. The rains had to come soon; there had to be relief from this severe heat that was like a hammer on the land, and the dryness that came with it. She was not sure that she wanted to have a hair-splitting argument with Mma Makutsi, but there were issues here that had to be addressed. If she allowed Mma Makutsi to win every argument, then she would be giving up on a duty that Clovis Andersen identified as one of the real threats to successful and principled detective work.
Don't make any false assumptions,
he wrote.
Don't jump to conclusions. Explore every possibility.

“It's possible,” Mma Ramotswe began, “that these Rosies might not be liars.”

Mma Makutsi was quick to retort. “Two of them must be,” she said, “even if all three aren't.”

“But what if one—or more—of them
thinks
that she is Rosie?”

Mma Makutsi scoffed at this. “How could she, Mma. You know who you are; I know who I am. How can you think that you're somebody you aren't? It's impossible.”

“Unless your name
is
Rosie.”

Mma Makutsi was disconcerted by this answer. “If your name…”

“Rosie is a common enough name, Mma Makutsi. So there might be many Rosies in Gaborone—there probably are, in fact. Just as there are many Graces, I think, and quite a few ladies called Precious too.”

“But even if they are Rosies,” objected Mma Makutsi, “they will know that they are not
this
Rosie—the one who looked after Mma Susan.”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head; it was a reasonable point. “Yet Susan is also a common enough name, Mma. So what if there were many Susans at the time—and many Rosies? Would it not be possible that one of these Rosies might have looked after a Susan—but a different Susan?”

Mma Makutsi gave her a doubtful look. “I do not think so, Mma. Oh no, I do not think so at all.”

“Well…,” began Mma Ramotswe.

But she did not finish. The first of the Rosies had made an appointment and there was a hesitant knock on the door.

“The first of the liars,” mouthed Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe gave her a discouraging look, but said nothing. It would have been too late to do so, anyway, as the office door was now being pushed gently and she saw, peering into the room, a tall woman in a green dress.

“This is the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency?” asked the woman. She spoke with a rather strange, guttural accent, as if she were not a native speaker of Setswana, or of English.

“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And you must be Rosie.”

She gave the woman a considered look. Did she resemble the woman in the photograph? It was hard to tell, because of the image's lack of definition, but it was just possible that this woman's head was the same shape as that of the woman in that blurry photograph.

The woman seemed to hesitate before she replied. Only for a moment or two, but it was long enough for Mma Makutsi to notice and to flash a warning glance in Mma Ramotswe's direction. The meaning of this glance was clear enough—at least to Mma Ramotswe. It was:
she had to remind herself that she was claiming to be Rosie.

Mma Ramotswe was less ready to jump to that bleak conclusion. People can be hesitant for all sorts of reasons, she felt—unfamiliar surroundings, social awkwardness, lack of confidence: all of these could explain a brief hesitation in answering.

“Yes,” she said. “I am Rosie.”

Mma Ramotswe invited her to sit down. She offered to make tea, but Rosie declined. As she settled herself in the client chair, Mma Makutsi started to quiz her.

“You read the article?” Mma Makutsi asked.

“I did,” said the woman. “That is why I am here.” She paused, and then continued, “I'm sorry, Mma, but could you tell me who you are?”

The effect of this question on Mma Makutsi was dramatic. Straightening her back, Mma Makutsi sat bolt upright, her lips pursed, her fingers intertwined. “You're asking my name, Mma?” she said. “Is that what you're asking me?”

“If you don't mind, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe was puzzled—not by the question, but by Mma Makutsi's intense reaction to it. “This is Mma Makutsi,” she offered. “She is my assist—” She stopped herself. Mma Makutsi was no longer her assistant, but her co-director. It could have been worse, of course; she might have referred to her as her secretary, something she had almost done a few days earlier, but had fortunately avoided just in time. “She is the co-director here, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi's eye. A signal was being sent in her direction—a signal of great and urgent importance—but she could not work out what it was. Why should Mma Makutsi be so agitated simply because their visitor had asked who she was? She would no doubt find out later, but for the moment she had other questions to ask.

“Now,” Mma Ramotswe began, “you say, Mma, that you are the person who looked after that child all those years ago. May I ask how old you are, Mma?”

The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting the question. “I am fifty-three now, Mma. I was in my early twenties when that child was here.”

Mma Ramotswe jotted
53
on her pad of paper. The woman's eyes followed the movement of the pencil.

Mma Ramotswe looked up from her note, her pencil poised. “And where were you born, Mma?”

“Mahalapye.”

Mma Ramotswe wrote this down.

Now Mma Makutsi asked a question. “Mahalapye, Mma? I have cousins there.”

The woman said nothing.

“They are called Makutsi, like me.”

The woman shrugged. “I do not know those people, Mma.”

“No,” mused Mma Makutsi. “I'm sure you wouldn't. You must have left a long time ago.”

The woman looked at her. “I was eighteen, Mma. I came to Gaborone then. That's over thirty years ago.”

“Of course,” said Mma Makutsi. “Thirty years ago is not yesterday. But…” She hesitated. “These cousins of mine lived fairly close to the railway line—right in the middle of town. What was that place called? The area in the middle? Leretlwa? It was Leretlwa, wasn't it, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe sensed what was happening, but did not say anything.

“Yes,” said the woman. “That is right. There is Leretlwa. I know it.”

Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair, her expression one of scarcely disguised triumph.

Mma Ramotswe looked away. She was taken aback by Mma Makutsi's questioning, but did not show it. “Tell me, Mma,” she said evenly. “How many years did you look after that girl? Two, three years?”

The answer came back quickly. “Eight,” she said. “From when she was a little baby—I helped the mummy even then—until the time those people went back to Canada. I was looking after her all that time.”

“Always in Gaborone?”

“No. In Molepolole to begin with. Then in Gaborone.”

Mma Ramotswe scribbled a note on her pad. “You must have been sad when they left.”

“I was very sad, Mma. I cried and cried. It was like losing my own child.”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head briefly and then looked up again. “I can imagine how you felt, Mma.” She gazed out of the window at the slice of sky that could be seen from this angle. Blue—almost white with heat. No cloud. No rain. Just dry air all the way up to the heavens. Dry, hot air.

“The house?” Mma Makutsi said. “Do you remember where it was?”

The woman replied immediately. “Of course, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “Where was it, Mma?”

The woman pointed over her shoulder. “That way.”

“In the Village? In the old part?”

The woman shook her head. “No, more towards town. You know where the Sun Hotel is? You know that place where the ladies sell their lace tablecloths? You know that place?”

“Of course.”

“On one of those roads that go off the main road right there. On one of them. Round a corner.”