Precious and Grace (12 page)

Mma Ramotswe made a further note. “Could you show us, Mma? If I took you in my van—could you show us?”

The woman thought for a moment. “I suppose so.”

“Right now, Mma?”

“If you want me to.”

Mma Ramotswe saw Mma Makutsi make some sort of sign, but she could not make out what it was. She threw her an enquiring glance, but all that Mma Makutsi did was to shake her head slightly.

“My van is very small, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There would not be room for the three of us, but I can borrow my husband's car. He runs that garage through there.”

The woman made to stand up. “I'm ready, Mma. I can show you where the place is.”

Mma Ramotswe slipped her notepad into a drawer and rose from her chair. “Mma Makutsi and I will go and fetch the car,” she said, looking purposefully towards Mma Makutsi. “We will only be five minutes or so.”

The woman sat down again. “I can wait, Mma,” she said. Then she added, “Tell me, Mma: Is this Mma Susan wanting to say something to me?”

Mma Ramotswe stood still. “What do you mean, Mma?”

“I mean: Why is she wanting to see me? Is she wanting to…” She did not finish the sentence, but Mma Ramotswe knew what lay behind the question. Avarice, she thought, always shows in the eyes. Avarice could shine, could shine forth like a searchlight.

“I think she wants to thank you,” she said. “That is all I know.”

It was true, and she saw the effect of her reply. The woman smiled, and in an attempt at modesty said, “Oh, I do not need to be thanked.”

“But she would like to do so,” said Mma Makutsi. “Sometimes that is important for people.”

The woman said nothing.

“We shall fetch the car,” said Mma Ramotswe.

MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI'S CAR
was parked on the other side of the garage. It would take only a minute or so to start the engine and drive round the building to the other side, but Mma Ramotswe realised they would need to talk. And she was right; the moment they were out of the door and out of earshot of the office, Mma Makutsi seized Mma Ramotswe's elbow and whispered urgently into her ear.

“She is a very big liar, that woman. A very big liar. One of the biggest in the country, probably.”

Mma Ramotswe turned to face her. “I saw that you were very upset when she asked your name. Why was that, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi's eyes widened. “Don't you see, Mma?” she exclaimed. “Don't you see?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Why should she not ask your name?”

“Because of what she said, Mma. That's why.”

Mma Ramotswe's puzzlement deepened. “I'm sorry, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I just don't see what you're trying to tell me.”

Mma Makutsi did not look impatient; rather, she looked understanding. “Now listen, Mma Ramotswe,” she said quietly. “She said that she had read about all this in the newspaper. Remember that?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I think so.”

Now came the disclosure, the revealing of the clue. “Well, who was in that article? I was, Mma—it was me. And whose photograph was on that page? Mine, Mma—mine!”

It became clear. “So she should have recognised you if she had read the paper? Is that what you're suggesting?”

“Of course. If she had seen the article, she would have seen me. But she didn't know who I was—that's why she had to ask my name. Strange, isn't it, Mma? A lie, you see. Somebody has put her up to this; she knows nothing—somebody is
behind
her, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe was far from convinced, pointing out to Mma Makutsi that one might easily ignore the photograph accompanying an article—or forget the details. “Look at these articles about politicians saying this, that, and the next thing. We may read all about it in the newspapers, and there will be a photograph of the politician—they love that, those people—but do we remember what they look like? I don't think I do.”

Mma Makutsi raised an admonishing finger. “But, Mma,” she said, “there is another thing—another thing altogether.”

Mma Ramotswe waited. There was a gleam of revelation in Mma Makutsi's eye. “She mentioned Mahalapye.”

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And you found her out with that reference to…where was the place, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi seemed disappointed that her trap had been detected, but continued, “Leretlwa.”

Mma Ramotswe waited. “And?”

“That place is not in the middle of town—it is not near the railway line, Mma. Yet when I said it was, she did not correct me.” She shook a finger for emphasis. “She did not correct me, Mma, and if you had really been born in Mahalapye, then you would not let a mistake like that go unremarked upon. You would not let people say Tlokweng is in the middle of Gaborone, would you? You would not, Mma. You would say, ‘Hold on, Tlokweng is miles away.' That's what you'd say, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe took Mma Makutsi's wrist and led her gently round the side of the building. “We must get into the car,” she said. “We cannot stand outside talking about this.”

“There is more than enough evidence to prove this woman is an impostor,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Possibly, but not definitely, Mma. And there is a difference, you know.”

THEY DROVE IN SILENCE
. Mma Ramotswe could not converse because she had to concentrate on driving Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's car, which, although slightly familiar to her, felt far too powerful. Her tiny white van had very little power—just enough to keep the wheels turning, she thought—and it would never run away with her, as this car seemed to be keen to do. For her part, Mma Makutsi had no desire to talk to the person whom she now thought of as the “so-called Rosie”—so she was silent too. And as for the woman, seated in the back, she simply stared out of the window, rather vaguely, as if she were thinking of something else altogether.

They drew near to the Sun Hotel. There, sitting on the verge of the road, their wares spread out beside them, were the ladies who made the crochet tablecloths. The woman had mentioned these in their discussion, and they were the signal for her to lean forward and tap Mma Ramotswe on the shoulder. “Turn left here, Mma,” she said. “This is the road.”

Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe. “Zebra Drive,” she said. And then, craning her neck to address the woman behind them, she asked, “Are you sure this is the road, Mma? Are you quite sure?”

The woman nodded. “I wouldn't tell you it was if it wasn't,” she said sullenly.

“I will go down here,” said Mma Ramotswe, and added, “I know this road well, Mma.”

“Well, the house is further down here—on the left.”

Mma Ramotswe drove slowly now, but she was not prepared for the sudden instruction that came from the back seat. “There it is, Mma. That is the place. That was the house those people lived in.”

Mma Makutsi gasped. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” she muttered.

“That is the house,” repeated the woman. “I remember it well.”

Mma Ramotswe pulled in and brought the car to a halt, leaving the engine running. Turning to face their passenger, she said, “That is my house, Mma. That is where I live with my husband, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

The woman's expression did not change. She now looked bored, shrugging her shoulders at this information. “So you live here now, Mma,” she said. “I'm not talking about now—I'm talking about then.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated, but Mma Makutsi had already made up her mind. “Mma Ramotswe, I think we should go back to the office now,” she said. “We can drop this lady off near Riverwalk so that she can get a minibus home.” She turned to address the woman. Her tone was gruff. “Will that suit you, Mma?”

The woman shrugged. “If that's what you want. But when will I see this Canadian lady?”

“Leave us your address,” said Mma Makutsi briskly. “We'll be in touch.”

The woman became animated. “I am very keen to see her, Mma Ramotswe. I have been missing her so much, so much. My heart is very sore, you know.”

Mma Makutsi rolled her eyes. She had not intended this to be seen, but it was, and the woman turned on her angrily.

“You do not believe me, Mma—I can tell that. You think I am making this up, don't you?”

Mma Makutsi turned round to face the back seat. Her spectacles flashed dangerously. Then came her reply, each word delivered with the gravity that comes from complete conviction. “I do not believe one word you've said, Mma—not one word.” Her judgement delivered with defiance, she turned back to Mma Ramotswe.

“I think you should drive on, Mma,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe did not like conflict. She was unfailingly polite to others, and she could not condone this rudeness on Mma Makutsi's part.

“I'm sorry, Mma,” she said over her shoulder. “We have to be very careful, you see.”

The woman was staring ahead fixedly. “I did not hear any of this,” she said suddenly. “I cannot hear what you're saying.”

They drove back up Zebra Drive and out onto the main road.
Perhaps I'm in the wrong job,
Mma Ramotswe thought. What is that saying about not staying in the kitchen if you don't like the heat? Should she give a bit more thought to that? After all, these old sayings were often right. Mind you, she said to herself, it's not just the kitchen that's hot—the whole country is too hot at the moment, this baking heat that wraps Botswana until suddenly the summer rains arrive and cool everything down. She might think differently then, she imagined; and Mma Makutsi might be a little less confrontational. Cool weather brings cool tempers. Was that a saying? she wondered. If it was not, then it could well become one, and she, Mma Ramotswe, would be the author of it. She might even write to Clovis Andersen and tell him about it. He would appreciate it, she thought. But then does he remember me? What am I, who is just Mma Ramotswe of Botswana, to that important man who lives so far away in Muncie, Indiana? Can I really call him my friend?

The woman in the back started to mutter.

“You don't know anything,” she said. “You don't know that I was like a mother to that girl. When she cried I was there; I was the one who comforted her. You don't know that, do you? And when her little dog became sick and died I was the one who helped her bury it at the end of the garden and put the stones around its grave. I was the one who wiped away her tears. I was. And I was the one who nursed her when she was ill because the real mother was always working or playing tennis. I was the one, and you people don't know that—and you don't care, do you? You don't care because all you think about is money and being paid by these people who come to see you. And having your picture in the newspapers too. That's what you think about.”

Mma Ramotswe felt that she had to reply to this. Slowing down, she spoke into the driving mirror. “No, Mma, you are wrong. We do care. And I'm sorry if you think that we do not.”

“Can you please stop the car,” the woman said. “Stop the car and let me get out.”

Mma Ramotswe pulled over to the side of the road. With their passenger out, Mma Ramotswe turned to Mma Makutsi. “Well,” she said, “that was a bit of a mess, Mma.”

“Not at all,” said Mma Makutsi. “That woman was a fraudster, Mma.”

“Maybe,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But fraudsters can have feelings, Mma.”

“But what about the feelings of the people they defraud? Don't you think we have to consider those?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But—”

“No buts, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Some people are just
skellums.
That's the way it is, Mma. That's just the way it is.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. It was some time since she had heard the word
skellum,
as it seemed to have passed out of favour. Yet it was such a fine word, that so effectively described a rogue or a rascal; a word that her father had used eloquently, picked up from the Boers, when describing dealers who paid poor farmers too little for their cattle, or traders who doctored their scales so that they could give short shrift to buyers of sorghum or maize meal. Obed Ramotswe had seen these as
skellums
and would call them that to their face; now, perhaps, the
skellums
could get away with it because people were afraid to stand up to them, or were no longer sure what was right or wrong, or were afraid to identify wickedness or sleaze when they saw it. Mma Makutsi may be a bit extreme at times, she thought, but at least she speaks up against bad behaviour. She was probably right about this woman, who had made some bad mistakes in her story and probably was what Obed, once again, would have called a
chancer,
if not a
skellum.
And if she was right, then Mma Makutsi's unmasking of her was probably the right thing to do, and yet, and yet…life was rarely as simple as Mma Makutsi thought it was.
Subtlety,
wrote Clovis Andersen
, is the best aid to the understanding of human complexity.
That was rather too long a pronouncement to use too often, but it had its place, and should be remembered, as she was doing now, from time to time.

M
R. J.L.B. MATEKONI
sniffed at the air. There was no doubt about it—Mma Ramotswe was making his favourite stew. The aroma, detected even as he set foot on the stoep, was unmistakable, and enough to get the gastric juices going in anticipation. Onions were the key to that: the recipe, developed specially for him by Mma Ramotswe, advised by Mma Potokwane, involved onions chosen for their smallness and sweetness—“not these football-sized onions they try to sell us,” warned Mma Potokwane. These were gently softened in sunflower oil flavoured with a pinch of chilli flakes, and then the beef, fine Botswana grass-fed beef—“none better anywhere in the world,” claimed Mma Potokwane—was added in small pieces. This was then sealed before the addition of stock and a small quantity of chopped ostrich
biltong,
the dried and salted meat that people considered such a delicacy.

He went into the kitchen, where the children were sitting at the table, a plate of macaroni cheese in front of them. If the stew was his own favourite, then macaroni cheese was theirs. They liked to add quantities of tomato sauce—something of which Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not approve but that he tolerated. He had eaten strange things as a boy—things that would turn his stomach today but had seemed delicious then—raw bacon sandwiches with added sugar; pineapple dipped in golden syrup; fried bread with a thick spreading of lard; flying ants, caught on the wing, that tasted like butter and could be popped into the mouth with a satisfying crunch. It was best not to think too much of what one ate—or had as a child—thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; memory blotted things out for a reason, he believed.

“So what is the mummy cooking for the daddy today?” he asked, as he slipped out of the pair of greasy suede shoes that Mma Ramotswe had been trying unsuccessfully—for years, it seemed—to replace.

Motholeli looked up from her macaroni cheese. “The mummy is cooking the daddy that special stew he likes,” she said.

“And we're eating macaroni cheese,” chimed in Puso. “With ice cream for afters.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “So it looks like everybody is happy,” he said. “Did you say grace, Motholeli?”

She shook her head. “It's Puso's turn.”

He sat down at the table and looked at the young boy. “Well then, young man. Let's hear grace before you start on your macaroni cheese.”

They lowered their heads, as did Mma Ramotswe, who laid down her stirring spoon.

“Bless this macaroni cheese,” said Puso quickly. “Amen.”

Without delay, the two children began to tackle their dinner. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni caught Mma Ramotswe's eye, and they exchanged a grin.

“Sometimes only a few words are needed,” remarked Mma Ramotswe.

Motholeli looked up from her plate. “Least said, soonest mended.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her encouragingly. “Where did you learn that?” she asked. “At school?”

Her mouth half full of macaroni cheese, Motholeli replied, “You said it, Mma.”

“Don't speak with your mouth full,” muttered Puso, swallowing as he spoke.

“Don't throw the first stone yourself,” retorted Motholeli mildly.

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “So you heard me say it? Well, I suppose I might have done. It's true, after all.”

She thought of the day's events, and of the awkward journey with the woman whom Mma Makutsi had begun to refer to as Mma Not Rosie. It was a handy description, and she understood why Mma Makutsi might reach such a conclusion, but there was something about it that made her feel uncomfortable. Even if there were doubtful aspects to the woman's story, inconsistencies could occur in even the truest of tales: people told the truth not as it necessarily was, but as they saw it. And of course that could lead to things not sounding quite right. It was the watertight story that often needed closest examination, thought Mma Ramotswe; stories that looked unassailable could be the result of careful planning—and careful invention.

And there was something rather sad about Mma Not Rosie. Her little outburst in the car had a tragic feel to it. It sounded contrived—and she could see why Mma Makutsi had rolled her eyes—but pain, when exposed to others, could sometimes sound false. Mma Makutsi could be a bit brisk; she had a good instinct for people, but it was not infallible, and there had been occasions in the past when her instinct had misled her.
Trust your nose, but make sure it's pointing in the right direction.
Who had said that? Mma Ramotswe realised that it was she herself. And I am right, she thought, modestly at first, but then with a tinge of self-satisfaction.
Trust your nose, but make sure it's pointing in the right direction.
She would try that out on Mma Makutsi the following day and see how she reacted. It could give her something to think about—but on the other hand, it might not; you never knew with Mma Makutsi.

She resumed her stirring of the stew. The oddest thing about the whole day had been that journey in which they had been led to Zebra Drive and her very own house. That had been a moment of utter astonishment, enough to make one laugh, although she had resisted the temptation to do so. Of course she had entertained the possibility that her house had previously been occupied by the Canadian doctor and his family, only to dismiss the proposition immediately. She knew that her house had belonged to the Public Works Department from its first construction in the mid-sixties, and that it had been the official residence of the deputy head of the Public Works right up to the point at which it had been sold off as surplus to requirements. That was when she had bought it, using her legacy from her father—the legacy of fine cattle that had so prospered out at the cattle post. It had never been a medical house, or a missionary house for that matter, and what was more, there was no large jacaranda tree in the yard. There were acacias and that favourite mopipi tree of hers, but no jacaranda. No, that claim by Mma Not Rosie must have been entirely made up.

Once the children had finished their meal they settled in their bedrooms—Motholeli to read and Puso to complete his arithmetic homework. Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni went out onto the verandah; night had fallen with the suddenness of those latitudes, a curtain of darkness that came down after only a few minutes of dusk, heralding a world of dark shapes, of night-time sounds, of mystery, and, at times, of fear. They sat in their customary chairs and looked out beyond the small circle of light that the window behind them threw into the yard. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had poured himself a cold beer; Mma Ramotswe had the half-glass of lemonade that she had saved from the day before. The effervescence of the lemonade had all but disappeared, but enough of the taste remained to make the drink palatable. She sipped at it slowly; the acidity made her teeth tingle. Red bush tea never did that, she thought.

He told her about his day. Fanwell had succeeded in finding the cause of an engine fault that had flummoxed him for two days. “I couldn't work out what was going on,” he said. “It was not one of these cars that have all the computers in them—it was a good, honest car. But I couldn't for the life of me see why it was overheating—and then Fanwell found the problem. It took him half an hour.”

“That means he has become a good mechanic,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Or I'm becoming a bad one,” remarked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, taking a sip of his beer.

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Oh no, Rra. Nobody could ever say that. In fact, they say exactly the opposite—I've heard them. They say, ‘That Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is the best mechanic in all Botswana.' I have heard at least three people say that—all in the last couple of years.”

“Perhaps they know you're married to me, Mma. Perhaps they are trying to be kind.”

She denied this vigorously. “They mean it, Rra. You can tell when somebody means a compliment and when it's just empty words. You can tell…”

“How? How exactly can you tell?”

She looked out into the darkness. His question was a good one; how could you tell something like that? Instinct? A sixth sense? That was all very well, but how could you explain what instinct or a sixth sense meant? Or did they both boil down, when all was said and done, to nothing more than a hunch?

She thought of what had happened that day with Mma Not Rosie. She was sure that Mma Makutsi had been acting on some sort of hunch about that woman when she first met her, and then had tried to find grounds for dismissing her as a fraud. By contrast, Mma Ramotswe was now beginning to feel that whatever the flaws in her story might be, she was genuine. This feeling had been building up ever since she'd started to cook the stew, and now it was quite strong. That poor woman had been telling the truth and all she had encountered was a wall of suspicion from Mma Makutsi, and from herself something not much better—a bit politer, perhaps, but still not much better.

She turned to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “What do you think it's like, Rra, to be telling the truth and then to find that nobody believes you?”

He thought for a moment. “Horrible,” he said with conviction. “It is a very horrible feeling, Mma.”

The forcefulness of his answer surprised her. “Has it happened to you, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?”

He took his time to answer. “Once,” he said. “And it was very, very bad.”

She glanced at him. Marriage was all about honesty, and being open, but she had always felt that just about every married person had something, some sorrow or secret, that was not shared, that was a private area of their lives that might not be shared with a spouse. It could be something sad or painful, or it could be something just mildly embarrassing, some tiny failing or silliness, some moment of mild shame, but it was no reflection on the marriage that this thing should be kept tucked away. We are the people we want ourselves to be, and then there are the people we actually are: sometimes it is easier to be the people we want ourselves to be if we keep at least some things to ourselves. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, is only human.

And she thought of what Note Mokoti, her first, abusive husband, had done to her. She had never told anybody—not her father, to whom she had run for protection, not her friend Mma Potokwane, not even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Note had beaten her; he had hurt her. She did not talk about it because she felt ashamed, and she wanted to forget it. There was a time for talking about things that distressed us, but there was also a time for not talking about them. These days people seemed to suggest that you should talk about everything, even those things that people never talked about in the past, but did this make life any easier? She was not sure. In fact, she thought there were occasions on which talking about distressing things merely kept those things alive, whereas not talking about them, consigning them to the past, forgetting them, allowed one to think about things that were positive, things that made the world a bit better.

She was unsure whether to ask him about it. But he continued anyway.

“You know I did my service in the brigades?” he said.

She nodded. The brigades had been part of the national service that Botswana had required of young people. Some of the brigades still survived as training organisations, especially in the rural areas; others were now merely a memory of the time when the country was just emerging, when Botswana was learning to walk.

“I was in a brigade that did mechanical training,” he went on. “We were based up at Serowe. I enjoyed myself—and learned a lot.”

“Many people did,” she said. “And it was good work.”

“It helped us grow up,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “We went in as teenagers—rather aimless teenagers, perhaps—and came out as adults.”

She waited. In some respects, even after years of marriage, they were strangers to one another. He had never talked about his time in the brigades before.

“It was after I had been in the brigade for five or six months,” he continued. “I had been given extra responsibility—I was in charge of organising extra transport for those occasions when we had too many people for our own vehicles. We would hire a minibus from one of the taxi people, and I paid them. I had a float for that—money that was kept in a tin and then locked away in a drawer in the office. I was the only person with a key to that drawer—or so I thought.”