The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (15 page)

“The water is there already,” retorted Mr. Polopetsi. “If you or I got hold of one of those bent twigs and stood on top of some water we would get the same results. We would push the stick down and say, ‘Oh, there is some water here,' and people would say, ‘Look at that! You see—it works!' ”

“I don't know, Rra…”

The normally mild Mr. Polopetsi now became animated. “I'm telling you, Mma Ramotswe, people don't ask themselves enough questions about what causes what. That is what scientists do. I keep telling the students in the school, ‘You must ask yourself why things happen. You must not think that because one thing happens after another thing, then it is the first thing that causes the second thing. You must not think that, because it might not be true.' That is what I say to them, Mma.”

“And do they agree, Rra?”

He sighed. “They look at me for a very short time. They stare at me as if they've seen a ghost. Then they turn away and start chewing a piece of gum or something. Young people are very stupid these days, Mma. Their heads are full of all sorts of nonsense. They should be thinking of chemistry, but they are secretly thinking of loud music. That loud music is going on in their heads, I think, while I am talking about chemistry. I say, ‘Take a clean, dry test tube and pour in twenty-five mils of hydrochloric acid,' and inside their heads what they hear is not about hydrochloric acid and test tubes but
la, la, la, boom, bang, boom…
That is what their music sounds like, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe grinned. It was a vivid picture that Mr. Polopetsi painted, and she could imagine the scene. There would be the small, neat chemistry teacher in his white shirt and his dark blue tie with the serious expression that he always seemed to wear—the expression that Mma Makutsi described as being a little bit like that which one sees on the face of a rabbit—and there would be the teenagers with
la, la, la, boom, bang, boom
going on in their heads.

“But I think we were all a bit like that when we were their age,” she said.

Mr. Polopetsi shook his head vigorously. “I wasn't,” he said. “I certainly was not like that, Mma.”

She said nothing. He was probably right—about himself, at least; but for most of us it was
la, la, la, boom, bang, boom
in one form or another. We forget, she thought. We think that we were always the way we are now, but we were not.

SHE SAW THE SIGN
that said
Eggs
from some distance away, although she did not make out the lettering until they were much closer. She had already deciphered it and was preparing to turn when Mr. Polopetsi, who was somewhat short-sighted, peered over the dashboard and said, with an air of triumph, “
Eggs,
Mma! There it is. That says
Eggs.
Can you see it, Mma? Right over there—look.”

“Yes, I think I can, Mr. Polopetsi. That was well spotted—thank you.”

He was pleased with the compliment. “My wife says I have a good sense of direction,” he said. “I may not be like those San trackers, but I can still tell which direction is east and which is west and so on.” He began to point, to demonstrate, but hesitated and dropped his hand furtively.

Mma Ramotswe covered his embarrassment. “There are some people who are lucky that way,” she said. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni can find his way about with his eyes shut. And my late daddy could do the same, you know. He could walk through thick bush and know exactly where he was going.”

“Like a bird,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “A bird always knows where it is going.”

Mma Ramotswe began to swing the van across the road and onto the narrow track that promised eggs. “Do you know why that is, Rra? Why do you think a bird knows where it is going?”

Mr. Polopetsi shrugged. “I think there is some special part of their brain. I think there is a sort of biological compass.”

Her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had asked her that very question when she was a small girl. She could hear him now, bending down to speak to her, as he always did during her childhood. “And how do the birds know where they're going, my Precious? Do you know the answer to that big question?” And she had not known, but when he told her it made perfect sense.

She wrested herself back from Mochudi, and from the memory. She only half tuned to Mr. Polopetsi; the road was bumpy and she needed to concentrate. “Perhaps it is because they are up in the air,” she said. “Perhaps it's because they have a good view.”

Mr. Polopetsi weighed up this answer. “Perhaps it is that,” he said, “but then there might still be a biological compass. Look at those birds that fly from here to Europe, Mma. How do they get there? They can't see all that way just because they're up high, can they?”

The discussion was broken off by the appearance of a large hole in the road ahead. It did not prevent their further progress, but it called for careful negotiation. Soon afterwards the farmhouse appeared a short distance away—a rambling building under a low-eaved red tin roof. It was typical of farmhouses of a particular period—that time before the Bechuanaland Protectorate became Botswana, a time when the land was quiet and dreamy, when nothing of much note happened; a time when nobody knew of the diamonds beneath the soil and cattle were all that mattered.

In the dry climate people might age quickly, desiccated by the heat and the warm wind on their skin, but with buildings change came more gradually. Human structures survived as long as they were unattractive to termites, and so this house, like so many others of its type, was largely untouched by the decades that had passed since its construction. Its paint had flaked, of course, and had been touched up, in a slightly different shade of cream, lending to the whole a slightly patchy complexion; and the garden that somebody a long time ago had tried to create had all but disappeared.

“A very nice place,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “And there are some good cattle over there, Mma. Look.”

She followed his gaze. He was right about the quality of the cattle, she thought: they were fine beasts.

They parked a short distance from the house. To drive right up to it in the van would have been impolite: you cannot knock or call out “
Ko! Ko!
” when you are in a vehicle. As they alighted, a woman appeared on the verandah and stared in their direction.

Mma Ramotswe led the way, and greeted the woman once she was close enough to call out. Her greeting was returned equally politely and they were invited in.

“My name is Precious Ramotswe,” Mma Ramotswe began. “I am from the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency in Gaborone. This is my assistant, whose name is Polopetsi. He is fully certified.”

The woman glanced at Mr. Polopetsi. Then she addressed Mma Ramotswe. “He is actually my granddaughter's chemistry teacher,” she said.

There was an awkward silence.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe at last. “He is very good at teaching chemistry. But he is only part-time. For the rest he works with me in my detective agency. That is why he is with me now.”

The woman seemed to be happy enough with this explanation. “My granddaughter's name is Monica Malatsi,” she said to Mr. Polopetsi. “Do you know that child, Rra?”

Mr. Polopetsi gave an exclamation of delight. “But she is a very bright child, Mma. She is very good at chemistry.”

The woman's face broke into a broad smile. “Yes, she is very bright, Rra. She gets her brains from my side of the family, you see. We have some very bright people on my side.”

“I can tell that,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “She often gets one hundred per cent in the tests I set the children. She is the only student who gets that. The others are all down in the seventy per cent range. Monica is exceptional, Mma.”

The atmosphere was now not only cordial, but warm.

“I am glad that you have come to see me,” said the woman. “I must tell you who I am. I am Mma Comfort Potokwane.”

Mma Ramotswe could not contain her gasp of surprise. “Another Mma Potokwane! I am a great friend of Mma Sylvia Potokwane, who runs the Orphan Farm at Tlokweng. She and I have been friends for many, many years.”

“I know that lady,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have not seen her for many years, but her husband is a distant relative of my husband, who is now late.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“It was a wisdom-tooth operation,” said Mma Potokwane. “There was too much bleeding and they couldn't save him. But it was many years ago now and he is with the Lord.” She paused. “I will make you tea if you would like some.”

“And then we can tell you why we have come to see you,” Mma Ramotswe said.

The woman looked disappointed. “You have not come to discuss Monica?”

“No,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Monica is doing very well. There is nothing to discuss in that department.”

Mma Potokwane went into the kitchen, leaving her two guests in a rather sparsely furnished sitting room. On the walls there were pictures cut out from magazines, stuck up with tape or pinned with drawing pins. Mma Ramotswe moved over to examine one of them, a picture of Nelson Mandela, under which the printed legend ran:
World's Greatest Hero.
Next to it was a picture of the late king of Lesotho, King Moshoeshoe II. A line of type under that read:
He presided over his mountain kingdom, but now…
The line ran out. She knew the ending, though, and the photograph saddened her. There was a photograph of the President of Botswana taking the salute from soldiers of the Botswana Defence Force.

Mma Potokwane returned. “These photographs are not mine,” she said, nodding at the pictures. “I look after a man here. They are his photographs. He cuts them out of magazines.”

Mma Ramotswe seized her opportunity. “That is Mr. Saint Potokwane?”

Mma Potokwane confirmed this with a gesture of her hand. “He is a relative of my late husband. We took him on many years ago because he is unable to look after himself, Mma. He is a very gentle person, but there are many things he cannot do.”

“Every family has somebody like that somewhere,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “It is part of being human.”

“You are very kind, Rra,” said Mma Potokwane. “There are some people who do not understand that, you know.

“There are many more kind people than not-so-kind people,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is well known, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane poured the tea. “May I ask why you are here?”

Mma Ramotswe explained about Government Keboneng and the road. Mma Potokwane listened, and when Mma Ramotswe had finished, she said, “I am sure there is nothing in any of that. You know how people are always inventing stories about other people, especially people who are late. They cannot stand up and say, ‘That is not true,' because they are late.”

“Indeed,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is why I think Government Keboneng's sister wants to put these stories—whatever they are—to rest.”

“That is quite understandable,” said Mma Potokwane.

“So I am speaking to all the members of that family,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “They might have nothing to say about it all, but I need to speak to everybody so that I can say to our client that we have left no stone unturned.”

“I am one who has nothing to say,” said Mma Potokwane. “Other than to add that I think such stories will be nothing more than idle gossip.”

“Thank you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall note that down later. But I wondered about Saint Potokwane…”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “Saint will not be able to help you.”

“But could I speak to him?”

“Yes, of course you may. He has been listening to you, you see. He is always listening.”

Mma Potokwane rose to her feet. Crossing the room, she opened a door that had been left half ajar. “Saint,” she said, “these people would like to say hello to you.”

There was a darkened corridor beyond the door and Mma Ramotswe and Mr. Polopetsi could see only a few shapes. But one of these was a man, who stepped out into the living room and positioned himself close to Mma Potokwane—so close as to be almost leaning against her, as a child will do with an adult for security.

Saint was a middle-aged man, dressed in a curious khaki outfit, rather like a military uniform. On the chest of his tunic, strips of brightly coloured cloth had been sewn in lines, to resemble campaign medals, while onto plain epaulettes three brass buttons had been attached on either side. The overall effect was eccentric in the extreme, and Mr. Polopetsi's astonishment was scarcely concealed; Mma Ramotswe was more prepared, and gave no sign of surprise.

“This is Saint,” said Mma Potokwane. And to Saint she said, “Greet our visitors, Saint.”

Saint brought his heels together and lifted his hand to give a military salute. The salute, though, seemed to have been lowered, from eye to chin level, which created an overall comic effect. After he had done this, he looked to Mma Potokwane for approbation.

“Very good, Saint,” said Mma Potokwane. She looked at Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to talk to Saint, Mma?”

“Yes, Mma, I would.”

“Well, in that case, I think your colleague and I should leave the room. Saint prefers not to have others in the room when he talks. It will be best if we leave you to it.” Picking up Mma Ramotswe's anxiety, she went on to say, “Saint is very gentle, Mma. You will be fine.”

Left by herself with Saint, Mma Ramotswe gestured for him to sit next to her on the sofa. He said nothing but stepped forward and brushed one of the cushions for a minute or so, as if removing dirt. Then he sat down.

She looked into his eyes. There was no focus. It was as if he were not quite there.

“I like your medals,” she said encouragingly, speaking Setswana now. “You must be very brave to get all those medals.”

He was silent.

“Botswana Defence Force?” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are very fine soldiers, I think.”