Miracle at Speedy Motors (6 page)

That was true, thought Mma Ramotswe. But then she thought that perhaps it was not. There were plenty of people who came out of thin air; they turned up in our lives and we accepted them without question. Even you, Mr. Polopetsi, she thought, even you. You came into our lives out of thin air. I did not see you before I knocked you down. You came out of thin air, which is exactly how I put it to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni when he asked me how I had managed to knock you off your bicycle. “He came out of thin air,” I said.

She did not say anything of that. Instead, she looked at her watch and said, “I think you should work on this case with me, Rra. If the garage is not very busy Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will not mind.”

Mr. Polopetsi glanced through the door into the garage workshop beyond. “There is not much going on through there,” he said. “If you give me just an hour or so, I shall finish doing one or two things through there. Then I shall be ready.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed. He could have the hour in the garage, and then they would go off to the small village south of Gaborone where Mma Sebina had started her life’s journey, or where she
might
have started it. While Mr. Polopetsi busied himself with his remaining garage chores, Mma Ramotswe tackled the morning’s filing, a task normally performed by Mma Makutsi. She could have left it, of course, for Mma Makutsi to do when she came in later, but she had nothing else to do and it would be interesting, she decided, to see whether she would be able to adapt herself to the system which Mma Makutsi used; she would have to do this if the new Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti ended up working in the Double Comfort Furniture Shop rather than in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, as was perfectly possible.

She got up and walked over to the battered filing cabinet that stood halfway between her desk and the desk occupied by Mma Makutsi. They would have to replace that cabinet, which had been acquired right at the beginning, when the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was first set up. They had been in her first office then, that small breeze-block building in the shadow of Kgale Hill, where those insolent chickens had wandered in and pecked at the floor around one’s toes; such silly creatures, with their tattered combs and their scruffy leg feathers like tiny pantaloons. The filing cabinet had been virtually the first piece of office furniture then; there had not even been a proper desk for Mma Makutsi, who had been obliged to make do with a table that had been used for making tea on in the Water Affairs office but had been sold as surplus to requirements. They had entertained such high hopes, then, for their little agency, and had so quickly abandoned those hopes when no clients turned up for week after week. And the filing cabinet then was empty, quite empty, as they had received no letters from anybody and had no papers to file. Eventually, in desperation, Mma Makutsi had filed a tattered circular which somebody had slipped through the door. That circular, Mma Makutsi had told her the other day, was still there, as a reminder of how slow things had been and of how great things may come from moments of nothingness. Perhaps we should all do that, thought Mma Ramotswe. Perhaps we should all keep a few things, a few mementoes, to remind us of what we used to be, just in case we forgot. If I ever became really rich, she thought, rich enough to own a Mercedes-Benz, what would I keep of the tiny white van to remind me of what I used to drive? The steering wheel—perhaps inserted into the Mercedes-Benz by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in place of its grand new wheel, just to remind me? She smiled at the thought.

She pulled on the handle of the filing cabinet’s top drawer. It was stiff and would not budge. She pulled at it again, this time lifting it slightly; she remembered that this drawer was a difficult one and could get stuck. There was still no movement, and so she tried the drawer below, the one which Mma Makutsi had labelled
Concluded Affairs.
It was such a strange label for a filing drawer; as if the drawer contained the love letters, the keepsakes, of a crowded personal past. If she managed to get
Concluded Affairs
to open, then perhaps its upstairs neighbour,
Current Investigations,
might be more obliging.

When
Concluded Affairs
stubbornly refused to open, it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that the filing cabinet was locked. This conclusion brought mixed emotions. On the one hand, it said a great deal for Mma Makutsi’s attentiveness and sense of responsibility that she should lock a filing cabinet which contained a great deal of highly personal information. There were letters from clients in those drawers, letters in which they revealed some of their most intimate concerns—suspicions of adultery, thoughts about the character of others, stories of intrigue and bad behaviour. All of that would have been a godsend to a blackmailer, or even a gossip. So it was a wise precaution to lock it all away.

But then she thought: it would have been helpful if Mma Makutsi had told her that the filing cabinet was locked and, moreover, where the key was kept. What if Mma Makutsi were out of the office—as she was now—and Mma Ramotswe needed to make a sudden reference to a current investigation or even a concluded affair? What then?

She turned round and looked down at Mma Makutsi’s desk. There were two drawers in this desk. Mma Ramotswe knew that one of these was used for the storage of such things as rubber bands and paper clips. The other was, she thought, a more personal drawer, into which Mma Makutsi tucked things such as those lace handkerchiefs for which she had a particular fondness. If the key was stored anywhere in the office, then that, she thought, would be where it was.

Feeling slightly furtive, Mma Ramotswe moved to the other side of the desk and gingerly opened the top drawer. It, at least, was unlocked, and slid open easily. She looked down. There was a bottle of aspirin—Mma Makutsi had a tendency to headaches at the height of the hot season—a folded handkerchief, a metal bottle opener with a picture of Table Mountain etched on the shaft, and a photograph. She reached down and picked up the photograph. It was Phuti Radiphuti, standing in front of a door, his arms folded, self-consciously posed. He looked so serious, so self-important, that Mma Ramotswe could not help but smile. And then she laughed; not in an unkindly way, because she liked Phuti, and she was not a person to laugh at another. It was just so odd, that position of his: What on earth could have possessed Phuti Radiphuti to strike such a ridiculous pose?

Then Mma Makutsi came into the room. She was carrying a brown paper bag in her hands: doughnuts. The fat from the doughnuts had seeped through the paper; round tracings of grease. When she saw Mma Ramotswe with the photograph of Phuti Radiphuti, she stood quite still, her eyes moving from the photograph to Mma Ramotswe’s face, caught in its smile, and then back down to the photograph.

THE DOUGHNUTS
, of course, were a sign: doughnuts on Friday were normal, but doughnuts purchased on any other day meant that Mma Makutsi felt that she needed cheering up. And that particular morning, cheering up was exactly what was required.

It was not that the day had started badly; it had not. Mma Makutsi had awoken in a state of excitement, as one does when one has been vouchsafed a satisfying dream or when the day ahead brings the prospect of some numinous event. As she stretched out in her rather small and uncomfortable bed—the lumps in her mattress had always been in the wrong place—she reflected on how that coming night she would be sleeping in the unimaginable luxury of the new bed. She looked at her watch and saw that it was time to get up, which was not a chore, not that morning. She would have a lukewarm shower—the heating system never managed more than a few degrees of boost above the prevailing temperature—and then she would prepare her breakfast. They had promised to deliver the new bed early, and she wanted to be ready for them when they came. Delivery men could be awkward about moving existing furniture, and they would need at least a cup of strong tea and a sandwich before agreeing to stack her old bed and mattress against the back wall. The food would be ready when they arrived, and then…she closed her eyes in bliss.

The men came at the appointed time; one man driving a top-heavy blue van, the other in the passenger seat counting out the plot numbers as they made their way down Mma Makutsi’s dusty road. When she saw them, she went out to the gate and waved them down.

“I am the person,” she called out. “It is my bed.”

The van came to a halt and the men got out. Civilities were exchanged. Had she slept well? She had. Had they? They too had slept well. Then the opening of the back door of the van and the manoeuvring out of a great plastic-wrapped object. There was a wind, a small wind blowing tiny eddies of dust, and it caught the edge of the transparent plastic wrapping and made it flap. I am filled with pride, Mma Makutsi thought. I am filled with pride.

The men carried the bed through the gate and into Mma Makutsi’s yard, where they propped it up against the front wall. The large object seemed to dwarf the house; a big bed for a small house, thought Mma Makutsi.

“Very beautiful,” said the driver as he began to cut at the plastic wrapping. “One of the most beautiful beds in Botswana.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That’s why we chose it, Rra.”

The two men tugged at the last remaining shreds of plastic. The large velvet heart was now revealed, although it was not yet in position, but was tied to the base of the bed. With a deft movement, the men detached it and stacked it next to the base of the bed.

“There is a bed in there already,” said Mma Makutsi. “I wondered if you could move it for me?”

The men glanced at one another. “There is always another bed,” the driver’s assistant said.

The driver frowned. “We can help you, Mma. Don’t worry.”

They went inside and Mma Makutsi showed them her bed. With the sheets and blankets taken off, it was a sad, dejected thing. The men, though, were businesslike; there was no time for emotion in the bed-moving business. It took them no more than a few minutes to unscrew the legs and manhandle the base out into the back yard. Then, dusting their hands, they returned to the new bed and began to carry it towards the door. Mma Makutsi watched in pride and pleasure. She would have to get new sheets, she decided, to do justice to this luxurious acquisition.

“This bed won’t go through the door,” the driver said. “Look, Mma. It is too big.”

Mma Makutsi gave a start. “But it must fit, Rra,” she said. “They wouldn’t make a bed that won’t fit.”

The driver laughed. “Don’t be too sure of that, Mma,” he said. “I have seen many people buy furniture that is too big for their houses. We see that all the time, don’t we?”

His assistant nodded. “Remember those chairs, Boss? Remember those people who lived in that very small house and they bought those great big chairs?”

The driver laughed again. “They were small people too,” he said. “I can never understand why small people think they need big furniture.”

Mma Makutsi stepped forward to examine the bed. It stood, sideways on, against the door and was clearly a foot or so too large to fit in.

“The only way would be to take the roof off,” said the driver. “I have seen that done before.”

“I cannot take the roof off,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “I am only a tenant here. I cannot take the roof off.”

The driver shrugged. “It is too late to take this bed back,” he said. “We are under strict instructions: never bring anything back. I’m sorry about that, Mma.”

“Then please move the bed to the side there,” said Mma Makutsi. “I will speak to my fiancé about it.”

They moved the new bed to the side of the house and put the old bed back. Then they began to take their leave. “I’m sorry,” said the driver. “It is a fine bed, but…” He made a gesture with his hands, a gesture that was somewhere between a denial of further responsibility and an indication of sympathy.

Mma Makutsi watched them leave. She was at a complete loss as to what to do. It was difficult to see what could be done to make the bed fit, short of sawing it in two and making a couple of single beds out of it—but what would happen to the heart? Could one rend the heart in two? One could not.

And it was at that point that the idea came to her: she would buy some doughnuts.

CHAPTER SIX

A CHAIR IN A TREE

I
T WAS A CONSIDERABLE RELIEF
for Mma Ramotswe when she eventually got out of the office with Mr. Polopetsi and set off in her tiny white van. There had been the embarrassment of being found looking at a photograph of Phuti Radiphuti and smiling—just smiling, she insisted to Mma Makutsi.

“I was not laughing, Mma,” she insisted when she saw the look on her assistant’s face. “This is a very fine photograph. It’s just that the person taking it has made him look so severe, with those folded arms. Like a judge.”

Mma Makutsi had reached out for the photograph and taken it from her. “That is a private photograph, Mma,” she said in an injured tone. “That is why I keep it in my private drawer.”

It was the first time that Mma Ramotswe had heard the term
private drawer
used to describe the drawers in Mma Makutsi’s desk. And she could not see why her assistant should object so strongly to her looking in there, given that she had often found Mma Makutsi herself rifling through the drawers of her—Mma Ramotswe’s—own desk, and had thought nothing of it. She knew that Mma Makutsi was not looking for anything personal, but was searching out a refill for a pen or a box of paper clips or something of that nature. That’s what the drawers of office desks were for, was it not? And there was nothing personal about pen refills or boxes of paper clips. She was about to point this out to Mma Makutsi, but decided against it: there were times when an apology was best, she thought, even when one really had nothing to apologise for. If only people would say sorry sooner rather than later, Mma Ramotswe believed, much discord and unhappiness could be avoided. But that was not the way people were. So often pride stood in the way of apology, and then, when somebody was ready to say sorry, it was already too late.

“I’m very sorry, Mma Makutsi,” Mma Ramotswe said. “I did not realise that that was your private drawer. I will not look for keys in there again.”

Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “What keys?” she asked. “There are no keys in those drawers.”

“I needed to get into the filing cabinet,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “And you are the one who locks that. Maybe we should keep the key in some place where I can find it if I need it and you are not here.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I never lock the cabinet, Mma. I used to, but I don’t any more. The key was bent and didn’t fit very well, and so I do not lock the drawers.”

Mma Ramotswe moved over and gave the top drawer of the filing cabinet a tug. It did not budge. “I think it is locked, Mma,” she said. “Perhaps it has locked itself.”

And that was when Mma Ramotswe’s earlier embarrassment over the photograph was compounded, as Mma Makutsi reached for the top drawer of the cabinet and gave it a sharp tug, at the same time pressing at the second drawer with her right knee.

“There, Mma, you see. You see—it opens.”

“So there is just a knack?”

“There is a just a knack.”

It was clear to Mma Ramotswe that even a cup of tea and a doughnut would not lift Mma Makutsi’s mood, and so it was with some relief that she greeted Mr. Polopetsi’s popping his head round the door to inform her that he had finished his tasks in the garage and was free to accompany her on her mission. She explained to Mma Makutsi what she was going off to do, but Mma Makutsi still seemed sunk in her bad mood and so she eventually tiptoed out of the office as one would when somebody had a throbbing headache and found noise painful. It is my own office, she said to herself; and Mr. Polopetsi, as he watched her leave, thought very much the same thing. She should tell that woman where the limits are, he thought; it is her own office and she is the one who pays her. I feel sorry for that poor man Phuti Radiphuti. Imagine being married to Mma Makutsi and having to look into those large glasses all the time. Poor man—it is the end for you, Phuti Radiphuti, it really is. The end.

MMA SEBINA
had been brought up in Otse, a village only twenty minutes or so out of Gaborone to the south. It was much smaller than Mochudi, the village where Mma Ramotswe had grown up, and even more intimate as a result. As Mma Ramotswe turned her van off the Lobatse Road, Mr. Polopetsi asked how they would go about finding a friend of Mma Sebina’s late mother.

Mma Ramotswe steered the van past a particularly large hole in the road. “Well, Rra,” she said, “I have always followed a very simple rule in these matters. When I want to find something out, I usually ask somebody directly. That is the best way to get information: you ask for it and it is given to you.”

Mr. Polopetsi smiled. “But do people always tell you the truth?”

Mma Ramotswe peered over the top of her steering wheel. “Not always. But then you can tell when they’re telling lies. If you watch people when they talk to you, you can tell.”

Mr. Polopetsi turned to stare at her, and she met his gaze briefly before looking ahead again at the road. He had looked doubtful, and it occurred to her that this was because of what had happened to him. His experience disproved what she said—he
knew
that people could not always tell the difference between lies and truth. He had been sent to prison because even a judge, who sits all day and listens to people giving conflicting versions of the truth, even such a person could not tell. Perhaps I claim too much, thought Mma Ramotswe; perhaps I cannot really tell.

They drove on and were soon passing through the outskirts of the village, past the small white-painted houses dotted here and there, past a herd boy with a line of nibbling goats, past a sign pointing off to a butchery somewhere out in the bush. Then suddenly Mma Ramotswe applied the brakes and brought the tiny white van to a halt.

“You see that lady?” She pointed to a woman who was sitting in a chair under an acacia tree, just a few yards off the road. Above her, hanging from a branch overhead, but comfortably within reach, was another chair.

“There is a chair in the tree,” observed Mr. Polopetsi. “I wonder why…”

“I’m going to ask that lady,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She is doing nothing, and she looks like a lady who knows things.”

They got out of the van and picked their way across the dusty strip of land that separated them from the woman under her acacia tree.

“Dumela, Mma.”

Greetings exchanged, Mma Ramotswe pointed up at the extra chair hanging on the branch above the woman’s head. “It is strange to see a chair in a tree, Mma.”

The woman looked up, as if seeing the chair for the first time. “Oh, that chair. That is a chair I keep for visitors, Mma. You see, I sell tomatoes here. I have a small stall, but there was a strong wind last week and it blew the stall away. I am sitting here because I have got so used to it.”

“You could make a new stall, Mma,” said Mr. Polopetsi, gazing up at the chair.

“I will do that soon,” said the woman, “but not just yet.” She looked down at her lap, where her hands were folded. “My hands are not ready for work yet. They have been working, working, working. Now it is time for my hands to take a rest.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her head in understanding. There was so much work for women in Africa: fields to be tilled, yards to be swept, clothes to be washed, children to be brought up. That was their lot, and they did it without complaint, without asking the men whether they would care to do some of this work that women did—not all of it, just some. And now here was this woman, her faded skirt cloth wrapped around her waist, taking a short break from all that work, sitting under her tree with the spare chair dangling above her head.

“I’m sure that your hands deserve a rest,” said Mma Ramotswe, glancing at Mr. Polopetsi as she spoke. He was a hard-working man, of course, but he was the only representative of the world of men present under that tree and so he would have to shoulder some of the blame.

Mr. Polopetsi shifted on his feet. “Mma Ramotswe is right,” he said. “Your hands surely deserve a rest, Mma. They can go to sleep now.”

At the mention of Mma Ramotswe’s name, the woman looked up sharply. “Mma Ramotswe? You are Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head briefly and emitted the sibilant
ee
of the Setswana yes. That yes could be made to sound anything from accepting to wildly enthusiastic. This time it sounded cautious, implying that she might well be Mma Ramotswe, but people should not read too much into that.

“You are the lady detective?” asked the woman. “The one who has that office behind the garage? That one?”

“That is who she is,” said Mr. Polopetsi proudly.

The woman looked briefly at Mr. Polopetsi and then looked away, as if discounting the reliability of any statement he might make. “Is that true, Mma?”

“It is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I may not be the sort of detective you think I am. I am not a lady who deals with criminal business. That is the job of the Botswana police force. They do it very well. I have nothing to do with all that.”

The woman seemed disappointed. “But you are still a detective?”

“Yes,” answered Mma Ramotswe. “But I am a lady first and then I am a detective. So I just do the things which we ladies know how to do—I talk to people and find out what has happened. Then I try to solve the problems in people’s lives. That is all I do.”

“But that is a big thing,” said the woman. “There are many problems in our lives. Big ones sometimes.” She suddenly unfolded her resting hands and gestured in the air to illuminate the immensity of the problems which people faced.

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Small ones too, Mma Sometimes big problems are really tiny ones when you look at them in the right way.” She glanced again at Mr. Polopetsi. They would have to get back to the subject or she sensed that this woman would talk for rather a long time.

Mr. Polopetsi came to the rescue. “We are looking for somebody to tell us about a lady who lived in this village,” he said. “She is late now, and her husband is late too. She was called Mma Sebina.”

The woman, who had been frowning in concentration as he spoke, now smiled broadly. She ignored Mr. Polopetsi, though, addressing her reply to Mma Ramotswe. It was an odd habit, thought Mma Ramotswe, who had noticed. It was the same thing that the younger apprentice did; when answering a question from Mma Makutsi he would look at Mma Ramotswe or Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. It was a way of saying,
You don’t really exist for me; not entirely.
“But I knew her, Mma,” said the woman. “I knew that lady well. I was her best friend for a long time. A long time.” Her gaze moved from Mma Ramotswe out to the bush beyond, so dry now at this time of the year; no grazing at all for the cattle and slim pickings even for the goats.

“Your best friend?”

“She was. I was very sad when she became late, Mma. When your friends die…you know how your heart feels. Like this.” She clenched her right fist tight: the human heart made small.

Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. She had not thought much about Mma Sebina’s mother and what she was like; she had been interested only in finding out about how she had acquired the child all those years ago. But, of course, there would be a person at the end of that inquiry, a person who left others bereft on her passing. That was the trouble with any inquiry; one unravelled one piece of the skein and it revealed so many little strands, each of which was a story in itself.

She spoke gently. “You must miss her, Mma,” she said. “I know how it is to lose a close friend.”

The woman inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“And her daughter, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe continued. “Tell me about her daughter.”

It took the woman some time to reply, and when she did her tone had changed from regret to something close to anger. “That girl is no good. She was always complaining, complaining, complaining. Like one of those birds that goes on and on all day, telling us that some other bird has stolen its nest or the snake has eaten its eggs. That is what that girl is like.”

They were a bit taken aback. Mr. Polopetsi lifted a hand to his mouth, as if he himself had suddenly spoken out of turn; Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow, but only just. “I did not know that,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell me about that, Mma.”

The woman drew in her breath. “Oh, there is a lot to say, Mma. There is so much that I hardly know where to begin. She was an ungrateful girl—very ungrateful. That lady and her husband gave that girl everything. They paid big school fees—big like this—for her to go to school. They bought her pretty dresses and everything she wanted. When she was a little girl I remember her with her mouth full of sweeties all the time. Morning, afternoon. All the time.”

“And her teeth,” observed Mma Ramotswe, even as she thought, If I had been allowed to have my mouth full of sweeties all the time, how I would have loved it!

The woman looked blank. “I do not see what that has to do with her teeth, Mma. I have not said anything about her teeth.”

Mr. Polopetsi intervened. “I think that Mma Ramotswe meant that if her mouth was always full of sweeties, then her teeth would have had many holes in them. Like those places where the rock rabbits live. Those places in the rocks where they make their holes.”