Precious and Grace (20 page)

There was a brief silence. Then the superintendent cleared his throat.

“Now then,” he said, turning to Mr. Polopetsi, “I understand from Mma Ramotswe that you have been approached by a certain gentleman. I understand that he proposed a trip to Zambia.”

Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “That is correct, sir,” he said. “I had no idea—”

The superintendent waved a hand. “Oh, I'm sure you didn't. Mma Ramotswe has told me that you are not the sort to get mixed up in these things. I trust her judgement.” He paused briefly. “But you have obviously been drawn into bad company.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked miserable. “I did not know about these things, Rra. I was unaware.”

“Yes,” said the superintendent. “These people are very cunning. They get hold of people who are not suspicious of others. You are not alone, Mr. Polopetsi. There are many people who are sucked in that way.”

Mma Ramotswe leaned forward. “He will do everything to help,” she said. “He has agreed.”

The superintendent looked pleased. “Good. In that case we can—”

“But,” interjected Mma Ramotswe, “there is that other matter I mentioned. That commercial issue. All the people who invested because of Mr. Polopetsi are getting a full refund. They will not be complaining.”

“In that case,” said the superintendent, “we can disregard that. We are not interested in commercial issues unless there has been fraud.” He looked intensely at Mr. Polopetsi, as if to assess him as a possible fraudster.

“There has been no fraud,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly. “At least not by Mr. Polopetsi. There has only been a misunderstanding, and all the people he spoke to are, as I say, getting that refund.”

“Then we can get back to this other matter,” said the superintendent. “You have been asked by this man to bring a consignment of illegal drugs over the border.”

“I do not want to go to Zambia,” said Mr. Polopetsi.

The superintendent assured him that he would not have to go anywhere. “All we want from you is a statement about what he asked you to do—along with some details of where you were meant to go in Zambia and who you were meant to meet there. We have other evidence against this man, and once we have your statement then we will be able to proceed against him for attempted importation. That will be enough to put him behind bars.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked alarmed. “I will have to stand up in court?” he asked.

The superintendent nodded. “I shall be there. Don't worry.”

“And I shall be there too,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“There you are,” said the superintendent. “It'll be simple.”

“Mr. Polopetsi will do it,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “There will be no problem.”

The superintendent sat back in his seat. “Mma Ramotswe tells me you are a chemist, Mr. Polopetsi. Is that true?”

“I teach chemistry,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I used to be a dispensing chemist, but I am no longer that.”

“Interesting,” said the superintendent. “We have a lab—you know, a police lab—but we can't get anybody to run it. There's not all that much work for it to do and the government won't pay for a chemist. So it sits there unused and we have to send our samples off—at great expense, I might add—to a lab over the border. It's a big waste of money, if you ask me. Now, if we could find somebody who could do the job part-time for us, and cheaply enough…well, it would be very convenient.” He looked at his fingernails. “Just a few hours a week, of course. Not very much. And not much pay, I'm afraid.”

Mr. Polopetsi suddenly brightened. “But I'd like to do that, Rra. I enjoy lab work.”

“My goodness,” exclaimed the superintendent. “These things sometimes arrange themselves in the strangest way. What a coincidence that I should talk about our lab problems and there you are, sitting right in front of me. That is very odd.”

“Very odd,” agreed Mma Ramotswe.

T
HE CORRUGATIONS
on the road out to the Orphan Farm were worse than usual following the prolonged dry season, shaking Mma Ramotswe's tiny white van with the unrelenting determination of a terrier with a rabbit. In the back of the van, holding on to Zebra's collar, Fanwell bounced up and down, as did the dog.

“Slower, Mma!” shouted Fanwell, but his voice was drowned in the rattles and other protests rising from the van's chassis, and Mma Ramotswe, a believer in the theory that a badly corrugated road was best tackled at speed—allowing one to fly across the top of the bumps without descending into the valleys between them—merely drove all the faster.

By the time they reached the gate, Fanwell had abandoned Zebra and was concentrating on supporting himself. The dog was lying on the floor of the van, apparently trying to sleep; now, as they drew to a halt under an acacia tree, Zebra sat up, sniffed at the air, and uttered a low bark.

“He obviously enjoyed the trip,” said Mma Ramotswe over her shoulder, as she turned off the engine. “Dogs like cars, don't they?”

“I think he was knocked unconscious,” muttered Fanwell. “And so was I.”

They left the van and walked over to the small office building from which Mma Potokwane ran her domain. Two children, a boy and a girl both about five or six years old, sat on the cramped verandah outside the office, mutely staring at Zebra. As Mma Ramotswe approached, they looked up and gazed at her with wide, rheumy eyes. Around their eyes flies were crawling.

Mma Ramotswe frowned disapprovingly, and bent down to brush the flies away.

“You must not let those flies sit on your face,” she said gently in Setswana. “Why not find something to brush them away with?”

The children looked up at her uncomprehendingly. “They do not speak Setswana,” said a voice from inside the office. “They've just been brought in and they haven't said a word.”

“Kalanga?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane shook her head. “We assumed that, but apparently not. One of the housemothers speaks a bit of Kalanga and she tried to get them to say something, but she said they did not understand her at all.”

Mma Ramotswe fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of her blouse and passed it to the girl. The child took it gingerly and dabbed at the boy's eyes, then at her own.

“That's better,” said Mma Ramotswe encouragingly. “Keep the flies away.”

“I think they both have an eye infection,” said Mma Potokwane. “The nurse is coming to take a look. She'll give them some eyedrops. It usually clears it up.” She turned to Fanwell. “And here you are, Fanwell. We don't see very much of you, do we? How is your auntie?”

Mma Potokwane and Fanwell's aunt had been childhood friends, and Mma Potokwane always asked after her.

“She is very well, Mma,” said Fanwell. “She is getting fatter.”

“That's good,” said Mma Potokwane. “She always enjoyed her food. I remember that. She was very fat when she was a girl—very fat.”

Mma Potokwane looked at Zebra. “And this dog?” she asked. “What does he want?”

“The same thing that all dogs want,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Somewhere to live. Some people to look after him and give him food.” She hesitated briefly before adding, “And children to play with.”

Mma Potokwane did not respond for a few moments, but then she turned to Mma Ramotswe and shook a finger in admonition. “Are you trying to tell me something, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe affected nonchalance. “Are we trying to tell Mma Potokwane something, Fanwell?”

Fanwell was more direct. “Yes, Mma. We're asking her to—”

Mma Ramotswe cut him short. “What Fanwell means is that we were wondering whether one of the housemothers might like a dog to play with the children. He's a very friendly dog.”

Mma Potokwane looked down at Zebra, who stared back up at her, his tail wagging to and fro.

“He likes you, Mma,” said Fanwell.

One of the children—the boy—now reached forward and patted Zebra on the head. The dog, surprised at first, moved towards him and licked eagerly at the child's face. He licked around his eyes, making the boy chuckle with joy.

“That's the first sound he's made,” said Mma Potokwane. “The first sound since he came here.”

“See,” said Fanwell. “This dog is good at looking after children. He's cleaning up that boy's eyes.”

“Inja,”
said the child.

“That's Zulu,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Or Ndebele, or Siswati—one of those Zulu languages.”

“Then I can speak to them,” said Fanwell. “My grandfather went to the mines over there. He learned Zulu and he taught me. I practised it with him a lot. I am very good at languages,
Bomma.
You may think I'm useless, but I know a lot of words.”

“Ask them their names then,” said Mma Potokwane. “And we don't think you're useless.”

Fanwell handed Zebra's lead to Mma Ramotswe and crouched down beside the children. They watched him solemnly.

He uttered a few words slowly, holding the boy's hand as he spoke. The effect was immediate, the girl reaching over and taking his free hand while the boy gripped tightly. The girl whispered something to him, and Fanwell nodded.

“She is asking for water,” he said. “She says that she will tell us their names once they have had water.”

Mma Potokwane went into the office and returned with a cup of water. She passed it to the girl, who drank half of it before giving it to the boy. He drained the cup and handed it back to Fanwell. This was followed by more whispering.

“She says that they are brother and sister,” said Fanwell. “She says that she is called Buhle. That means beautiful. And her brother is called…” He leaned forward and asked the girl. “Sfiso,” he said. “I don't know what that means, but it is a name they use.”

Mma Potokwane asked him to find out where they were from. “And their parents,” she said. “Ask them where their parents are.”

Fanwell posed the questions. The boy remained silent, but the girl spoke freely.

“I cannot understand everything she says,” said Fanwell. “But she says that their parents are late. She says they have been late for months. She says they were very thin.”

Mma Potokwane caught Mma Ramotswe's eye. That was the prevailing euphemism: the slim disease.

Fanwell continued his translation. “She said that they were brought to Botswana from Swaziland by an aunt and left here. She said there is nobody to look after them in Swaziland. The aunt has gone, she says.”

Mma Potokwane sighed. “Not an unusual story,” she said. “Nobody to look after children somewhere else—dump them in Botswana and then go home to wherever you come from.”

“That's not fair on you,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“It's even less fair on the children,” said Mma Potokwane. She sighed again. “A child is a child. We shall not turn them away.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at Zebra. “I shall take the dog back, Mma,” she said. “You cannot look after the whole world.”

Mma Potokwane turned to her friend. She knew how much she owed Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He had nursed their old pump for years, he had fixed the Orphan Farm van, he had tinkered with the hot-water system and kept the boilers going for far longer than their allotted, biblical span. She owed Mma Ramotswe many favours, and she could not recall Mma Ramotswe ever calling them in. A dog would be popular with the children, and they would give it the love it needed. There was only one answer.

“He must stay,” she said. “He can be the father of these two children. He will love them.”

“You are very kind, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is nobody kinder than you.”

She meant it, and as she spoke, she thought how strange it was that we so very rarely said complimentary things to our friends, and how easy it was to do so, and how it made the world seem a less harsh place.

“The dog is very happy, Mma Potokwane,” said Fanwell. “He will be a very good dog out here. He will make the children happy.”

Mma Potokwane nodded. “We must drink some tea,” she said. “We have dealt with several problems very quickly. Now we should have tea in case any further problems arise.”

“I hope they do not,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“So do I,” said Fanwell. “I am very grateful to you, Mma Potokwane, for taking this poor dog.”

Two out of three,
thought Mma Ramotswe: Mr. Polopetsi, and now Zebra—both crossed off the list with no complications at all. Now all that remained was the easiest task of all: bringing Rosie and Susan together—an easy task, it would seem, and one that should have every bit as satisfactory an ending as this one.

But then a feeling of foreboding set in. It was insidious in its onset, but by the time Mma Ramotswe had dropped Fanwell off at his uncle's house in Old Naledi, she was beginning to feel less confident about seeing Rosie. She was not even sure that she would find her—she knew that she worked in a bakery out towards Kgali Hill, but she had no telephone number for her, nor a home address. And she was not even sure about the location of the bakery—new businesses were springing up all the time—and closing too—and bitter experience had taught her that tracing people at their work could be difficult: people changed jobs, went off on holiday without warning, and even occasionally used assumed names at work in order to avoid tax.

Fanwell, though, said that he knew exactly where the bakery was, and had given her precise instructions. “You go up Kudumatse Road, Mma,” he said, “and then you are in Extension 23. That is where that man who was having that affair with that lady lived—the man who was married to that lady wrestler—you remember her, Mma? Charlie told me all about that case.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency had been approached by the wife of the errant husband and had quickly laid bare what was happening.

“I felt very sorry for that man,” said Fanwell. “He didn't know what was coming to him. Is he out of hospital yet, Mma?”

“I think he is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I saw him at the shops at Riverwalk. He was reading a long shopping list in the supermarket.”

“He has learned to be obedient then,” said Fanwell.

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Be careful when you choose a wife, Fanwell.”

“I shall be very careful, Mma. I will not marry a lady who likes to wrestle.”

“I think that's wise, Fanwell—on balance.”

He grinned. “Do you think anybody will marry me, Mma Ramotswe?”

She did not hesitate. “There will be young women, Fanwell. They would love a nice young man like you.”

“And Charlie?” asked Fanwell. “Will anybody marry Charlie?”

She remembered the man in the housing office and his request that she should help him find a bride. She had rashly offered to help, but how could she? How could she assume responsibility for all the disappointments of the world—for all the yearnings and searches of those who had not found what they wanted to find? Was that her role in life?

Fanwell wanted an answer. “I asked you, Mma: Will anybody marry Charlie?”

She said that the answer was yes, but she saw greater difficulties there. “Charlie is a very big man with the ladies, Fanwell, as you might have observed. Men who are very big with the ladies often have no judgement as to what qualities to look for in a wife. It's the same with the ladies who are very big with the men—they often don't understand what will make a good husband.”

Fanwell looked thoughtful. “A good husband? Like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? He's a good husband to you, Mma, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “He is the best husband in Botswana, Rra. That is well known.”

“Better than Phuti Radiphuti, Mma? He is a good husband to Mma Makutsi, I think, but maybe not as good a husband as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Perhaps Phuti is a Good Husband, Division Two.”