Precious and Grace (23 page)

But now, as the Bishop spoke, she restricted herself to just the merest nodding of the head in agreement. “Somebody asked me the other day,” he said, “when we should start teaching children about forgiveness. That is the question she asked.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling, so high above her in this new cathedral, and at the electric fans suspended from the ceiling, stirring the air so ineffectively with their sluggish blades.

“I was surprised by the question,” continued the Bishop, “because I think that forgiveness is one of the first things. Forgiveness is at the heart of the way we live our lives—or should be. So when we teach our children about the things they need to know about the world—about how not to touch fire, about how to wash their hands or put on their shoes; yes, even about the map of our world, about where Africa is, and Botswana, about where the Limpopo runs or the Okavango, about where the great Kalahari lies—all these things, we should also remember to teach them about forgiveness. We must teach them that when another person wrongs us—hurts us, perhaps—we should not strike back, but should be ready to forgive. We must teach them that if we do not forgive then we run the risk of being eaten up with hatred inside, and that hatred is like acid, that it will gnaw and gnaw away. That is why forgiveness must be taught right at the beginning, when we are teaching about these first things.”

Yes,
thought Mma Ramotswe.
Yes.
This is all true. This is all very true.

“And yet,” he went on, “who talks about forgiveness these days, other than the people who come to this place, or to places like this? What politician, what public person, do we hear standing up and saying that we must forgive? The message we are more likely to hear is one of blame, of how this person or that person must be held to account for something bad that has happened. It is a message of retribution—that is all it is—a message of pure retribution, sometimes dressed up in concern about victims and public safety and matters of that sort. But if you do not forgive, and you think all the time about getting even, or punishing somebody who has done you a wrong, what are you achieving? You are not going to make that person better by hating or punishing him; oh no, that will not happen. When we punish somebody, we are often just punishing ourselves, you know. If people lock others away, they are simply increasing the amount of suffering there is in the world; they may think they are diminishing it, but they are not. They are adding to the burden that suffering creates. Of course, sometimes you have no alternative but to do it—people must be protected from harm—but you should always remember that there are other ways of changing a man's ways.

“My brothers and sisters: do not be afraid to profess forgiveness. Do not be afraid to tell people who urge you to seek retribution or revenge that there is no place for any of that in your heart. Do not be embarrassed to say that you believe in love, and that you believe that water can wash away the sins of the world, and that you are prepared to put this message of forgiveness right at the heart of your world. My brothers and sisters, do not be afraid to say any of this, even if people laugh at you, or say that you are old-fashioned, or foolish, or that you believe things that cannot be believed. Do not worry about any of that—because love and forgiveness are more powerful than any of those cynical, mocking words and will always be so. Always.”

Mma Ramotswe looked about her. Nobody was asleep now. Seated next to her, a man whom she had never seen before reached into his pocket, took out a fresh white handkerchief, and put it briefly to his eyes. He was by himself, and she thought,
His wife is late.
And she reached out and touched the sleeve of his jacket, very gently and very briefly, and he looked at her with surprise at first, and then with gratitude. There was no need for words, and anyway the Bishop was finishing what he had to say and the choir was rising to its feet.

AND THEN THE WEEKEND
was over, seemingly in a flash, and it was Monday morning and time to drive in to the office of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and to deal with correspondence, with the sending out of invoices, and with all the other matters that usually occupied the beginning of the week. Mma Makutsi was late in, her car having refused to start, and Charlie complained of mild toothache, but otherwise it was a normal morning. Except, of course, for the telephone call that Mma Makutsi took shortly after the second tea break. This was from Susan, and she directed the call immediately to Mma Ramotswe.

Susan's tone was pleasant enough. “You said that you would have information for me,” she began. “I'm free at lunchtime. Could we meet?”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated, but she knew that whatever needed to be done could not be avoided. She suggested that they should meet at the President Hotel. She would book a table on the verandah and be there by twelve-thirty.

“That sounds good,” said Susan.

Mma Ramotswe wondered whether it would be all that good. “Mma Makutsi will join us,” she said.

“Your assistant?” asked Susan.

They were talking on the speakerphone, and Mma Ramotswe reached forward quickly to cup a hand over the instrument. But it was too late: Mma Makutsi had heard—or thought she had heard.

“Co-director,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly.

“The lady with the huge glasses?” asked Susan.

This led to another quick attempt to suppress the broadcast; again too late.

Mma Ramotswe laughed airily. “They're very fashionable, Mma,” she said. “I'd like a pair like that myself, but I don't think I could carry them off.”

She brought the conversation to an end before further damage could be done. Looking across the office, she saw Mma Makutsi glaring at her.

“I don't think she meant to be rude, Mma Makutsi.”

Mma Makutsi looked down at her desk. “I shall forget what I heard, Mma,” she said. “It is sometimes better to do that.”

“That's very good of you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is a good policy.”

“Except sometimes,” added Mma Makutsi. “Sometimes it's better to remember.”

Mma Ramotswe did not pursue the matter. The arrangement had been made, and now, in the two hours before they were due to go to the President Hotel for what she feared would be a difficult meeting, she thought of what she would have to say. It was tricky. If she had been sure that she was right about Susan, then it would have been easier. But any certainty she had felt on Friday had now been replaced by doubts. That, she thought, was the problem with doubts: if you admitted the slightest niggle of uncertainty, even hardly enough to disturb a settled view, it could rapidly become so weighty as to undermine an entire outlook.

On the way to the President Hotel, they did not discuss the case until they were almost at their destination. Then Mma Makutsi faced Mma Ramotswe as she was turning into the road leading to the hotel's parking place and voiced her doubts. “I'm not sure about all this, Mma,” she said. “I can't see why somebody would go to all this trouble just to have a row with somebody over something that was long, long ago. It doesn't make sense to me.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Nor to me, Mma. And yet…”

“And yet we both feel there's something not quite right here.”

In Mma Ramotswe's view that was a perfect assessment of the situation. Something was not quite right—but what exactly was it that was not quite right? “We shall have to feel our way through this,” she said, as she approached a parking place between two other vehicles—a delivery van and an old green saloon car.

She nosed the van into the space. It was a tight fit and Mma Makutsi, looking out of the window on her side, pointed out that she would be unable to open her door. Mma Ramotswe engaged reverse gear and repositioned the van, this time allowing more room on Mma Makutsi's side.

“That's better,” said Mma Makutsi, opening her door before the engine was switched off.

But then Mma Ramotswe saw that she was hemmed in on her own side. “I can't get out,” she said.

Mma Makutsi kept her door open. “Then get out this side, Mma. Come over here.”

Mma Ramotswe began to slide over to the other side, negotiating her way past the handbrake and gear lever between the driver's and the passenger's side. She stopped. It had looked as if the manoeuvre would be possible, but there was less room than she had imagined and she suddenly realised that she could easily become stuck.

“Breathe in,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you breathe in you become smaller, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe inhaled, and then, with a wriggle and a further twist, she was out of the door.

“Perhaps a larger van, Mma…,” said Mma Makutsi gently.

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “There is nothing wrong with my van, Mma. It is the parking places that are getting smaller and smaller. It's not as if the country is shrinking, and yet they are always leaving less and less space for us to park.”

“You are quite right,” said Mma Makutsi. “Soon there will be no room to park at all and we shall have to drive round and round and then go home.”

Mma Ramotswe stood beside the van, adjusting her skirt. As she did so, she became aware that somebody had approached them silently from behind another parked car. It was Susan.

“Is something wrong?”

Mma Makutsi turned round. “No, Mma. We had difficulty parking—that's all.”

Susan looked at her watch. “We are both early—will they be ready for us?”

“They always put the lunch out early,” said Mma Makutsi. “They'll be ready.”

“So,” said Susan as they began to walk about the car park. “Have you found her?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have found her.”

Susan seemed pleased. “When can I see her? This afternoon some time?”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “Why do you want to see her, Mma?”

It took Susan a few moments to answer. “I've told you why, Mma,” she said. “You know the reason.”

“To make contact with your past?”

“Yes. I told you that right at the beginning.”

Mma Ramotswe stopped. They were in the middle of the car park, but there was no traffic.

“But why do you want to make contact with your past, Mma? That's what I'm interested in.”

Mma Ramotswe was aware that Susan was irritated. She heard her breathing become more rapid. “With all due respect, Mma,” she began, “that's my business.”

Mma Ramotswe was now in no doubt. “You want to confront her, Mma—I think you want to confront that woman because she was cruel. Did she mistreat you, Mma? Is that it?”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at the other woman. She saw that the effect of her words was immediate. When she replied, Susan's voice was raised. “Mistreat me? Who told you about that? Did I say anything about it?”

“You did not,” said Mma Ramotswe, remaining calm. “But then many of my clients don't tell me the full story.” She paused. There had been no further reaction from Susan—just silence, and shallow breathing. But she had said, “Who told you about that?” Those were not the words of one who was denying that anything had happened.
About that…That
was something that had happened.

She waited.

“I want to see that person,” said Susan eventually.

Mma Ramotswe hesitated.

“I'm serious, Mma Ramotswe. I want to see that person.” Susan's voice was uneven now, the emotion breaking through.

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. “I'm not sure that it's a good idea, Mma,” she said.

“Are you saying you won't tell me where she is?”

Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes. They were fully exposed to the sun, and it was beating down upon them remorselessly. “That is so, Mma,” she said. “There is no point in going over very old matters. It's time for you to forget about all that.”

Mma Makutsi tried to lead them into the shade, but they did not move.

“She shut me up,” said Susan, her voice lowered to a whisper. “My parents were away. She was looking after me and she accused me of taking some cake she had been saving for something or other. She locked me in her room at the back—in the servant's block. She locked me there for a whole afternoon. I was terrified.”

“That was very bad,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I've never forgotten it.”

“No, so I see.”

Mma Ramotswe saw Mma Makutsi frown at the disclosure.

“I was shut up, you know. I was shut in the classroom all by myself. Up in Bobonong. It was for something I didn't do.”

Susan ignored this. She was still staring at Mma Ramotswe, and now she said, “So what do you think I should do, Mma? You say there's no point in going over these old things, but what do you think I should do?” Her words were posed as a challenge—and an aggressive one at that.

“Forgive her,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly.

This was met with incredulity. “What?”

“Forgive her,” repeated Mma Ramotswe. “You see, forgiveness is the only way you can settle these things. Forgiveness is the only way you'll be able to forget this painful episode.”

“You're saying I should forgive her…”

“That's exactly what I am saying, Mma.”

Inside Susan something snapped, and she shouted out: “Her…her…!” And then, almost blindly, she pushed at Mma Ramotswe. It was somewhere between a blow and a shove, and it had an entirely unexpected effect, almost causing Mma Ramotswe to lose her footing. She toppled briefly and would have fallen had Mma Makutsi not reached out to steady her. There was an involuntary gasp from Susan. “Mma…are you all right?” she stuttered.

It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to recover. “Yes, Mma, I am all right.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Susan. “I didn't mean to do that.”

“I know,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It's over. Think no more about it.”