Precious and Grace (24 page)

Susan clasped her hands together. “It's all…” She trailed off.

“I know, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know how you feel.”

“It's just that…”

They were both silent now. The heat was almost unbearable; bright, pressing, unrelenting. Time itself seemed to become languid, its passage marked by the screech of cicadas, but slowly, and almost imperceptibly, the cogs of some great solution, some machine of rescue, seemed to turn upon one another. A dam had burst; somewhere in some guarded corner, a dam had burst.

“I know you're unhappy about something else, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “We can talk about that later, once we are out of this sun.”

“I…”

“You don't have to say anything, Mma. You don't have to say anything at all.” She looked at Susan, and saw the tears in her eyes. She reached out. “I can take that lady a message,” she said. “I can tell you what I think that message should say, but perhaps you can find the words yourself.”

Susan nodded. “I'll find them,” she said.

They moved towards the shade, arm in arm, following Mma Makutsi, who had already beaten a retreat from the sun and was standing, waiting for them, under the boughs of an acacia tree.

THE PRESENTATION CEREMONY
for the Woman of the Year Award took place two days later in the ballroom of the Sun Hotel. Both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi were in the mood for a celebration, as several important and long-running cases had recently been put to bed. The Polopetsi business had also been resolved—aided by the painful sale of almost his entire herd of cattle. Mma Makutsi had complained about getting no more than her original investment back, but was persuaded by Mma Ramotswe that this was a much better outcome than might otherwise have materialised. “He has learned his lesson,” she said. “He has learned a big lesson, Mma Makutsi.”

A satisfactory outcome had also been found for the Susan affair. Susan had abandoned her search for Rosie and had concentrated instead on the couple of friends they had unearthed from her days at Thornhill School. One of these remembered her quite well and had gone out of her way to be hospitable. The last time Mma Ramotswe saw her, Susan was smiling, and that, Mma Ramotswe thought, amounted to a success. The past, she thought, was being remembered, and forgotten, in just the right measure. It had been, though, one of the strangest cases Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to deal with, even if she felt it most clearly illustrated a series of psychological and moral truths. “Forgiveness,” she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Forgiveness is often the solution.”

He had not been listening to what she had been saying—or had heard only the word
solution.
In his calling as a mechanic the solution to a mechanical problem was often something as simple as a change of oil, and so he made that point now. “A change of oil,” he said. “Yes, Mma, that is the solution. I've always said that.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. It was not often that a misheard or ignored question elicited a response that was so perfectly apt. A change of oil…yes, that was what we all needed from time to time, whether we were an engine or a person. And there were other similarities to be explored. Engines had to be handled gently, as did people. Forward gears were better than reverse gears—for people as well as engines. There were so many analogies that could be made. One day, perhaps, she would write them down and add them, as an appendix of sorts, to her cherished copy of Clovis Andersen's
The Principles of Private Detection—
a source of wisdom to which, surely, more wisdom could profitably be added.

At the Sun Hotel a photographer awaited the arriving guests. All Gaborone was there—or at least all of Gaborone that thought it merited the description “All Gaborone.” There was the Mayor, and the Minister for Women's Affairs, and the president, vice-president, and secretary of the Gaborone Chamber of Commerce. There was Mr. Spokes “Fast-Time” Pilani, the famous radio personality. There was the manager of the Mercedes-Benz dealership and the chairman of the Water Board. There was barely a figure of note in the city who had not made an effort to attend, and to look at his or her best for the occasion.

And there were the women who had made the longlist, including the runner-up, Violet Sephotho. Of the winner, Gloria Poeteng, there was no sign yet; her entrance would be made on stage and dramatically at the appropriate moment. “She will be looking very good,” said one of the waitresses to Mma Ramotswe. “There has been a lot of talk about her outfit.”

There was a reception before the main event, and then the guests filed into the ballroom and took their seats. Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi sat as near to the front as they could, hoping to get a good view of proceedings.

“It will be a very great moment when the crown is given to Gloria,” whispered Mma Makutsi. “That Violet Sephotho will have difficulty smiling. She'll try, but what is going on inside her will show.”

“You never know,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And let's not revel too much in her defeat, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi was silent, but it was clear that she intended to revel.

The Mayor went up on stage to prolonged applause. His speech, which lasted twenty-five minutes, was all about what he had done to further the cause of women. “That task is never over,” he said. “There are always more women.”

Following the Mayor's speech there was an address by the Minister for Women's Affairs. This lasted slightly over forty minutes, and was accompanied by a great number of illustrative figures.

“This is a very instructive evening,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We are having to learn a lot for our dinner.”

They had seen—and smelled—the dinner that had been laid out on long tables at the side of the room. It was worth waiting for, they felt, even if hunger pains made it difficult to concentrate on all the statistics that the minister seemed determined to produce.

At last the minister concluded her speech. “There is only one way for women to stand,” she said. “And that is on their own two feet.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and smiled. “I would have thought that rather obvious, Mma,” she whispered.

“As long as they have two feet,” responded Mma Makutsi, also in a whisper. “There are some women who may not be so lucky. There was a lady in Bobonong who had only one leg.”

Mma Ramotswe hushed her. The president of the Chamber of Commerce was ascending to the podium, ready to make the announcement.

His words, when they came, were simple and direct. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I very much regret that the discovery of certain voting irregularities has obliged the Chamber to change its decision.”

“She cheated!” whispered Mma Makutsi. “Violet Sephotho cheated—and they've discovered it. She will no longer be runner-up! Oh, Mma, this is so good…I'm so glad we came.”

The president consulted a piece of paper. “As a result of this, we have only one name to announce this evening, and that is the name of this year's Woman of the Year—Violet Sephotho.”

To ringing applause, Violet walked onto the stage. The president stepped away from the podium and handed her a scroll and an envelope. There were cheers from the back of the hall and applause from all quarters. Lights flashed across the ceiling, glittering lights sending a message of triumph and glory. Mma Makutsi said nothing. She was frozen; turned, perhaps, into a pillar of salt—like Lot's wife.

The presentation over, the crowd made its way to the buffet. In the hubbub of chat that filled the ballroom, Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe were silent, at least for several minutes.

“I have no appetite,” said Mma Makutsi at last. “I could not touch food. Not tonight. Not for some days, I fear.”

“Come on, now, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Worse things have happened.”

“I cannot think of anything worse than this, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “My heart is broken, broken, broken.”

Mma Ramotswe fetched her a plate of food from the buffet, but she simply toyed with it. After twenty minutes, during which they sat in morose isolation, Mma Ramotswe suggested that it was time to go.

“We can slip out,” she said. “All these people are too busy admiring one another.”

They made their way towards the door, and it was there that they met Violet Sephotho, her scroll under one arm and wearing the Woman of the Year ribbon.

Violet seemed surprised to see them. “I had not expected you two,” she said. “But it is very kind of you to come and share my evening. Thank you.”

Mma Makutsi swallowed hard. Mma Ramotswe, though, bowed her head politely. “It is a very great evening for you, Violet. Congratulations. I am very happy for you.”

She nudged Mma Makutsi, who looked up slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I am happy too, Violet.”

If there was any irony in Mma Makutsi's words, Violet did not notice it. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I hope you have had a good meal too.”

Mma Ramotswe extended a hand to Violet, and Violet shook it. Then, after only a few seconds of hesitation, Mma Makutsi did the same.

They left, and outside in the car park, under the high sky of stars, they stood for a moment to breathe in the cool night air.

“You did the right thing back there,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “There is nobody—nobody—whose hand you should refuse to shake.”

“Even the Devil's?” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Then she gave her answer. “I used to believe in the Devil, you know, Mma. Now I don't. So there can be no question of shaking a hand that doesn't exist.”

Mma Makutsi awaited an explanation.

“You see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He's not a separate person. He's inside us. He's there inside people—as part of what they are.”

“I'm not sure,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Well, I am,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi shook her head in disbelief—not about what Mma Ramotswe had just said, but about what had happened. How could it be that Botswana of all countries—the country that paid more attention to doing what was right than so many other countries—how could Botswana, of all places, choose as its Woman of the Year a person as self-seeking as Violet Sephotho? Did people not realise? Were people such poor judges of character as to be unable to see Violet for what she was?

She expressed these thoughts to Mma Ramotswe, who listened carefully.

“Mma Makutsi,” she said, her voice quiet and even, “there are many things in this world that are not right. You only have to look about you and you see them.”

“But, Mma, everybody should know about Violet Sephotho.”

“I'm afraid they don't,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Or if they do, they don't care, or they even admire qualities like that.”

“Selfishness? Wickedness? Is that what you're saying, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a few moments. “They might not see them as that. They might think that people who are flashy—”

“She's definitely that,” interrupted Mma Makutsi.

“…or shallow—”

“And that too,” said Mma Makutsi forcefully. “She's as shallow as the far end of Gaborone Dam after a long drought. That's how shallow she is, Mma.”

“And so people might vote for somebody like that because they think that's what a woman of the year should be—ruthless, Mma. They think that a woman of the year should be a real go-getter, determined to succeed.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head again. “How can this be, Mma? How can people be so wrong?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Fortunately nobody will pay much attention. I don't think that Violet will be remembered for long.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “I wouldn't be surprised if she gets
Woman of the Year
painted on the side of her car.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I hope she does that, Mma. Imagine how we'll all laugh when we see that car go by.”

Mma Makutsi looked outraged, but only for a short time. Then she started to grin. “It is quite funny, isn't it, Mma? Violet Sephotho elected Woman of the Year because she probably paid people to vote for her. And all those officials being fooled into thinking she deserves it. There is a funny side to it, isn't there?”

“Just,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But even when there's a very small funny side to something—very small in this case—it makes it easier to bear, don't you think, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi did think that, and her mood lifted.

They walked towards the van, so small and shabby alongside all the official cars parked in front of the hotel that night. But there was not one of those cars—not one—that Mma Ramotswe would have accepted in exchange for her van. Not one.

THE NEXT DAY
she drove out to the Orphan Farm to visit Mma Potokwane. She had a great deal to tell her friend, who liked to be kept up with developments. There was news of Mr. Polopetsi—Mma Potokwane had not heard about the sorting out of that problem, and would be pleased with the outcome. That had been a troubling situation that could have ended very differently. Then there was the remarkable outcome of the Woman of the Year Award. Mma Potokwane would not be at all pleased to hear that Violet had won that, but she was robust and would get over the shock. And finally there was the Susan story. Mma Ramotswe would enjoy telling her friend all about that and about the outcome, which was clearly a good one. Anger, and its close cousin revenge, had come off second best to forgiveness and to the realisation that current unhappiness is not always helped by delving into the past, but can be dealt with by other, more productive means. “People often make that discovery themselves,” observed Mma Potokwane. “All they need is a bit of a push.”

They went to visit one of the housemothers. She received them warmly and took them into one of the small bedrooms that made up each house. It was afternoon rest time for the younger children, and there, on the lower bunk, lying head to toe, were the brother and sister whom Mma Ramotswe had seen on her last visit. And on the bed with them, curled up and comfortable—against all the regulations—was Fanwell's dog. When they entered the room he awoke and gave a low, protective growl.