Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (18 page)

“No, I've done nothing, Mma. I'm very sorry about your late van.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “You're very kind, Fanwell. You're kind to say that.” Charlie, she had noticed, had said nothing about the end of her tiny white van, had even smiled over it, she recalled. But she was not vindictive, and there was no point in going into any of that.

“When we towed it away, I felt very sad,” Fanwell went on. “To think of all the times that van had carried you home and then back to the office. It must have been very sad for you, Mma.”

“It was,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had not seen the van being towed away, but it was no longer parked next to the garage, and she assumed that the deed had been done. She hardly dared ask about the physical fate of the van, but now she decided that perhaps she should. She had counselled Mma Makutsi that it was best to talk; well, perhaps it was best for her to talk too, in her case about the van's fate.

She asked Fanwell what had happened, and he explained. “We did it this morning,” he said. “While you were away somewhere in your new van. The boss drove the truck and I steered your van. We took it to that man who finds spare parts from scrapped cars. Harry Moloso. He has that place in the industrial site, over that side. I sometimes go and get spares there. He is a fat man who drinks a lot of beer and has a stomach that goes out like this. That is where we took it.”

Mma Ramotswe listened to this with a growing feeling of emptiness. It was not a dignified end for her tiny white van—to be handed over ignominiously to Harry Moloso with his beer belly and his oxyacetylene torch waiting in the background, every bit the cruel instrument of torture. She shuddered.

Fanwell whistled. “It's a pity about your van, Mma,” he said. “Maybe it could have been fixed after all. If one could find the parts. A big job, though.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent, and Fanwell looked at her, smiling. “Very big job. But there must be some of them somewhere. If you looked hard enough.”

Mma Ramotswe took a pencil in her hand and played with it gently between her thumb and forefinger. “Parts?”

“Yes,” said Fanwell. “You'd need to get … Oh, it's a long list, Mma. Not worth doing, which is what the boss said when we opened it up. He's right, I think.”

It was the smallest of straws, but a straw nonetheless. “But it
could be done? You could find the parts somewhere, do you think?”

Fanwell nodded. “You'd start at Harry Moloso's. He must have had vans like that going through. He must have some of the parts. And Harry Moloso knows everybody in the parts business, Mma. He can phone Johannesburg if necessary and speak to somebody there. Or Francistown, Mafikeng—anywhere. He has the contacts.” He smiled. “Me—I have no contacts. None.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her desk. Was it worth it? She loved that van, and although the new van was very comfortable and efficient, were comfort and efficiency the only things in this life? She thought they were not. If they were, then would she and Mma Makutsi be doing what they were now doing, working for very little money in a funny little office next to a garage? She could get a far more comfortable job, she thought, and Mma Makutsi had Phuti to look after her—if she still had him, that is— and she would soon have no need to work. No, comfort was not the only thing. They worked in the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency because they wanted to help people with the problems in their lives. And they sat in these old chairs because they had always sat in them and they felt loyal to the things that had served them well. The tiny white van had served her well, and it had been towed off to Harry Moloso's scrapyard; that had been its reward.

She looked up at Fanwell, who was watching her, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. She took a deep breath. “Do you think …” she began.

The apprentice had anticipated her question. “Yes,” he said. “I could try.”

She let out her breath. “Can we go round there some time? Not today, but some time soon?”

Fanwell made a gesture that implied that whatever Mma
Ramotswe wanted to do would be convenient to him. “I can't guarantee anything, Mma Ramotswe,” he said.

“Who can guarantee anything?” asked Mma Ramotswe in reply.

Fanwell laughed. “Your sign out there says satisfaction guaranteed, doesn't it?
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency—Under Personal Supervision—Satisfaction Guaranteed.”

“I suppose, that is, we'd
like
to guarantee,” said Mma Ramotswe. She felt that she wanted to get up and hug this young man, but she could never do that. She imagined for a moment hugging him and then Mma Makutsi coming back into the office and misinterpreting what she saw. She would have to say,
But I was just hugging him for sheer joy, Mma
, and Mma Makutsi would tactfully say,
Of course, Mma, of course
.

AT THE TIME
that Fanwell and Mma Ramotswe were having their conversation about the tiny white van, Mma Makutsi was at the River Walk shops, walking through the concourse that led to the supermarket. The shops on either side of her were all tempting in their various ways—except for the outdoor clothing shop, for which she had no time at all. She had no interest in bush clothing—all those ridiculous jackets with too many pockets and slouch hats and so on. She did not like the bush very much; she was prepared to accept that there were some who did, but Mma Makutsi was one for urban comforts. There were things in the bush that could bite one—and did, if they had the chance. And of course if one ventured into the real bush, the remote tracts of land that stretched out to the northern reaches of the country, the great plains and the mopani forests, there were creatures that could make a person feel very uncomfortable indeed. Mma Makutsi knew about this because one of her forebears, her grandfather on
her mother's side, had been attacked by a lion outside Maun. He was a driver for a company that carted provisions from Francistown to the Delta, and he had stopped en route in a small village where he had a cousin. As he prepared to leave before dawn, he had been set upon by a large lioness that had mauled him badly, before the villagers, hearing his screams, had come out brandishing sticks. Mma Makutsi had been deeply affected by this story when she was a small girl, and had been nervous of the bush since then.

Of course there was no danger of lions in Gaborone, in the River Walk shopping centre, but who knew what lurked just beyond the edge of the town? The dam was not far away, after all, and beyond the dam there was a stretch of country where great antelopes might be seen—kudu and eland—and if they were there, then why should there not be the creatures that preyed on them—lions and leopards? And were there not crocodiles in the dam, no matter what people said about there being none? Crocodiles … She stopped. The supermarket was just round the corner but here, at her right hand, was the window of a shoe shop, and there, on a small display stand, was a pair of what looked like crocodile-leather shoes.

Mma Makutsi stopped to peer through the window. It was difficult to tell with leather—the shoes at the front of the display were definitely ostrich skin, one could see that from the tiny bumps—but those on the stand had a very different texture. Could they be hippo skin? Surely not. She had never heard of hippo hide being used to make shoes, and she doubted whether it would appeal very much. She could not imagine herself saying,
These are my new hippo-hide shoes;
that conveyed entirely the wrong impression. Perhaps Mma Ramotswe could wear hippo-hide shoes; perhaps it was just the right leather for the shoes of traditionally built people.

She hesitated. She had not come to the shopping centre to buy shoes; she had come to buy food, and there was a big difference between shopping for food and shopping for shoes, a difference concentrated in one word:
guilt
. There was no guilt at all in buying day-to-day requirements, such as food, whereas the purchase of shoes, even shoes that were intended for working use, was a process very susceptible to the onslaughts of conscience. Were the shoes necessary? Were shoes
like this
necessary? Would anybody believe that such shoes could possibly have been bought with functionality in mind? Such were the questions that confronted Mma Makutsi every time she entered a shoe shop. And such were the questions that she resolutely, and with admirable determination, swept aside before making a purchase.

Her hesitation was not long-lived. There would be plenty of time to buy the food for dinner even if she went into the shoe shop now. And she did not necessarily have to go in to
buy;
it was perfectly possible to go into a shoe shop just to look, even if Mma Makutsi inevitably came out with a new pair of shoes. This time it would be pure curiosity about the crocodile-skin shoes, nothing more than that.

The assistant recognised her. Her sister had been at the Botswana Secretarial College at the same time as Mma Makutsi; indeed, they had been quite good friends. “Mma Makutsi,” she said as she sidled up. “We haven't seen you for some time. Are you well, Mma?”

“Thank you, Mma. I am very well. And you are well?”

“I am well too, Mma. Thank you.”

There was a silence. Then Mma Makutsi continued, “And your sister is well too?”

“She is. She has had another baby. And the baby is well.”

“That is good.”

The silence returned. Mma Makutsi glanced in the direction
of the window. “I couldn't help noticing, Mma,” she said, “that you had a very smart pair of shoes in the window there. Those ones on the stand. They are very pretty shoes.”

The assistant laughed. “They are, Mma. They are very pretty. And that's why we put them on that stand—so that if you walked past you would see them. And you have.”

She moved over towards the window and leaned forward to take the shoes off the stand. Returning to Mma Makutsi, she held them out in front of her, like a prize. “There, Mma. Look at these. These are very fine shoes.”

Mma Makutsi reached forward and took one of the shoes from the assistant's hand. She turned it over and examined the heel and the sole. The heel was high, but not so high as to make the shoes impractical. She looked inside: the workmanship was impeccable; neatly stitched seams ran down the side of the leather lining, and everything was meticulously and expertly finished. She ran a finger over the leather; it felt just right.

“They were made in Johannesburg,” said the assistant. “These shoes are exactly the style being worn today in Johannesburg, by the very fashionable ladies there. You know that, of course.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “Of course.”

“But they are now being worn in Gaborone too,” went on the assistant. “By our own more fashionable ladies.”

Mma Makutsi sat down silently on one of the chairs while the assistant, having given her the other shoe, fetched small nylon socks. The decision to try the shoes had been made wordlessly, but everything was well understood. The assistant knew what was going on in Mma Makutsi's mind and would leave her to conduct the internal struggle by herself; no help was needed from her. Other than to remark, perhaps, that the shoes were made of a leather which looked very like crocodile, but which was not. It was crocodile-look, apparently, which was not the same thing. “It is better for the crocodiles,” explained the assistant. “And it is just
as beautiful. Many people would think that you are wearing crocodile if they saw those shoes. That is what they would think, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi slipped the shoes onto her feet. They were exactly the right size and fitted perfectly. She glanced at the assistant, who nodded encouragingly. She stood up.

“I am not sure when I would wear these shoes,” she said as she took a tentative step.

The assistant spread her hands. “Oh, Mma, you could wear them to all sorts of parties. They are ideal party shoes.”

Mma Makutsi looked down at the shoes. “I do not go to many parties,” she said. “In fact, I go to none.” This was true. Mma Makutsi was not a party-goer, and Phuti had never so much as suggested going to one.

“Or not,” the assistant added hurriedly. “These shoes do not need to go to parties. You can wear these to work. When you are entertaining a client. Or even for ordinary wear—when you feel that you want to look smart, even if you are doing nothing special. You could wear these shoes all the time, you know.”

“They are very pretty,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very elegant.”

The assistant nodded. “That is what I thought when I first saw them. I thought that these are the most elegant shoes we have had in the shop for a long time.”

Mma Makutsi asked the price. It was steep, but then she told herself: I am the fiancée of a wealthy man—still—and he has often said that he would buy me shoes and clothes. And I have never taken advantage of that; never. She looked into her purse. She had been to the bank to draw money and there was just enough for the shoes, even if nothing would be left over for the food.

It was a stark choice: shoes or food; beauty or sustenance; the sensible or the self-indulgent.

“I'll take these shoes,” she said firmly.

The assistant smiled broadly. “You'll never regret it, Mma,” she said. “Never. Not once.”

MMA MAKUTSI CAUGHT
a minibus home. She was empty-handed, apart from the shoes, which had been placed in their elegant box and then in a plastic carrier bag. This bag sat on her lap where, had she not thrown caution to the winds, her shopping bag of groceries would have been. But had she bought groceries, she would not be experiencing that extraordinary feeling of renewal that an exciting purchase can bring. And did she really need groceries? There were some potatoes at home, and some spinach. There were also a couple of eggs and some bread. With a little ingenuity, what food there was could be combined to produce a tasty enough morsel for Phuti Radiphuti's dinner—a potato and spinach omelette perhaps, or fried egg and chips, a simple meal, but one which was exactly the sort of thing that men liked to eat.

She alighted from the minibus and walked the short distance to her house. Once inside, she sat down on one of the chairs at her table and took off her old shoes. Then, standing up, she walked around the room in the new shoes. The old shoes watched, looking at her reproachfully:
Off with the old and on with the new, Boss
, they said.
So much for loyalty
.