The Double Comfort Safari Club (10 page)

“My father listened to my advice. He was sad that I did not want to take over the bottle store, as it would have given him great pleasure to see a big sign above the store saying
Kereleng and Son
. But he wanted me to be happy and to do the things that I wanted to do, and so he put the manager in charge. ‘He is a very good businessman,’ he said to me. ‘I shall not be surprised to find out after a year that I have not one bottle store, but two. Perhaps even three!’

“I said, ‘I am very happy for you, my daddy. Now you can go back to the village and talk to all the old men there. You will have a lot to talk about after all these years.’

“He went back to the village, Mma Ramotswe, and I got a job in the Ministry of Agriculture, in their laboratory. I was very happy doing that work, and my father was very happy out in the village. He wrote to me every two weeks and told me what he and his friends were talking about. Which was not very much, Mma—you know how old men are. They always talk about the same things and tell the same stories many times.
Do you remember when we had that drought, the bad one? Do you remember that man who brewed the beer that made everybody sick? Do you remember …

“He was very happy. But then, Mma, he became late. It was very sudden. He was talking with his friends and he just fell off his chair. It was a good way to leave, and he had had a good life. I was sad, of course, but I knew that he would have a good place in heaven, and that made it easier to bear. I was in charge of all his
affairs, and went to see the manager of the bottle store. He yelled and wailed when I told him that my father was late. ‘What is to happen now?’ he cried. ‘Oh, what is to happen?’

“I said to him, ‘What do you mean—what is to happen? What do you mean?’

“He looked away. He would not meet my eyes. Then he said, ‘Nothing. I did not mean to say that. It is just that when one is very sad all sorts of meaningless words come out. I did not mean to say anything but that I am sad. I am very sad, Rra.’

“I thought no more about it, but when I went round to the bottle store a few days later, I found that it was closed. There was a woman hanging about, Mma, and I recognised that she was one of the people who worked in the store. I said to her, ‘What is happening here?’ And she said, ‘The manager has run away. There are some people over there who say that he is in Mahalapye now. I am waiting for my wages. Please pay me.’

“I am afraid that the manager had stolen most of the takings, Mma. For six months or more he had been taking money out of the till. When my father became late he feared that there would be people who would come and look at the accounts—lawyers and accountants—and so he ran away. I was left with some money, as the store itself was worth quite a lot, but it was not nearly as much as I would have got had the manager not been a thief.”

MR. KERELENG
sat back in his chair.

“So now you want me to find this manager of yours,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Have you been to the police?”

Mr. Kereleng looked surprised. “No, I do not expect you to find him,” he said. “You see, that was only Part One of my story. There is another part, which is called Part Two.”

“Excuse me, Rra,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Would you like some tea? This is a very long story, and you might like some tea to drink while you are telling it to us.”

Mr. Kereleng said that he would like tea, and for her part Mma Ramotswe was pleased that Mr. Polopetsi had offered to make it. It was interesting, she thought; some men are
more modern
than you think they are.

I WAS ANGRY
with the manager, as you can expect, and I did try to find him. However I soon realised that there was very little I could do, as he had gone over the border to South Africa. Once people do that, Mma, then they are lost. If you are chasing anybody, catch them before they get to the border or you will never catch them. You may as well chase smoke rising from a fire.

“I put the money I had left into the bank, as I thought that I would buy a house. Then I could settle down and find a wife and start a family. It would be a very good life. But the way it worked out was the other way round—I found a lady first, before I found the house.

“Let me tell you about this lady. She is a very beautiful lady—one of the most beautiful ladies in Botswana. And it is not just me who says that—it is everybody. Anybody who meets that lady says the same thing. She could be Miss Botswana twice over, if you ask me.

“I met her at a hotel. There was a jazz concert, and I was there with some friends. This lady and some of her friends joined us—we had a very good time. She knew who I was, I think, because she had heard about our bottle store, as everybody had. I told her that I had sold the bottle store. She was interested in that. She asked me where I had put the money—only joking, she said. But I told her anyway—I said that I had put it in the Standard
Bank. She laughed and said that the bank was always the safest place to put money, and that people who put their money under their beds were asking for trouble. She said that an aunt of hers had put two thousand pula under her mattress and had left it there for a year. When she went back, she discovered that the money had been eaten by ants, and there were only a few scraps of paper left.

“I saw this lady the following day, and we went for a drink in a different hotel. Then the next day we went to have a meal at the Sun Hotel. She liked that place, as she said it was very sophisticated. I said to her, ‘Anywhere you like, I like.’ And she said, ‘We are very well suited—maybe we can live together. You did say that you were thinking of buying a house.’ I told her that I was, and she suggested that we go and look for a house together. I could not believe my luck: here I was, going off to choose a house with one of the most glamorous ladies in Botswana, and I a scientific officer (second class) in the government laboratories. I thought that I was a very lucky man.

“We went to an agent. He showed us a house that was very bad—it had no bath, and there was a big stain on the kitchen floor. He said that he could not see this stain, but it was certainly there, as if a cow had been slaughtered right there. The next house, though, was better, and we both liked it. It was for sale at a very good price because the owner had gone to live in Francistown and needed to get rid of it quickly. I managed to knock another ten thousand pula off the price, and that was it. I had a house.

“This lady was very pleased. She was making me feel very proud and happy and when she said, ‘It would be safer to put the house in my name,’ I did not bother to ask why. I had read that this is what people sometimes did—they put the house in their wife’s name so that if the bank came chasing after them they
would not be able to take the house away. I went to see an attorney and we had everything fixed up. We were very pleased. ‘We can have many children now,’ said this lady, ‘because we have somewhere to put them all.’

“I was such a happy man, Mma. I walked on my toes and my head was held high—like this. I started to talk to my friend about wedding dates. She said, ‘All in good time. There will be plenty of time for these details once we have moved in and have started to be happy in our new house.’

“Oh, Mma, I can see that you can tell what is coming. And you are right. You are very right. We stayed in this house for two months, and then she invited her mother to come and stay with her. That was bad enough, but then she invited two aunts to live with us as well. I said, ‘Where are we going to put all the children, with all these aunties about the place talking all day and making a big noise?’ She said, ‘They are my aunties, and a man who cannot accept the aunties of his wife had better not get married after all.’ That was when I realised that she had never wanted to marry me, that she did not even like me, and that the whole thing was a trick to get the house out of me.

“I shouted at her and I threatened to call the police. She said, ‘And what crime will you report to the police? Will you tell them that you have changed your mind about a present you gave to a lady? They will say,
What crime is that, Rra? You tell us.’

“I went to see the attorney I had used to buy the house. He said to me that as far as he could make out, I had given the house to this lady and that there was nothing I could do about it. So I went back to the place I was staying in before—the house of an uncle of mine, who had allowed me to stay there as a lodger. Now I had no money left—just my salary. The manager of the bottle store had stolen most of my inheritance and this lady had taken what was left. I was very sad. I need to sell the house, you
see, as I have been offered the chance to buy a small agricultural laboratory—it is my big chance. Then somebody said to me, ‘You should go and see this Mma Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. If there is one person in Botswana who can help you, then it is her.’ That is what they said, Mma, and that is why I am here.”

Mr. Kereleng stopped. His hands folded in his lap, he looked down at the floor. Mma Ramotswe watched him; he was utterly dejected. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, but she could not do that with every client who came with a story of misfortune. She wanted to cry for him, but she could not do that either. There were not enough tears to shed for every story she heard of human foolishness and the unhappiness it brought in its wake.

So she simply said, “I am very sorry to hear this story, Rra. I am truly sorry.”

“I am sorry too,” said Mr. Polopetsi from the other desk. “It is sad to hear that there are such wicked women in Botswana.”

Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “I am not sure what I can do for you, Rra. I shall have to think about what you have told me and see if I can come up with a suggestion. But it sounds as if the lawyer was right—you have given something away, and it is usually impossible to get a gift back once it has been made.”

Mr. Kereleng sighed. “That is what everybody says, Mma. I thought that maybe you …”

“I shall see if I can think of something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that sometimes I have to warn people right at the beginning that their case sounds very difficult, and that it may not be possible to help them. That is all.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Kereleng, his voice filled with defeat. “Thank you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe moved the papers on her desk. She picked
up a pencil. “I need a bit of information,” she said, sounding more businesslike. “You should give me the name of this lady and the address of the house.”

Mr. Kereleng looked up. He was weary, with the look of one who knows that his case is no case. “She is called Violet,” he said. “Violet Sephotho.”

M
MA RAMOTSWE
was as capable as anyone else of containing herself, but there were some situations—and this was one of them—where nobody could be expected to resist the urge to speak about something. After the departure of the unfortunate Mr. Kereleng, she and Mr. Polopetsi sat for almost half an hour discussing this latest story of Violet Sephotho’s perfidious behaviour. Both were quite shocked; they knew of Violet’s treacherous fiancé-stealing plans; they knew of her utter ruthlessness when it came to any men, fiancés or others; but now she was revealed as a downright thief and trickster, and that was something new.

It was all very well talking to Mr. Polopetsi about it. He knew all about Violet and disapproved of her strongly, but talking to a man about something like this, although satisfying, was not quite as good as a discussion with another woman, and with Mma Makutsi in particular. She had been Violet’s victim on more than one occasion, and would naturally be most interested to hear all about this new instance of her rival’s wickedness.

Mma Ramotswe had not intended to bother her assistant
during her compassionate leave, but by four o’clock that afternoon she could no longer bear to leave the news unconveyed.

“I am going to check up on Mma Makutsi,” she announced to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage workshop. “I am closing the agency for the day.”

Charlie, who was leaning against the side of a car wiping a car part with an oily rag, looked up.

“Are you going to check up that she is not having a party?” he asked. “You know her, Mma. Compassionate leave? Passionate leave!”

“Do not say such things,” snapped Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“That was not very kind, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Charlie looked wounded. “I was only joking, Mma! Just a joke!”

“Can you see Mma Ramotswe or me laughing?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Are we laughing at your joke?” He turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Tell her that I hope that Phuti is doing well and will be back on his feet soon.”

“He has only got one foot now,” muttered Charlie.

“What was that, Charlie?” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Did you say something?”

“Charlie is only trying to be helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe, giving the apprentice a sideways look. “And remember this, Charlie: there but for the grace of God go you. Remember that.”

She got into her van—the new blue van that drove so smoothly—and made her way over to Mma Makutsi’s house. It was possible that she was at the hospital, she thought, but if she had been there in the morning—as she said she would be—then she might be home by now. And turning into Mma Makutsi’s street, a street of modest houses occupied, she imagined, by people for whom reaching even this level of prosperity and comfort
had been a battle, she pictured Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this piece of news about Violet. It was an odd thing, thought Mma Ramotswe, that we take such pleasure in hearing news of some piece of bad behaviour on the part of one of whom we have come to disapprove. Such news should sadden us, as any news of human failings should do, but it tended to do the opposite. Why? Because it confirmed the view we had of such people, and laid to rest doubts about our judgement.
So, you see, I was right about her!