The Double Comfort Safari Club (22 page)

Nothing more was said on the rest of the walk to the staff quarters. The woman with whom they were staying met them there, and took them to her small thatched house—a couple of rooms, one of which she had cleared for her guests. Mma Ramotswe looked at the floor, on which two reed sleeping mats had been laid. Beside each mat, a glass jam jar filled with water had been placed, each holding a small bunch of white and yellow flowers. The floor had been recently swept, and bore the marks of the brush, tiny scratch-like lines. A rough cupboard, unsteady on its legs she imagined, stood against the rear wall, ready for the guests’ possessions. The cupboard had been emptied of its contents and its door now stood ajar. This, she thought, is half a house, and it has been cleared for us.

“You should not have done this just for us,” she said to the woman, who had introduced herself as Mma Sepoi.

Mma Sepoi smiled, and dropped a knee in a small curtsy. “You are my guests, Mma. I want you to be comfortable.”

They settled in, Mma Sepoi telling them about her life while they placed in the rickety cupboard the few possessions they had brought with them. It was an ability that Mme Ramotswe always admired—that of encapsulating a whole life, and often the life of an entire family, in a few sentences. So many people, she had discovered, could do it, and effortlessly too; in her own case, she needed time. Where would one start? With Obed Ramotswe meeting her mother, bashful and hesitant about marriage, when he came back for a break from his work in the mines? With her return to Mochudi and that terrible stormy night when her mother, in circumstances that were yet to be fully explained, wandered onto the railway line that ran from Bulawayo down to Mafikeng? With those early days at the school high above Mochudi, where one might hear drifting from down below the sound of cattle bells?

“I have worked here for four years,” said Mma Sepoi. “I am very happy. Some people, you know, that go into one job and then another, they say,
This job does not suit me; it has this, that, or the next thing wrong with it
. You know people like that, Mma Ramotswe? There are many of them. Not me. I came here after I had worked as a cleaning lady in Maun. Before that I had a job at Jack’s Camp, with the old man, not the son, but the father before him. They are very good people. They know this country better than most people, Mma. And before that I was in Nata, from the time when I was a girl. My father was a policeman there. He was very good at catching stock thieves. If a cattle thief saw him coming, just walking along the road, he would run. Like that. Off. And my father would run after him and catch him because he had been in the police running team. He was a No. 1 police runner. And his father, my grandfather, was from Francistown, and his cattle were all drowned in a big flood on the Shashi River. That happened a long time ago, Mma.”

“A lot has happened in your life,” said Mma Makutsi. “You have had a very eventful life.”

Mma Sepoi acknowledged the compliment. “I have had many things that have happened to me. But I am not complaining. I say that everything that happens has a lesson in it. You look at it and you say, ‘That happened because of this thing.’ And then when it happens next, you know why it happened in the first place.” She paused to take a breath. “That is the way I look at things, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them. “Are there many animals here, Mma?” she asked. The question was casually posed, but Mma Ramotswe detected an edge to it.

“Oh, there are many,” said Mma Sepoi. She pointed out of the door behind her. “Keep this door closed at night, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi redoubled her polishing efforts. “I always keep my door closed at night,” she said nervously. “It is safer that way.”

“Especially here,” said Mma Sepoi. “I got up the other night because I heard something sniffing at my door. I have a saucepan by my bed and I bang it against the wall to make a noise. Lions don’t like saucepans, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi swallowed. “I have heard that.”

“I’ll leave one by your bed, Mma. So if you need it, you can make a noise.” Mma Sepoi paused. “Of course it may not have been a lion,” she said.

Mma Makutsi looked relieved. A warthog would not frighten anybody; nor an anteater. “Of course. It may have been something else.”

“A leopard, perhaps,” said Mma Sepoi. “They are very dangerous too, you know.”

Later, on their way over to the office in the main camp, Mma Ramotswe noticed that her assistant was walking very close to her, almost bumping into her as they made their way along the
narrow path. She tried not to smile; it had never occurred to her that Mma Makutsi would be nervous about being in the Delta. Had Mma Makutsi had a bad experience up in Bobonong, when she was a girl? Sometimes people could be afraid of snakes, for instance, if they had encountered a snake as a child. She had known somebody who had a tendency to faint at the very mention of snakes; and another, she now remembered, who panicked at the sight of a spider. Mma Ramotswe, of course, had a healthy respect for wild animals, but understood that they were generally quite harmless unless one intruded upon their territory, which she had no intention of doing. Mind you, she told herself, the river, on which she and Mma Makutsi had travelled earlier that day, was the territory of the hippopotamus, and the crocodile, and …

They arrived at the camp office. The manager appeared—a tall man, a South African, who stooped to shake hands with them. “I have heard why you have come here, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Our chief guide is here. He is called Mighty, and he keeps the roster of who looks after each guest. He will tell you who this fortunate man is.”

They went from the office to the area beside the water where, under the spreading boughs of a tree, chairs had been arranged around an open fireplace. The water was clogged with reeds, over which a brightly coloured bird hovered in flight. A guide, wearing the ubiquitous khaki uniform of the Delta, was standing beside one of the chairs, staring at the place where the fire had been laid, poking at the cold ashes with a stick. He looked up when they approached.

“This is Mighty,” said the manager.

Mighty shook hands with the visitors. Mma Ramotswe found herself warming to him immediately, recognising in him the real countryman, the type that her father had been. Obed Ramotswe
had known all there was to know about cattle; she felt that this man knew everything there was to know about the animals of the wild, which was the same sort of thing.

“Do you remember an American lady called Mrs. Grant?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mighty looked doubtful. “We get many Americans, Mma. Germans, Swedes, British—all of these people. It is difficult to remember one person out of many hundreds. How many years ago was it, Mma?”

“Four. It was in June or July of that year, Rra.”

“Oh,” said Mighty. “That is a long time ago, Mma. A long time.”

“She stayed for almost a week, Rra. She was very happy here.”

Mighty looked out over the water. “A week? That is unusual. Most of our visitors are here for two or three days. An American lady? Now, I think I can remember a lady who stayed. Yes, she was a very pleasant lady. She was very happy here, you are right.” He paused. “We have the old duty rosters in the office. The details will be there. Should I get the page for that week?”

The manager and Mma Ramotswe both agreed that this was the thing to do. Mighty went off, and while he was gone Mma Ramotswe looked around the camp—at the tempting chairs and the tables beyond, set out for lunch. It would be good to be a guest here, she thought; one might sit in one of these chairs and drink something cold—lemonade, perhaps—and then progress to the lunch table and eat … She brought herself back to reality. She and Mma Makutsi were not here to sit about—as if they were members of some double comfort safari club—they were here to find somebody, to talk to him, and then to return to Gaborone.

When Mighty returned he took a crumpled document out of his pocket. “I have looked in the roster for June, Mma, and I found it straightaway,” he said, handing the paper to Mma Ramotswe. “I have taken it from the book. This is it.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at the piece of paper. It was not complicated, and she saw immediately the information that she needed. Against the name of each guide was written the name of a guest, or group of guests, together with the days during which the guide would be on duty. Mrs. Grant, she saw, had been looked after by a guide called Tebogo. It was a common enough name. “So it was this Tebogo,” she said, holding up the paper. “He was the one who looked after the American lady.”

Mighty nodded. “He was the one.”

Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder. “So that’s it, Mma. We have found out what we came for. Maybe we should go back to Maun now.”

Mma Ramotswe turned to her assistant. “But we cannot go back, Mma. We have just arrived. The boatman won’t be back until tomorrow. You heard him.”

Mma Makutsi looked disappointed, but seeing Mighty looking at her, she made an effort to mask her concern.

“Don’t be afraid, Mma,” said Mighty suddenly. “Everything is very safe here.”

Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant laugh. “Scared, Rra?” she said. “Who is scared?”

You are
, thought Mma Ramotswe, but said nothing.

“Tebogo will be back soon,” said Mighty, glancing at the sinking sun. “He has taken some people on a game walk. He will not be long.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed the glance at the sun. People who lived in towns had stopped doing that—they had watches to
enslave them. Here in the bush it was different: what the watch said was less important than what the sun said, and that, she thought, was the way it should be.

SHE DID NOT NOTICE
Tebogo arriving; suddenly he was there, having joined their company while her attention was diverted by a playful monkey that was taunting them from the safety of the tree.

“This is Tebogo,” said Mighty.

Mma Ramotswe turned round to see a tall man in khaki uniform standing at the edge of the circle of chairs. He was in his late forties, she thought, possibly slightly younger, but certainly a man with some experience of life. He had an open countenance, with the same clear look in his eyes that she had seen in Mighty’s. It was something to do with being a game-spotter, she imagined; these people were used to gazing out into the distance, picking up the tiniest clue of an animal’s presence—a change in the colour of background vegetation, an unusual movement of leaves, a shape that was wrong for its place. Looking for such things perhaps explained this quality in their eyes—the brightness, the quick movements.

Mighty continued with his explanation. He told Tebogo that Mma Ramotswe had come to see him “all the way from Gaborone,” and that she had “important news.” At this, a shadow passed over Tebogo’s face, a look of alarm, and she said quickly, “Good news, Rra.”

He looked at her expectantly, and then glanced again at Mighty, as if for confirmation.

She went straight to the point. “There was a lady you looked after, Rra. She was called Mrs. Grant.”

For a moment he looked confused, but then he nodded. “Yes, maybe, Mma. Maybe.”

“She was here for some days,” went on Mma Ramotswe.

Tebogo nodded. “I am not sure, Mma. It is not easy to remember one person after a long time. It is difficult, Mma.”

“It must be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that you people have good memories. It is your job that helps you to remember. You see things and you remember them.”

Mighty laughed. “Sometimes, Mma, sometimes. Not always.”

“Well, Mma Grant remembered you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You were very kind to her.”

Tebogo looked down modestly. “It is our job, Mma. We are kind to people because it is our job. Not just me—everybody here.”

For a few moments, Mma Ramotswe was silent as she weighed his remark. No, it was not true. They were professional in their dealings with their guests, and that meant they were courteous and attentive, but kindness was another matter—it required that there be something in the heart. She looked at Mighty; he had it too, she suspected—that quality of kindness that visitors to the country so often remarked upon.

“I think that you were kind to her, Rra,” she said quietly. “But I have not come to talk about that. I have come to tell you what has happened to that lady. She is late, I’m afraid to say.”

She watched. Again, she was sure that she was right: he was upset.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Mma. I’m sure that she was a nice lady.”

She knew that he meant it. If there was anything that she had learned in her years as a private detective, it was the ability to tell when somebody meant what they said.

“I believe she was, Rra,” she said. “And a generous one too.”

Mma Makutsi had been quiet until now, but this was her opportunity. “Generous to you,” she said.

Tebogo looked inquiringly at Mma Makutsi. “Oh?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She spoke to her lawyer before she died. Over in America. She spoke to him, and told him that she wanted to give you some money. And now that is why we are here. We have come to find you and tell you about this money.”

For a moment Tebogo simply stared at her. Then he shook his head. “I cannot believe this, Mma. It cannot be true.”

“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Grant has left you three thousand dollars. That is …”

“Almost twenty thousand pula,” interjected Mighty.

Tebogo shook his head again. Then he smiled. “That is … It is …”

“It is very good luck,” said Mighty.

“I am very grateful,” said Tebogo. He let out a low whistle. “Twenty thousand pula!”

“Be careful that you do not spend it all at once,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She had a tendency to bossiness, she thought, and she should have a word with her about it at some point. But it was difficult to broach the subject of a person’s failings, particularly if that person was Mma Makutsi, with her ever so slightly prickly nature. Perhaps her shoes would say something; Mma Makutsi had once, jokingly—and she
must
have been joking—told her that her shoes occasionally gave her advice. Well, perhaps they could tell her not to be so bossy. They must have witnessed it, after all—shoes see everything; there are no secrets we can keep from our shoes.