The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (11 page)

“Oh, I think now that you mention it, we should perhaps have two,” she said, trying to sound as casual as possible, as if the choice between one or two cookers was a decision of little weight—the sort of decision one might easily make without giving it much thought at all.

“So you will have two cookers then,” said Phuti, proud that he was able to offer his new bride two cookers. “It is best to be prepared.”

Mma Makutsi nodded gravely. She was not sure what eventuality they were planning for; indeed, she could not think of any reason why one would need two cookers, but they were now committed to a two-cooker kitchen, and she was happy enough with that.

There were several other minor matters to be settled.

“The floor must be easy to clean,” said Phuti. “So I’ll tell Mr. Putumelo to lay special tiles that can be easily washed.”

Mma Makutsi thought this very wise. “But they must not be too slippery,” she said. “Some of these modern tiles …” She shook her head, as might one who had only too frequently been wrong-footed on unsuitable tiles. In reality, for Mma Makutsi the thought of any tiles at all was almost intoxicating in its implications; her floors, until now, had been—at best—red-painted concrete, and not all that long ago, in Bobonong, the traditional option of packed mud.

They had spent a further half hour discussing cupboards—these were to be plentiful and deep enough to accommodate a vacuum cleaner as well as a full set of brooms and brushes. They also discussed the bedroom windows; these had to be of a sufficient size to let in enough light but not so large as to invite passers-by on the road to stare in at the occupants. “I cannot stand people staring in through your windows,” said Mma Makutsi. “What happens in a house is none of the business of people outside that house. Inside is inside; outside is outside. That is what I always say.” It was true that she did not like to be looked in on from outside, but what she did not mention was the fact that she herself frequently yielded to the temptation to glance through another’s window if the opportunity presented itself. But she was a private detective, and such glances were not prompted by mere idle curiosity, or even nosiness; they were … a
professional
matter, an assessment—akin perhaps to the surreptitious clinical glance a doctor cannot help himself but give at a manifestly unhealthy person he passes on the street.

Armed with these requirements, Phuti met the builder at the headquarters of the This Way Up Building Company. He had stipulated that the meeting should be there, turning down Mr. Putumelo’s offer to come to the furniture shop, so that he could
cast an eye over the builder’s office before he signed the contract. In doing this he was following advice imparted to him by his father, who had always recommended doing business on the home ground of the other side. “If they are no good,” he had said, “you will be able to tell that immediately. Look at their furniture. A man who has a rickety chair is a rickety businessman. A man whose table is not straight is himself not straight. These signs will never let you down, Phuti.” It was an experienced furniture-seller’s view of the world, but it had proved an accurate guide and had on more than one occasion prevented the signing of contracts that would have led to trouble and loss.

Mr. Clarkson Putumelo’s office passed the Radiphuti test with no difficulty at all. The company had an impressive office on its own lot, not far from a cluster of prosperous shops off the old Francistown Road. There was an office building on which the company name was painted in large lettering, a garage in which several vehicles, working and otherwise, were parked, and a large yard in which piles of brick and timber were neatly stored under tarpaulins or standing corrugated-iron covers. There was nothing sloppy about the scene, and Phuti was immediately reassured.

“So, here you are, my friend,” said Mr. Putumelo, welcoming Phuti into his office. “This is the headquarters of my little enterprise, as you see. It is from here that we go out every morning and build the new Botswana.”

Phuti smiled. “And you build it the right way up,” he said.

Mr. Putumelo did not appear to see the joke. “We are always building,” he said solemnly. “That’s the building trade for you. One building goes up, and you start the next.”

“It’s the same in the furniture trade,” said Phuti. “You sell one bed and then you sell the next one.”

Mr. Putumelo considered this for a moment before nodding
in agreement. “That’s business, isn’t it? And who would have it otherwise?”

This exchange completed, they sat down to the business of agreeing the terms of the contract. “I have an offer for you,” said Mr. Putumelo. “As you know, Rra, there are many people in this business who are bad men. They give the building trade a bad name because they are unscrupulous.”

Phuti said that he had heard this.

“You see it in the newspapers,” went on Mr. Putumelo. “You read about Mr. So-and-so or Mrs. What’s-her-name having a big argument with a builder over some contract that went wrong. He says one thing and the builder says another. Blah, blah. And you know what, Mr. Radiphuti? In ninety-nine per cent of these cases it’s because of the sort of contract they’ve signed. The builder has given a price for the job in order to get it, then he spends the rest of the time trying to do the thing on the cheap so that he ends up with a bit of profit. It’s always the same. Agree a low price, then try to cut corners.”

“I can see how that happens,” said Phuti. “Sometimes with our suppliers we agree on a specification for, let’s say, a set of chairs, and then—”

Mr. Putumelo cut him short. “Exactly, Rra. You hit the nail on the head.”

“That’s for a builder to do,” said Phuti.

Again Mr. Putumelo did not appear to grasp the reference. “But,” he said, raising a hand to emphasise his point, “I have a way round this problem. If you have a contract with the client that says
I will erect the building for cost plus twenty per cent
, then you can’t go wrong. You get a good building; you don’t get rubbish. I know that I’m going to make a profit, and so I don’t try to cut any corners. What’s the point of doing that?”

Phuti thought about this. He did not want his builder to cut corners; he wanted a solid house that would last them a lifetime. It seemed to him a very good idea, but he was a businessman and an opening percentage was always just that: the point at which negotiations could begin. “It seems a good approach,” he said, “but the percentage …”

“Oh, that,” said Mr. Putumelo. “That nineteen per cent margin …”

“Seventeen,” said Phuti.

Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “Nineteen.”

“Eighteen?”

“Done,” said Mr. Putumelo, extending a hand. “You will not regret this, Rra. I can assure you of that.”

Phuti took the builder’s hand and shook it. “This is very good,” he said.

The builder laughed. “Very good? It’s excellent. First class.” He reached for a piece of paper that had been lying face down on the desk. “Now all that we have to do is write in the relevant percentage here.” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his shirt for a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. The effect of these glasses was to make him look erudite; like a teacher, thought Phuti, remembering, with a sudden pang, the teacher whom he had idolised at Gaborone Senior School and who had been killed one weekend by a drunken driver on the Lobatse Road, the young Radiphuti’s first real encounter with death and with the realisation, so hard at that age, that immortals, too, can die.

A few scribbles of the pen and the contract was duly executed “according to the laws of Botswana,” as its final clause attested. Phuti was pleased, and sealed the bargain again with a handshake, while continuing to fold and tuck the piece of paper with his free hand. That done, Mr. Putumelo reached for a brochure from a
shelf behind his head and leafed through it to find an illustration to show his client.

“In my opinion,” he said, “we should go for brick rather than for these concrete blocks that everybody is using these days. You can’t go wrong with brick.”

Phuti looked momentarily confused. “I thought that most houses were built with brick, except for low-cost housing.” He pointed out of the window in the direction of the fields of neat, two-room, flat-roofed houses that the Government had built.

Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “No, Rra, you are wrong. Well, you are wrong and right, both at the same time. You see, you are right about that low-cost housing: it is very good for people who do not have much money, and they are happy with the concrete-block construction. And those houses are strong, too! They will not fall down for many years, I can tell you. But when it comes to big houses—the sort of house that a man like you wants to build, then you would think that good materials would be used. You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

He waited for Phuti to answer.

“Yes, Rra. You would think that they would use—”

“Good-quality brick,” interjected Mr. Putumelo. “Or even stone. You’ve seen those houses out at Mokolodi? You’ve seen those good stone walls? Those houses will last forever, my friend. One hundred years—easy. Maybe two hundred years. Who knows how long? How long is a piece of string? That is what I always say.”

Phuti began to say something, but was again silenced by Mr. Putumelo.

“Now you’d think that a good-quality house would be built of brick or stone, but is that what is happening today? I can tell you, Rra Radiphuti, that there are builders in this town who are making those high-class houses with concrete blocks and then just putting
lots of fancy plaster on the outside and making people think there are solid things inside. That’s what they are doing, those people, but we are not. We are still making good houses out of good building materials.” He paused. “So you see this brochure, Rra? You see these bricks? They are top-quality bricks. I would recommend one outer layer and one inner layer, with good metal ties in between. Then we will put ventilation grilles to allow the house to breathe. That will keep you cool in the hot months. That is very important.”

Phuti studied the picture of the brick. It seemed like an ordinary brick to him, but it had several lines of explanation printed below, setting out its superior properties. He handed the brochure back to the builder. “That is very good,” he said. “I think that we should have those bricks, Rra.”

Mr. Putumelo took off his glasses and deftly folded in the arms. “Done,” he said. “I will order everything we need and then we can start …” He looked at an annotated calendar on the wall. “We can start in four days. Maybe three.” Then he added: “Payment for work done will be due every ten days, for work done during those ten days, until completion of the contract. Agreed? Good.”

Phuti had not been prepared for this: beginning a house was a major step, he thought, and it seemed now to be happening so quickly.

“There are some details that my wife has raised with me,” he said. “I think that perhaps we might …”

Mr. Putumelo fixed him with an intense stare. “Your wife? She knows about houses?”

For a few moments, Phuti was at a loss. “She thinks that …”

Mr. Putumelo frowned. “Building a house is a very complicated matter, Rra. There are not many women in the building trade.”

“But women know about houses, Rra,” Phuti protested. “They are the ones who look after them.”

Mr. Putumelo burst out laughing. “That is not the point, Rra.
Women are very good at cleaning houses, but that does not mean that they know how to make them.” He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his mouth; a curious, rather fussy gesture. “But I must not stop you from telling me what your wife thinks, Rra. I am sure it is very interesting.” The last remark was heavy with sarcasm.

Phuti told the builder of Grace’s requirements. Mr. Putumelo reached for a pen and made a few notes; he looked sceptical as he wrote, as an unhelpful bank manager might look as he entertained a risky client’s request for a loan. “I have written that down,” he said, once Phuti had finished. “We shall see what can be done.” He examined his own note. “There are some requests here that are not very practical, of course. And this business of two cookers: Where does that nonsense come from? Has your wife seen some picture in a magazine? Two cookers! Have we each got two mouths, Rra, so that we need to have two dinners at the same time?”

Phuti winced. It had been his suggestion, even if Grace had readily agreed to it, and he should have the courage to say as much to Mr. Putumelo. He should say: “No, that was not my wife’s idea, Rra—it was mine, and I am the client. If I want two cookers, then I can have them. You are only the builder and I am paying you to do what
I
want. Understand?” That is what he should have said, he knew; but he did not say it. Instead, he said, “Two cookers are not an important element of the design, Rra. One will do quite well.”

Mr. Putumelo appeared to take no notice of the concession. “And as for this business about floor tiles,” the builder said. “All floor tiles are of much the same composition. I shall choose the right ones, and do not need to be reminded of what is necessary.”

Again, Phuti did not protest. Mr. Putumelo knew what he was talking about—the horn-rimmed spectacles spoke to that, as did the pile of brochures and the certificate on the wall informing the public at large that Mr. Clarkson Putumelo was a member in good
standing of the Botswana Federation of Master Builders. One could not argue with that, and if such a person said that one only needed one cooker, and that any floor tile he chose would most certainly not be too slippery, then such assurances should be accepted. Phuti realised that Mr. Putumelo was not perhaps the most charming of men, but did one necessarily want a charming builder? What one needed of a builder was an understanding of technical matters—it was clear that Mr. Putumelo had that. One expected, too, a sense of organisation and logistical skill—and it was equally clear from his orderly yard that Mr. Putumelo was endowed with these qualities. If he was also arrogant and dismissive of women, then these failings were to be regretted, but did not necessarily affect his ability as a builder. Or so Phuti told himself as he left the premises of the This Way Up Building Company, although he somehow felt guilty about this concession. It was as if he had failed in some way to stand up for his wife, as if he had been cowardly.
Perhaps I am a coward, perhaps that is what I am
. The bitter thought brought back something that had not troubled him for many months—his stammer.
C … c … c … coward
, he muttered in unhappy self-reproach.
F … f … frightened of a b … b … builder. You should be a … a … ashamed of yourself, Ph … ph … ph … uti R … r … r … r … adiphuti
.