In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 15
But Charlie had something to say. “I heard that he has put the boss on some committee. Fanwell told me that.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent, but Mma Makutsi asked, “What did Fanwell say about it?”
“He said that he was surprised that the boss was going on a committee. He said that he has always kept away from such things.”
“He’s right,” said Mma Makutsi. “He has.”
Charlie took a sip of tea. “I don’t like that man. I’ve seen him a couple of times. I don’t like him.”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances.
“Fanwell said that he thinks Mogorosi wants something from the boss,” Charlie continued. “He says he can’t work out what it is.”
Mma Makutsi agreed. “Fanwell’s right, if you ask me.”
Mma Ramotswe was keen to move the conversation in another direction. The issue was a delicate one, and while she was prepared to discuss it with Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi, she was unwilling to involve Charlie. Charlie could be indiscreet—and it would be awkward if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni heard that there had been general discussion of his private friendships. So she raised the issue of rainfall, and invited comments on how the crops would do this year.
“They will do very well,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am very confident about the pumpkins I am growing. I hope that other crops do well for other people too.”
“I think Mr. Freddie Mogorosi is up to no good,” said Charlie, draining his mug of tea. “But I must go home and change into dry clothes.”
He made his way towards the door, muttering as he left. Nobody heard exactly what it was that he said, although to Mma Makutsi, who was closest to him, it sounded like “Mogorosi, Mogorosi.”
* * *
—
The rain lasted almost an hour, and was heavier than usual. The parched land was ready, and it drank in the deluge, but when the next fall came that night, much of it ended up as run-off. In the town, storm drains quickly filled, overflowing onto the roads, creating tiny lakes at intersections, slowing traffic, trapping cars. Yet by the time morning came, the excess water had largely soaked away and the roads were clear. All about, the land breathed again and tiny shoots of growth were already in evidence, so rapid was the response of the soil. Seeds that had hidden dormant until this moment burst into life; plants that had waited through months of dryness, tightening their leaves to preserve what little moisture there was, now brought a green tinge to what had been uniform brown.
The rain’s impact on people was as immediate as its effect on the land. Under the weight of heat and dryness, people had seemed defeated, almost resigned; now they were animated, in tune with the freshness all about them. Mma Ramotswe was due to drive out to see an elderly relative in Mochudi, and was looking forward to the drive in these conditions. She was planning to spend the entire day out there, only coming back into town in the later afternoon. If there was more rain, she might return slightly earlier, but the forecast was that there would not be another rainfall for at least a day or two.
The office would be opened by Mma Makutsi, who had a number of administrative chores to deal with. No appointments had been made for any clients, and it was a day on which Charlie would be working in the garage, rather than at the agency. That meant it would be a quiet day—unless something untoward were to happen. Such days were always welcome—businesses always had a hundred and one things that were left undone until a day like this allowed one to catch up and bring everything up to date. With nobody else in the office, Mma Makutsi could even have the radio on in the background, which would keep her entertained as she worked.
At ten o’clock Charlie came into the office, wiping grease off his hands on a piece of the absorbent blue paper that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni kept for the purpose.
“Just me for tea this morning, Mma,” he said to Mma Makutsi. “Fanwell and the boss are doing something very delicate with a gearbox. They’ll be on that until lunch.”
Mma Makutsi rose from her chair to switch off the radio and start making the tea.
“Mma Ramotswe is up in Mochudi,” she said. “There is that old aunty of hers up there. Her cooker has stopped working and Mma Ramotswe is going to sort it out.”
Charlie nodded. “Actually, Mma,” he said, “I’m quite pleased that it’s just you and me this morning. I need to talk to you. It’s a very serious matter.”
He waited until she had made his tea. Then he said, “It’s the boss.”
She looked at him over the rim of her teacup. She had a good idea of what was to come, but left it to him to explain.
“This Mogorosi business, Mma,” he said. “I’ve got big concerns. There is something not right.”
She inclined her head. “I’ve had my concerns too, Charlie. You aren’t alone.”
“People like Mogorosi normally don’t have any time for men like the boss. He’s a big-time garage man—flashy showroom, shiny cars, ya, ya, ya. All of that. What does he want to do, listening to people like the boss who still talks about carburettors and stuff? These days it’s all fuel injection and computers and so on. When did you last see a carburettor, Mma?”
Mma Makutsi waved a hand. “A long time ago,” she said airily. She had seen something—and it might have been a carburettor, for all she knew.
“Mogorosi has money, and people with money tend to stick to other people with money. That’s the way it works in life, you know.”
Mma Makutsi shrugged. “Birds of a feather,” she said.
“So the question I’ve been asking myself is: What does Mogorosi want?”
She waited.
“And the way I answer that question,” Charlie continued, “is to ask another one: What has the boss got that Mogorosi might want?”
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “What possession—is that what you mean, Charlie?”
“Yes. And the answer is right here: Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. That is the boss’s main asset, isn’t it? That’s where his money is invested. The Zebra Drive place is Mma Ramotswe’s, isn’t it? So that leaves the boss with the garage and his green truck. Nothing else, as far as I know.” He paused. “The boss doesn’t have any cattle, does he?”
Mma Makutsi said that she did not think he did. Such cattle as they had were Mma Ramotswe’s—the remnants of the herd she had inherited from her father. “But you never know with cattle,” Mma Makutsi continued. “Sometimes, people have cattle hidden away at some cattle post somewhere. You think they have no cattle, then suddenly they produce a herd of ten head and say that they had forgotten about these beasts and here they were.”
Charlie agreed: cattle were easily concealed. But his concern was the garage, not any cattle that might or might not exist. “Mogorosi wants this garage,” he said. “That is why he is seeing so much of the boss.”
Mma Makutsi frowned. This did not seem to make sense. Why would the owner of a state-of-the-art modern garage want to get his hands on a tiny little business like Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors? It did not make any sense, as far as she could see. “And anyway, Charlie, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would never sell Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. The garage is his life. It is all that he thinks about, according to Mma Ramotswe. It is always the garage, the garage, the garage.” Charlie had the air of somebody who had a good answer to an obvious question. “Yes, Mma, it is true that this garage is very small. It is true that Mogorosi already has a big garage. But remember the position: this garage has a very good position. Many cars come this way when they are going out to Tlokweng. If somebody were to buy Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and knock it down and build a big garage, then that would soon be a very big business, I think. Have you considered that, Mma Makutsi?”
She looked intrigued. “Possibly, Charlie,” she said. “Possibly.”
“Very possibly, Mma—in fact, more or less certainly.”
“But what about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni not wanting to sell?”
Charlie raised a finger in the air. He was enjoying this. This was his Clovis Andersen moment, when he revealed the explanation that would make sense of everything.
“I am now going to say something very shocking, Mma,” he began. “I would not say this if Mma Ramotswe were here, but I can say it to you.”
There was complete silence.
“Well, Charlie?” said Mma Makutsi after a while. “I am waiting.”
Charlie lowered his voice—so much so that Mma Makutsi had to strain to make out what he was saying. “That crocodile,” he said. “What if it was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni who was meant to fall in—not Mogorosi?”
Mma Makutsi stared at him. Was he really suggesting that?
“You see,” Charlie went on, “if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were to become late, then the garage would be sold. So, I think that Mogorosi is just waiting for his chance. We have had the crocodile—and that did not work. Now there will be something else—and this time it might not go wrong.”
Charlie finished speaking. Mma Makutsi had listened intently; now she shook her head in disbelief. “I do not think so. Oh no, surely not.” It seemed as if she was trying to convince herself—and not succeeding, as she went on to ask, “Do you really think so, Charlie?”
Charlie’s reply came quickly. “I am very sure of this, Mma Makutsi. I would not say this sort of thing unless I was absolutely certain. You know me: I am not one to talk loosely.”
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. She had never taken seriously what Charlie said about anything, really—her position had been to doubt it until otherwise persuaded. On the other hand, he was more mature these days, and there could be no doubt about the sincerity with which he spoke now, or about the gravity of the matter, as he saw it. But was all this based on no more than supposition—or did he know something that she did not?
“Charlie,” she began, “you know about the need for evidence, don’t you? You’ve heard Mma Ramotswe talking about this sort of thing, I think. You’ve heard her say that we should never just say what we think to be the case—we must have some grounds for saying the things we say. You know about all that, don’t you?”
Charlie nodded. “Ya, ya. Clovis Andersen and all that stuff. I know that, Mma. One hundred per cent.” He paused, fixing Mma Makutsi with an intense stare. “Since you asked, Mma. I can tell you exactly why I think Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is in danger. It is because I know somebody who works for Mogorosi. He is a driver for his garage. He drives Mogorosi about, and sometimes his wife and his mother too. He doesn’t like the mother. He says that she is always complaining that he goes too fast, and when he slows down, she complains that he is going too slow.”
“And?”
“And he said, this friend of mine—we call him Big Nose because his nose is really big. He doesn’t mind. He says people have always laughed at his nose and he’s used to it. Anyway, I saw Big Nose last night in a bar I go to. He was sitting there, his nose sticking up—it always does. He was sitting there and I said to him, ‘So how goes it, Big Nose?’ And he tells me about this girl he’s seeing and how she really likes him and he’s having to fight her off because his mother hates this girl, and Big Nose has always been under his mother’s thumb—” Charlie made a thumbs-down gesture, as if he were pressing down on a tack. “Anyway, he suddenly said to me, ‘Your boss and my boss are big friends now.’ I said, ‘Yes, I had heard about that.’ And then Big Nose laughed and said, ‘If I were your boss, I’d watch out. I’d be very careful about where I walked.’ Those were his exact words, Mma. I’d be very careful about where I walked.”
Mma Makutsi waited for more, but Charlie seemed to have finished.
“Nothing more?”
“No, just that,” said Charlie. “But I think that’s clear enough, don’t you?”
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “Could I speak to him?”
“You?” asked Charlie. “You’d like to speak to Big Nose?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I’d like to find out if there’s anything more he can tell us.”
Charlie shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Is he a regular at the bar you mentioned?”
Charlie said that he had not seen him there very often. “We could go to his house, though. He lives with his uncle, out at Mokolodi village. We would find him there.”
“I think we should,” said Mma Makutsi.
“And you should see his uncle’s nose, Mma,” said Charlie. “It runs in the family. Big? Massive. They call him Rra Nkô. Mister Nose.”
“That’s not really relevant, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “And it’s not very kind to laugh at people’s noses. They can’t help it.”
Charlie looked wounded. “I wasn’t laughing, Mma. I was just telling you. If you don’t want me to tell you things, that’s fine. Just let me know, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Mma Makutsi relented. “I’m sorry, Charlie. And thank you for telling me about this. We should go down there this evening. I’m every bit as worried about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as you are.”
And that goes for us, too!
It was a faint voice—perhaps not a voice at all, although it seemed like it. Mma Makutsi looked down at her shoes.
Chapter Thirteen
We Must Love One Another
It was while she was driving back from Mochudi later that afternoon that Mma Ramotswe decided she would ask Mma Makutsi to accompany her to the Modise house. The previous day she had heard from Mma Modise that her arrangements were in place and that she would soon be leaving to visit her sister in Mahalapye. “I shall be gone for three nights,” she said to Mma Ramotswe, emphasising the three. “In my view, three nights is long enough for a husband to get up to any nonsense he is intending to get up to—don’t you agree, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe replied that three days was more than enough. Some men, she thought, required considerably less time than that to get up to mischief: for many, a couple of hours was all that was required to go off the tracks. Many men were weak, and many of them found it hard to resist temptation. And women? Were they as weak as men, but in different, and perhaps less obvious ways? Mma Ramotswe was not sure about that. Women were more inclined to be faithful, she felt, as their main concern was often to protect the family, and to keep the home afloat. Men seemed to find it easier to follow a whim, to act impulsively and without much regard to the consequences. For the most part, women were more cautious in the exercise of their emotions. But then…then there was Violet Sephotho, who presumably never struggled unduly with temptation, giving in to it with enthusiasm, she imagined.
Violet Sephotho…Mma Ramotswe tried not to think about her too much. It was easy to whip oneself up into a mood of outrage over Violet Sephotho—Mma Makutsi often did that, becoming almost speechless in the process—but Mma Ramotswe was more controlled. There were people, she told herself, who were put on this earth to vex others in a whole variety of ways. Violet Sephotho was one of these, she decided, but that did not mean that one had to succumb to the urge to rant about her. Everybody knew what Violet was like, and a recital of her misdeeds would only have the effect of making one hot under the collar.
Then there was the question of charity, the topic of the bishop’s comments at the Anglican Cathedral only last week when he had addressed the congregation the morning before the rains had broken, underneath those slowly turning ceiling fans, and with the children fidgeting in their boredom, and old Rra Mpho nodding off in his usual seat near the door. He had said, “If I am without charity then I am as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.” She sat up at the mention of the tinkling cymbal—it was such a vivid expression, and it seemed so right. There certainly were people who were tinkling cymbals; you heard them chattering among themselves, gossiping and laughing at some private joke—laughing uncharitably…She stopped herself, and looked out over the congregation. Charity was the theme, and here she was thinking uncharitably about these tinkling cymbal people, who were just like the rest of us, who were the rest of us. We all enjoyed a bit of gossip from time to time; we were all human. And then the bishop had said, “My brothers and my sisters, people sometimes ask me about charity, and about what it means. Some people think that it is all about reaching into your pocket and giving a few pula to some good cause. Well, that is one sort of charity, but there is a broader meaning of the word, and that is love. Charity is love that doesn’t mind about imperfections and weakness; charity is saying that you understand what it is like to be the other person; charity is saying to others that it doesn’t matter about their failings, it doesn’t matter if they are wrong or labouring under darkness, that you still love them. Charity may be hard—it’s not easy to love somebody who is cruel or selfish, but we can still do it—we must still do it…”
She closed her eyes. He was right; of course he was right. Because if we did not love others, we would end up disliking them, or shunning them, or, at best, being indifferent to them. And yet we had to live with them, and if we could not live with others then we would always be uncomfortable, even miserable, and there would always be discord and little fights and big wars…She opened her eyes. She saw that sunlight had come in through one of the high windows, and was on the white wall of the cathedral, a dancing patch of gold. That was what love looked like, perhaps: a dancing patch of gold.
She remembered this as she drove back from Mochudi that day, and the memory came to her again the following morning when she and Mma Makutsi set off together to call in, unannounced, at the Modise house. It was a Saturday, and she assumed that Excellence Modise would not be away somewhere, dealing with termites or some other pest. Would he be at home, sitting on his verandah, with his feet up, the other woman at his side? Or standing beside her in the kitchen, his arm about her waist, as she prepared a tasty lunch for the two of them? There were other possibilities, of course, but she did not like to think about them. This was not the side of her work that she enjoyed—anything but—yet she had to do it, because Mma Modise needed her help, and the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency should be available to everyone, and for all their problems—not just the easy ones. Every job that involved helping the public had its distasteful side. If you were a nurse or a doctor, you had to be prepared to carry out painful treatments; if you were in the police force there were times when you had to break bad news to people; if you worked in the cleaning department of the local council you had to collect food waste that had been left out in the sun and had gone rotten. All of these things had to be done as a matter of duty, and it was now her uncomfortable duty to intrude on Mr. Excellence Modise’s privacy.
