In the Time of Five Pumpkins, page 20
They stopped and looked at one another in astonishment.
“I was—” Again, they both uttered the same words at exactly the same time.
Now, laughter was the only possible response, before Mma Potokwane, as host, made a graceful gesture of her hand—an invitation for Mma Ramotswe to speak.
“I was going to tell you, Mma Potokwane,” she began. “I was going to tell you—and I can see that you were thinking exactly the same thing…”
“About Mr. Excellence Modise?”
“Yes. About him.”
Mma Potokwane indicated that she was keen to hear more. “I had been wondering, Mma Ramotswe. I had been thinking.”
“You had been thinking, Mma?”
Mma Potokwane sat back in her chair, wiping as she did so a few crumbs of fruit cake from her lower lip. She had often noticed that as one went through life, one effect of the passage of years was a tendency for crumbs and other such things to congregate on one’s lips, or, in the case of liquids, to leave their appointed limits and occasionally dribble down the chin. It was, people said, an inevitable consequence of growing slightly older—not that she, or Mma Ramotswe, were getting on unduly. They were forty-something, or thereabouts—and although that was not exactly the first flush of youth, it was not yet time to start sitting in the sun and watching the cattle graze. And yet there was no doubt that age—or perhaps, one might say, the growth of wisdom—had an effect on the structure of the lower lip and the chin. It was an interesting subject, and one that might at a more appropriate time be the subject of frank discussion—but not now.
“I was thinking about that man,” Mma Potokwane continued. “And I was wondering whether your investigations had led to any conclusions.” She paused. There was a note of apology in her voice, which puzzled Mma Ramotswe.
“There have been developments,” said Mma Ramotswe.
She was about to expand on this, but Mma Potokwane took over. “You see, Mma, I realise that I was too hard on that man. When we discussed him, I was a bit…how shall I put it, Mma? I was a bit uncharitable.”
Mma Ramotswe recalled exactly what Mma Potokwane had said. It had been clear that she had no time for Excellence—which was very much how she herself had felt then.
“And I think I have reached a different conclusion now,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have worked out what happened—or what I think is likely to have been going on.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow.
“I think that when he came to see you about his wife, he was not lying—as I suggested. I called him a liar, Mma Ramotswe. I said to you—that man will be lying. Do you remember that?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I believe that is what you said, Mma.”
“Well, I think now that I was wrong. I think that Modise was telling the truth. I think that his wife was probably having an affair. I think that she will come to you and say that she thinks he is seeing somebody. I think that she will then set things up so that you think that he is having an affair, when he really only wants to get back with his wife. I think she might even arrange for some woman to tempt him into an affair so that she gets none of the blame from the families. You know how it is when marriages come to an end—there is almost always a pointing of fingers.”
With this prediction delivered, Mma Potokwane reached for her teacup and took a long draught of tea. “Do you think I might be right, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe took a few moments to regain her composure. This was quite extraordinary. At last she said, “You are very right, Mma. You are…you are as right as it is possible to be. It is quite amazing.”
Mma Potokwane took the compliment in her stride. “I thought so,” she said. And then added, “Poor man. People are sometimes hard on men, you know. People forget that sometimes men are innocent.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed. “It is very important not to judge people by what they appear to be,” she said. “There are many nice men around, Mma. Many.”
“That is certainly true,” said Mma Potokwane. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, for one. My own husband. He may have one or two faults, but we are all human, Mma Ramotswe.”
“We are definitely all human,” said Mma Ramotswe. And she added, for the avoidance of all doubt, “That is well known, I think.”
She was astonished by Mma Potokwane’s deductive power. She had always admired her friend’s ability to understand situations and to work out what was happening, but this went far beyond anything she had witnessed before. While Mma Ramotswe reflected on this, Mma Potokwane poured more tea, and cut her friend another slice of fruit cake. This helping was not quite as large as the initial one, but was generous enough—about thirty-five degrees this time. As Mma Ramotswe took her first bite, it occurred to her to ask about Mma Potokwane’s pumpkins. On their walk, they had not reached the patch where these grew, but she was keen to find out how they were doing. Pumpkins, like everything else, liked rain, and would be benefitting greatly from the recent downpours. When was the agricultural show? Would they soon be sweeping the board at that?
She knew immediately that something was wrong. Mma Potokwane frowned, and then shook her head. “The show was two days ago,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“There were some other pumpkins,” Mma Potokwane went on. “They were much bigger than mine. I had five, and I entered the biggest one. But there was another pumpkin that was bigger.”
Mma Ramotswe sympathised. “I am sorry, Mma. I was hoping that you would win. Your pumpkins looked very impressive when I saw them that time. But…” What was there to say? Some pumpkins were bigger than others—it was the way of the world that this should be so. One could never tell with these things, and it was best not to hope for too much.
“You know who won?” asked Mma Potokwane.
Mma Ramotswe was silent. There was something ominous in the tone of Mma Potokwane’s voice.
No, it was impossible. Surely not. No.
* * *
—
There was one more important thing for Mma Ramotswe to do that day, and that was to pay a visit to Mma Modise. She had not been looking forward to this encounter, but took the view, quite correctly, that it was not something that could be put off. There was always a temptation to avoid difficult meetings with clients, but experience had taught her that the more you delayed these matters, the more complicated they became. So, after she had left Mma Potokwane’s office, she drove straight to the Modise house, having first ascertained that Mma Modise would be in.
“So you are back from visiting your sister,” Mma Ramotswe said as Mma Modise showed her into her living room. “I hope that your visit went well, Mma.”
Mma Modise made a dismissive gesture. “That sister of mine talks and talks, Mma. She never stops. I feel like putting beeswax in my ears so that I cannot hear her.”
Mma Ramotswe could not help frowning. How could anybody talk about her sister—her own flesh and blood—in such an uncharitable way? If you have a sister—or a brother, indeed—you should be grateful. And if that sister or brother should talk too much, then you should remind yourself how fortunate you are that they have the breath to do all that talking. We all have a long time of silence ahead of us in the grave—before then, we should be happy to listen to what our brothers and sisters have to say.
“Well, you are back now,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I thought I should report to you on that matter you consulted me about.”
Mma Modise smiled. “You are speaking very formally, Mma,” she said. “I take it that you mean about my badly behaving husband.”
Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I am not sure that I would describe your husband in those terms, Mma.”
Mma Modise’s lip curled. “Well, I would, Mma Ramotswe. I take it that you came round here while I was away.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I did, Mma. But before we discuss that, may I ask you if you have been in touch with Maria?”
“I have only just come back,” began Mma Modise. And then she stopped herself. She had not been thinking. How could Mma Ramotswe know about Maria?
She struggled to recover her composure. “Who is this Maria, Mma Ramotswe? I do not know any Marias.”
“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “she knows you.”
The two women stared at one another. Neither seemed ready to look away. But then Mma Modise’s gaze slipped away.
Mma Ramotswe pressed her advantage. “I came to the house, Mma,” she said. “I found your husband with the woman you had engaged to trap him. But do you know what I found, Mma? I found that your husband, being a good man, was holding back. He could not get involved with that woman, whatever her wiles, because…” She paused, and then continued, “Because, Mma, he still loves you. He could not do anything that would hurt you. That is what I discovered.”
Mma Modise’s eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. She did not say anything.
“It is possible, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe went on, “that you might consider your position. I cannot get under your skin, Mma. I cannot work out what you really think about your marriage. I think that your marriage has big problems, and it may be that there will be nothing that can be done about it. But it is also possible that the two of you may be able to do something about it. That is for you to think about, Mma. But there is one thing I would say to you, and that thing is this: if there is a man who loves you, then you should think very carefully before you give up on that man. That is all, Mma. That is the advice I am giving you from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Think about it, Mma. If you are having an affair with somebody, think about whether it is worth it. If you have lost your love for your husband, think about whether any of that love can be recovered. We cannot do any of that for you, Mma. We are a detective agency—we are not menders of souls. All we can say is that it is best not to be unkind in this life. That is all, Mma.”
* * *
—
That evening, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat on their verandah and watched the sky turn from blue to pink and finally to the colour of darkness, to the colour of night. There were evenings, perhaps the majority of them, when there was not much to talk about—or not much of any consequence. On such evenings, they were content to sit and think together and not give voice to their thoughts. It was perfectly possible, Mma Ramotswe felt, for those who were happily married—as they undoubtedly were—to think together, not to say anything, and then to discover that they had been thinking about the same things, and had, as it happened, agreed. On this evening, though, there was something that needed to be discussed.
“Your friend, Mogorosi,” she said, trying hard to sound casual.
She saw him become tense. You could always tell when your words were worrying people. They stiffened. It was unmistakeable.
“Mogorosi?”
“Yes. How is he doing? Have the doctors finished with him?”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “He was lucky, I think.”
“Very,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Of course, he was very unlucky to be bitten in the first place. When you’re dealing with that sort of snake—”
He interrupted her. “He spoke to me, Mma. He has said he is very sorry. He told me that he had spoken to you about it.”
She held her breath. She had not been looking forward to this conversation. She knew that they would have to have it, but she had been dreading it. Now, it seemed, Mogorosi had done all the hard work.
“He has said that he is sorry?”
“Oh, yes. He said that.”
“Good.”
She heard him breathing. She could tell that he was still upset.
“And you have forgiven him, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?”
They heard a bird in the tree immediately outside the verandah.
“That bird is making a fuss about something,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And then he said, “Yes, I have forgiven him. And I have resigned from that board. I am far too busy to do that sort of thing. There are all those cars to fix…”
“You are quite right, Rra. There are many cars to fix.”
Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch her husband. She put her hand on his. He held it. It would not be necessary to say anything more about that, she decided. Forgiveness spoke more eloquently than any words. And forgiveness and the holding of hands—just like this—went well together.
She turned to something different. “Mma Potokwane gave me one of her pumpkins. I have cooked it for tonight. I have cooked it for you.”
He smiled. “She told me about them. She was very proud of them. Wasn’t she entering them in that agricultural show they have out there?”
“She was.”
Silence. Then, he said, “She didn’t win, did she?”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Pumpkins are for eating, though—they are not just for show.”
“That is absolutely right, Mma Ramotswe. That is…”
“Well known,” supplied Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. It had to be said, and she said it now, quickly, so as to get it over with. “Violet Sephotho won. The best pumpkin in the show. She won the prize.”
Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made a strange noise. It was not a noise that Mma Ramotswe had heard before. It was a sort of choking noise.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded. “I was just clearing my throat.”
Then Mma Ramotswe laughed. “You know something, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? I am happy for Violet Sephotho.”
He gave her a sideways look, but the look became a smile—the smile of a man who knows what we need to do, and is prepared to do it. “So am I,” he said.
They sat there for several more minutes. Then they got up and went inside, into the kitchen, where, on top of the stove, in a large cooking pot, their evening meal awaited them.
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About the Author
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been bestsellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
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Alexander Mccall Smith, In the Time of Five Pumpkins
