A warthog. It had come through the undergrowth and now it wandered on to the path, saw Mma Makutsi not far away and for a moment itself froze, as she had. Then, turning round sharply, its ridiculous tail erect like an aerial, it trotted off, back into the safety of the sheltering bush.

Mma Makutsi relaxed. "Sorry," she said after the retreating creature. "Sorry. This is your place."

CHAPTER SIX.

A SMALL, INCONSEQUENTIAL BOY.

THE ROAD TO LOBATSE runs south from Gaborone, heading straight for a pa.s.s that opens through low-lying hills on either side. Like all roads in Botswana, for many of those who pa.s.sed that way regularly each stretch could evoke its memories: here was where we broke down, by that culvert, and waited for help under that tree-the sun was so hot that day; here we turned off once to visit a distant cousin who lived five miles down that track, so b.u.mpy that we were all shaken up and bruised by the time we reached our destination; here lived a man who kept a mangy lion in a large enclosure; here is the turn-off to Mokolodi; here we bought melons from a woman who had flies swarming about her eyes but seemed unconcerned. For Mma Ramotswe, too, there were memories, going right back; of trips by bus when she was a girl, to see her cousin in Lobatse; of a journey with Note, her abusive husband, who broke her heart and then broke it again; of the time she drove this way with her father, just before he died, and he said that he thought he would never see those hills again but no doubt would find some just like them in that place to which he would shortly go, to that other Botswana just beyond that final darkness. runs south from Gaborone, heading straight for a pa.s.s that opens through low-lying hills on either side. Like all roads in Botswana, for many of those who pa.s.sed that way regularly each stretch could evoke its memories: here was where we broke down, by that culvert, and waited for help under that tree-the sun was so hot that day; here we turned off once to visit a distant cousin who lived five miles down that track, so b.u.mpy that we were all shaken up and bruised by the time we reached our destination; here lived a man who kept a mangy lion in a large enclosure; here is the turn-off to Mokolodi; here we bought melons from a woman who had flies swarming about her eyes but seemed unconcerned. For Mma Ramotswe, too, there were memories, going right back; of trips by bus when she was a girl, to see her cousin in Lobatse; of a journey with Note, her abusive husband, who broke her heart and then broke it again; of the time she drove this way with her father, just before he died, and he said that he thought he would never see those hills again but no doubt would find some just like them in that place to which he would shortly go, to that other Botswana just beyond that final darkness.

Mr. Botsalo Moeti had eventually told Mma Ramotswe where he lived. His earlier vagueness on this, bordering on reluctance, had puzzled her. Did he not trust her? Was his fear so great? "A road off to the right," he had said. "There is no notice, but if you look for a large thorn tree beside the road just after Otse, then that is the place; there is the cha.s.sis of a very old car in the bush. That is my sign."

She saw the tree, and then the remains of the car. These old vehicles were to be seen here and there-in the dry air of Botswana they barely rusted, but became covered in vegetation and dust and merged with the landscape. Often enough they were beautiful old cars or trucks, tractors too, reminders of a time when such things were built with grace and a sense of human proportion, like the implements to be found in an old kitchen, battered and well used, modest and simple. She had suggested once to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that he rescue one of these ancient vehicles some day and tow it back to the garage for restoration. He had laughed, and explained that you could not do something like that; that everything would be solidly fused together now, that the wind would have eroded the cables so that they would turn to dust if touched, that there would be nothing left where once there were dials and tubes and leather seats. The ants would have eaten all those, he said; it would be an exhumation, not a towing. "Cars are just like us, Mma Ramotswe," he went on to say. "When their heart stops-finally stops-then there is nothing left. The life has gone from them. That is true, Mma Ramotswe. That is how it is."

He paused, and then added, "And I do not think they go to heaven, Mma Ramotswe. There is no heaven for cars." He spoke rather wistfully, as such a heaven would be a fine place for a mechanic, surrounded by all the cars that ever were, all those wonderful old cars with their intricate engines and their beautiful, handmade interiors.

He had not meant to be unkind, he had simply wanted to explain the finite life of machinery. Women knew many things, he felt, and there was little, if anything, that he could tell Mma Ramotswe about the world; except when it came to machines. Then, in his view, women seemed less interested; they wanted machines to work, but they did not necessarily want to understand why why they worked or, more important, why they went wrong. Love was usually quite enough to stop people going wrong, but would not always work with machinery. One of his clients had just demonstrated that. She had brought in her car, which was behaving erratically. "I love it," she said. "I am kind to it. And now it has decided to turn against me. What have I done, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, to deserve this?" they worked or, more important, why they went wrong. Love was usually quite enough to stop people going wrong, but would not always work with machinery. One of his clients had just demonstrated that. She had brought in her car, which was behaving erratically. "I love it," she said. "I am kind to it. And now it has decided to turn against me. What have I done, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, to deserve this?"

"It is not love," he had said. "It is oil."

That is what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought about how women treated cars; but the world was changing, and even as he entertained these thoughts, he began to feel slightly guilty. He was a fair man, who disliked prejudice, but he had yet to be persuaded that women were good with cars. Not that he would ever have dared express such views to Mma Potokwane, for instance, or even Mma Makutsi. These ladies were feminists, he had been told, as he had once informed the apprentices when admonishing them about the things they talked about in the garage, often at the tops of their voices.

"You should watch what you say," he had warned. "What if Mma Potokwane is sitting in the office there and hears these things you say? Or even Mma Makutsi, who has very good hearing? These ladies are feminists, you know."

"What is that?" asked Fanwell. "Do they not like to eat meat?"

"That is vegetarian," said Charlie, scornfully. "Feminists are big, strong ladies. Ow!"

"They are ladies who do not like to hear young men say foolish things about women," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. "They will punish you if you do not watch out."

Charlie had grinned. "If the feminists take over, Fanwell, they will make men sit by the roadside and sell tomatoes. That is their main plan. For you too. That is what is going to happen, big time. Ow!"

Mma Ramotswe steered the blue van off the road. The track-for it was not much more than that-led very quickly to a gate fastened to its post with a twist of wire. She opened this, making sure to close it behind her to keep cattle from straying on to the Lobatse road. That was a major cause of accidents, cattle at night, invisible in the darkness until the last moment when they turned their heads and the driver saw their eyes caught in the headlights, looming large. Everybody knew somebody who had hit a cow, who had lost their vehicle as a result, sometimes their life too.

The track was in good enough condition; a grader, it seemed, had pa.s.sed along it not all that long ago and had evened out the worst of the ridges and filled the deepest of the holes. This makeshift pact with nature would last until the next rains came, when the dry season's work would be undone with all the quick impatience that nature has for the puny works of man. The first floods of the rainy season were the worst, as the land, parched bone-dry from the winter, would shrug off the sudden deluge, sending it off in red-brown torrents through networks of eroded dongas. Only later would the land drink in the rain and spring to life once more.

On either side of the track, the grey-green bush stretched out, a landscape of struggling shrubs, leaves shrivelled and dusty, filling in the s.p.a.ce between the endless forests of thorn trees. The more established acacia provided some cover from the sun, casting pools of shade under which, here and there, cattle cl.u.s.tered, their tails twitching listlessly against the flies. The prevailing note was one of somnolence and stasis, a note taken up and orchestrated by hidden choirs of screeching cicadas: this was a Botswana that had existed since the days when cattle-herding peoples first came to this land; this was a Botswana that was a hundred years from the world of Gaborone, from the world of cars, of white buildings, of commerce and diamonds. But it was the real heart of her country, the heart that she hoped, when her time came to leave this earth, she would see, in her mind's eye at least, before the final darkness set in. And for all that she belonged to Gaborone, and to that other world, Mma Ramotswe belonged here too, and felt beside her quite strongly the presence of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe. As she gazed out through the tangle of acacia, she felt he was there, seated beside her in the van, his familiar old hat resting on his lap, looking out at the cattle and rehearsing in his mind the possible bloodlines of these beasts he knew so well.

Her reverie ended as the van encountered a particularly deep pothole, teetering for a moment before toppling over the rim of the miniature void. Forward momentum prevailed, and the van was soon back on the level, but the creaking and protest from somewhere under the engine made Mma Ramotswe wonder how her white van would have coped with the challenge-not as well, she suspected.

The track changed direction; now came the first signs of human activity: a dip tank, rust-red, with an empty drum lying by its side. The sight brought back a memory-the stench of the dip, that harsh chemical smell, not unlike a mixture of tar and vinegar, which she remembered from her father's cattle post all those years ago. It was an unpleasant smell in itself, but tolerated, perhaps even hankered after, for its a.s.sociation with cattle, and with the life that was led about cattle. Beyond the dip tank there was a rickety enclosure made of stakes of rough-hewn wood-the trunks of small trees-driven into the ground and tied together with wire and strips of bark. Again, this prompted recollections of those long weeks spent out on the lands and at the distant cattle posts, and of the sound of the cattle lowing in the night when disturbed by some movement in the bush: some pair of eyes betraying the presence of a hyena or jackal.

Then she saw the house, standing beside a large thorn tree that had thickened considerably, its upper branches making a dense crown, like a head of unruly hair among the ranks of the well-barbered. It was not an imposing house, but it was more than the single-room structures that served many who lived out in the bush. The roof, like the roofs of almost all farmhouses, was made of corrugated iron, bolted on and painted red. This covered not only the main part of the house, but the shady verandah that ran the length of the front, the s.p.a.ce between the whitewashed pillars gauzed in against flies. Behind the house, in a cl.u.s.ter several hundred yards away, was a small group of buildings that made up the servants' quarters. There were always such dwellings-the abode of the cook, or the man who tended the yard, or the woman who did the washing and ironing; so normal and unexceptionable as to attract no attention, the places where lives were led in the shadow of the employer in the larger house. And the cause, Mma Ramotswe knew from long experience, of deep resentments and, on occasion, murderous hatreds. Those flowed from exploitation and bad treatment-the things that people would do to one another with utter predictability and inevitability unless those in authority made it impossible and laid down conditions of employment. She had seen shocking things in the course of her work, even here in Botswana, a good country where things were well run and people had rights; human nature, of course, would find its way round the best of rules and regulations.

As she nosed the van into a patch of shade under the large thorn tree beside the house, the thought came to her that the solution to Mr. Moeti's problem might be simpler than he imagined. It always surprised her that people could be so blind to the obvious; that a person could mistreat a servant and then show surprise when the one they abused hit back. She had seen this time and time again, and she had even thought of writing to Clovis Andersen and proposing a new rule for inclusion in a future edition of The Principles of Private Detection. The Principles of Private Detection. This rule would state, quite simply: This rule would state, quite simply: If you are looking for somebody who hates your client, then first of all look under the client's own roof. If you are looking for somebody who hates your client, then first of all look under the client's own roof. And now, getting out of the van and looking over towards the house, she studied the red iron roof under which, perhaps, resentments were burning. The roof looked back at her, impa.s.sive and tight-lipped under her suspicion, and she remembered a proposition that was already included in Clovis Andersen's great work which was just as pertinent to this situation as was any suggestion of hers: And now, getting out of the van and looking over towards the house, she studied the red iron roof under which, perhaps, resentments were burning. The roof looked back at her, impa.s.sive and tight-lipped under her suspicion, and she remembered a proposition that was already included in Clovis Andersen's great work which was just as pertinent to this situation as was any suggestion of hers: Don't think you know all the answers, Don't think you know all the answers, Mr. Andersen had written, and had gone on, with admirable economy, to explain why this should be so: Mr. Andersen had written, and had gone on, with admirable economy, to explain why this should be so: because you don't. because you don't.

A figure appeared on the verandah. Smoothing out the creases in her dress, Mma Ramotswe walked towards the house. The figure now revealed itself as a woman, clad in a dull shift dress over which an old blue gingham ap.r.o.n had been donned.

Mma Ramotswe called out the universal greeting of the Tswana world-"Dumela, Mma"-and the woman responded appropriately, though in a rather strange, high-pitched voice. Mma"-and the woman responded appropriately, though in a rather strange, high-pitched voice.

"I have come to see Mr. Moeti. Is he in the house?"

The woman nodded. "He is sleeping."

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. "He said I should come."

The woman looked at her blankly. "But he is sleeping, Mma. He cannot talk if he is sleeping."

Mma Ramotswe smiled. "No, n.o.body can do that. But perhaps he would like you to wake him up."

The woman shook her head. "Men do not like to be woken up, Mma. Sorry."

Mma Ramotswe frowned. There was something strange about this woman, a deliberate obduracy that went beyond the reluctance of a servant to disturb an employer. She wondered: Is this her? Is this the one? Is this her? Is this the one? That might seem impossibly simple, but Mma Ramotswe had often found a culprit on very first enquiry. People gave themselves away, she thought; they so often did. Guilt shone out of their eyes like the beam of a hunter's lamp in the darkness. What, she wondered, would happen if she were to come right out and ask this woman: That might seem impossibly simple, but Mma Ramotswe had often found a culprit on very first enquiry. People gave themselves away, she thought; they so often did. Guilt shone out of their eyes like the beam of a hunter's lamp in the darkness. What, she wondered, would happen if she were to come right out and ask this woman: Why did you do what you did to the cattle? Why did you do what you did to the cattle?

"His cattle," said Mma Ramotswe. She had not planned to say it, but the thought had somehow nudged the word out into the open, as a chance remark will sometimes be made against our better judgement. It was true that words slipped out; they did; they jumped out of our mouths and said, Look, you've let us loose! Look, you've let us loose!

The woman froze. "His cattle, Mma? What of them?"

Mma Ramotswe watched her eyes carefully. The woman's gaze slid away, off to the unruly thorn tree. Guilt. Unambiguous guilt.

"He has had some trouble with his cattle, Mma. I have come to sort it out. To get to the bottom of it."

The woman's eyes moved. She was looking at Mma Ramotswe again, and the fright that had greeted her initial remark had been replaced by a look of blankness. "I can wake him up if you like, Mma."

"A good idea," said Mma Ramotswe.

[image]

SHE WAS READY to detect in Mr. Moeti's expression the fear that she had seen before, but it was not there, at least to begin with. She met him on the verandah, where he shook hands with her and invited her to sit down on a traditional Tswana chair. The supports of the chair were made of panga panga wood; leather thongs, threaded carefully in a criss-cross pattern, formed the seat and back. to detect in Mr. Moeti's expression the fear that she had seen before, but it was not there, at least to begin with. She met him on the verandah, where he shook hands with her and invited her to sit down on a traditional Tswana chair. The supports of the chair were made of panga panga wood; leather thongs, threaded carefully in a criss-cross pattern, formed the seat and back.

"A good chair, Rra," she said. "A village chair."

He smiled at the compliment. "I have always had chairs like that," he said. "They belonged to my father, who was a village headman, and they came to me when he became late. Now there is only one-the other one was sat in by a very heavy person, one of the fattest men in the country, I think, and it collapsed."

Mma Ramotswe did not stir. The chair beneath her felt solid enough, but it certainly had creaked and even yielded a bit when she had put her weight on it. A chair should be able to support a traditionally built person, and that should apply in particular, she felt, to a traditional chair.

"But you haven't come to see me about chairs, Mma Ramotswe," Mr. Moeti continued, seating himself casually on the low parapet of the verandah.

"I came because of your problem," said Mma Ramotswe. She noticed in the corner of her eye that the woman in the ap.r.o.n was hovering in the doorway. "That private problem you told me about."

Noticing the look, Mr. Moeti flashed a quick dismissive glance in the woman's direction.

"That is the woman who looks after the kitchen," he said. "She has been here forever. Most of these people"-he gestured towards the surrounding bush-"were born on this land. I suppose it's as much theirs as it is mine, except...except that it isn't."

She looked at him quizzically. "I'm not sure if I follow you, Rra."

He laughed. "I'm not surprised. I didn't put that very well. What I meant to say is that these people-the people who work for me on the farm-were born here. Their fathers worked for the farmer who owned this place before me. Now they work for me. They're fixtures, really."

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She understood perfectly well; the land came with people, and with the stories of those people. And so when somebody bought the land-as people could do, if they had the money-then they bought not only the land but its people too. For the most part, the new owners would understand that, unless they were foreigners who had no idea of the meaning of land in Africa. But Mr. Moeti, a Motswana, would know exactly what obligations land ownership brought; or she hoped he would. If he did not, then he would soon make enemies, and could easily find that his property came under attack. It was only too easy to start a bush fire, to turn a swathe of golden-gra.s.sed cattle range into charred stubble; it was only too easy to take a knife to the Achilles tendon of a cow.

"Are there many such people, Rra? Many here, I mean."

He replied that there were. It was difficult to tell exactly how many people lived on the farm, as not only were babies always being born, but there was also movement away to the towns, or deaths. But if pressed, he would say forty people altogether, in three families. These were all related to one another through complex and convoluted genealogies that only the old people remembered, and even they were now forgetting.

"Do you get on well with them?" asked Mma Ramotswe.

His answer came quickly, and unambiguously. "If you think it's one of them, Mma," he said, "then you couldn't be more wrong. I am their friend, and always have been. There are many children named after me. Go to that place where they live, over there by the dam, and call out 'Botsalo,' and then see how many children come running over. No, it cannot be one of them, Mma Ramotswe."

"I did not say it was, Rra," she said mildly.

"You implied it."

She shrugged. "I have to ask questions. I have to pry-otherwise, how would we find out who has done this terrible thing?"

He said that he understood this.

"And that lady in the kitchen?" Mma Ramotswe went on to ask, looking into the house, her voice lowered. "What about her?"

Mr. Moeti hesitated. "That lady is a very close friend, Mma. She is my wife, but isn't my wife, if you understand me."

She understood, but reflected for a moment on his curious way of throwing opposites together-this was the second time he had done it. "You have a wife, Rra? A legal one?"

He pointed. "She is down in Lobatse. She prefers to be in town. She lives here but she doesn't live here, if you see what I mean."

Now it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that there was another suspect: the wife who was a wife but who also was not. If she knew of the other woman, the resident mistress, then might she not try to get even with her husband? Wronged women did not always take it out on the other woman, Mma Ramotswe knew; often they reserved their venom for the man who had let them down. If there was resentment on the part of the real Mma Moeti-the Mma Moeti who was but was not-then she might well take it out on her errant husband's cattle. After all, a man's cattle were his representatives representatives in a sense, and any insult offered to them was an insult to the owner; or so her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had always maintained, though partly, she thought, with tongue in cheek. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, she saw him raise his battered old hat to some cattle beside the road; she had asked him why, and he had explained that they were cattle of a respected man, of chiefly family, and he was merely according him the respect that such beasts deserved. But then he had smiled, and winked at her, and she realised that the remarks of adults might not always mean what they appeared to mean. in a sense, and any insult offered to them was an insult to the owner; or so her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had always maintained, though partly, she thought, with tongue in cheek. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, she saw him raise his battered old hat to some cattle beside the road; she had asked him why, and he had explained that they were cattle of a respected man, of chiefly family, and he was merely according him the respect that such beasts deserved. But then he had smiled, and winked at her, and she realised that the remarks of adults might not always mean what they appeared to mean.

There was a silence as Mma Ramotswe digested Botsalo Moeti's disclosures about his wife. She did not approve of such arrangements, but she did not show her disapproval: he was her client and it was not for her to speak to him about fidelity and those other things that the government advertis.e.m.e.nts spelled out so carefully. If people like him-well-placed men of experience and status-behaved in a cavalier way towards women, then what hope was there for getting people like Charlie to conduct themselves more responsibly?

Charlie: there was another problem, adding to the list of problems she already had. Moeti, Charlie, the sighting of the white van: these were issues enough to interfere with anybody's sleep.

Moeti's stomach now broke the silence with a loud gurgling sound. "Juices," he explained. "I have too many juices in my stomach."

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. "Juices are a big problem for some," she said.

There was a note of criticism in her voice-just a touch-but Mr. Moeti did not pick it up, or if he did, gave no indication of having done so.

"I'd like to show you the place where the last attack happened," he said. "Are you ready to come with me, Mma, or would you like some water first?"

She asked for water, and he called out to the woman in the house. "Water for this lady, Mma. A big gla.s.s. Very big."

She did not blink. Why did he imagine that she would want a very big gla.s.s? Was it because she was traditionally built? If so, then he had no right to a.s.sume that a traditionally built person would drink more than a moderate amount of water. Traditionally built people did not necessarily eat or drink more than those of less substantial construction. It just did not follow.

The woman in the ap.r.o.n brought out a gla.s.s on a tray. On the surface of the gla.s.s were her greasy fingerprints, each swirl and whorl perfectly outlined, as if etched by an engraver. These prints were about the rim too, which, for some inexplicable reason, the woman had contrived to touch. Although Mma Ramotswe was not unduly fastidious, believing that a reasonable degree of exposure to the germs of others helped maintain healthy resistance, she did not think there was a need to handle a gla.s.s quite so thoroughly before offering it to another.

"Look at these wonderful fingerprints," she said, as the woman offered her the tray. "How useful for a detective!"

The woman looked at her blankly.

"Mma Ramotswe is making a joke," said Mr. Moeti to the woman, in a tone of condescension. "It is a joke for Gaborone people, not for rural people like you."

Mma Ramotswe turned to look at him in astonishment. This, she decided, was a man who could well have more enemies than she had imagined.

THEY WALKED FROM THE HOUSE, following a path that took them past the servants' quarters and a shed housing a tractor side by side with an ancient donkey-cart. Mr. Moeti pointed to the cart and told Mma Ramotswe how he believed that the old ways of doing things still had their place. "Donkeys don't go wrong," he said. "Tractors do. And the same goes for everything else. An old radio, for example, has very few b.u.t.tons. A new one? There are so many b.u.t.tons that you don't know what to do, even if you're an engineer." following a path that took them past the servants' quarters and a shed housing a tractor side by side with an ancient donkey-cart. Mr. Moeti pointed to the cart and told Mma Ramotswe how he believed that the old ways of doing things still had their place. "Donkeys don't go wrong," he said. "Tractors do. And the same goes for everything else. An old radio, for example, has very few b.u.t.tons. A new one? There are so many b.u.t.tons that you don't know what to do, even if you're an engineer."

"My husband would agree with you," said Mma Ramotswe. "When people bring in their cars these days, he needs a computer to do everything. He says you even need a computer to work out if you've run out of petrol."

In a small paddock not far from the barn, they saw the donkeys in question, three dispirited creatures standing under the shade of a tree, their heads lowered in that air of utter defeat, of dejection, that marks out their species. A young herd boy, aged no more than seven or eight, was standing beside the donkeys, staring at his employer and Mma Ramotswe as they walked past.

"That child?"

Mr. Moeti glanced in the boy's direction. "Just a herd boy. That was his mother back there in the house."

"Does he know anything?"

Mr. Moeti looked at her in surprise. "No. He's just a boy."

"They have eyes," said Mma Ramotswe quietly-so quietly that he did not hear her and had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

"And?" he asked.

"I have found that children-especially boys-see things and can give you very important information. They notice."

Mr. Moeti shrugged. "You can ask him if you like."

Without waiting, he whistled and gestured for the boy to come over. The child hesitated, and then approached them. He brought flies with him, Mma Ramotswe noticed.

"This lady wants to ask you something," Mr. Moeti said. His tone was gruff, and he stared at the boy as he spoke.

Mma Ramotswe bent down to speak to the boy, reaching for his hand as she addressed him. She asked him his name, and he gave it. He was Mpho.

"So, Mpho, you know about this bad thing with the cattle?"

He moved his head slightly-a nod, but a reluctant one. His eyes, she saw, were fixed on Mr. Moeti.

"Did you see anything?" asked Mma Ramotswe.

He was still watching Mr. Moeti, and Mma Ramotswe glanced up discouragingly at the farmer. "Maybe I should speak to him by himself," she said. "It is sometimes better to speak to children on their own."

"No need," snapped Mr. Moeti. "Mpho, you answer the auntie: You saw nothing, right?"

Mpho shook his head. "I have seen nothing, Mma. I know nothing."

"Are you sure?" she asked.