In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (26 page)

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white van would be there, concealed, perhaps, under a covering of sticks and leaves, but there nonetheless. What should he do? One possibility would be to run back to the track and make his way up the main road. He could be back in Gaborone within a couple of hours and he could tell the police about it, but by that time the van might well have vanished altogether. He stood and thought, and as he stood there he noticed a boy looking at him from the doorway of one of the houses. That decided it for him. He could not leave now as his presence would be reported and action would be taken to get rid of the van.

Mr Polopetsi walked towards the nearest of the four buildings

and, as he did so, he saw the tiny white van. It was parked behind the house he was approaching, half covered with an old tarpaulin. The sight filled him with indignation. He had never been able to understand dishonesty, and here was a blatant example

of the most bare-faced thievery. Did these people—these useless

people—know what sort of person’s van they had stolen? The worst in Botswana had stolen from the finest in Botswana; it was as straightforward as that.

As he came closer to the house, a man came out. This man, clad in khaki shirt and trousers, now walked towards Mr Polopetsi

and greeted him.

“Are you lost, Rra?” the man asked. His tone was neutral.

Mr Polopetsi felt his heart thumping within him. “I am not lost,” he said. “I have come to fetch my employer’s van.” He gestured towards the half-concealed van, and the man’s eye followed

him.

“You are the owner of that van?” asked the man.

“No,” said Mr Polopetsi. “As I told you, it is owned by my boss. I have come to get it back.”

The man looked away. Mr Polopetsi watched him, and realised that the man was thinking. It would be difficult for him to explain its presence, half hidden, behind his house.

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Mr Polopetsi decided to be direct. “You have stolen that van,” he challenged. “You had no right to take it.”

The man looked at him, his eyes narrowed. “I did not steal it, Rra. Watch what you say. I merely brought it here for safekeeping.

You cannot leave vans out in the bush, you know.”

Mr Polopetsi drew in his breath. The sheer effrontery of this man’s explanation astonished him. Did this man think that he was quite that gullible?

“But how would we have found out that you were looking after this van for us?” he asked sarcastically. “Perhaps you left a note that we missed?”

The man shrugged. “I do not want to discuss this with you,” he said. “Please take that van away. It is cluttering up our yard.”

Mr Polopetsi stared at the other man, struggling with his indignation. “Now listen to me, Rra,” he said. “You listen very carefully. You have made a very bad mistake in taking that van. A very bad mistake.”

The man laughed. “Oh yes?” he said. “Let me think now. Does it belong to the President? Or maybe it belongs to Ian Khama or the Chief Justice or somebody just as important! What a bad mistake I have made!”

Mr Polopetsi shook his head. “That van belongs to nobody like that,” he said quietly. “That van belongs to Mma Ramotswe, who is a senior detective in Gaborone. You have heard of the CID, Rra? You know about detectives? Detectives are plainclothes

senior policemen. You do know that, Rra?”

Mr Polopetsi saw that his words were having the desired effect. The attitude of the other man now changed, and he was no longer off-hand.

“I’m telling the truth, Rra,” he whined. “I was just trying to look after that van. I am not a thief. Believe me, Rra. It is true.”

Mr Polopetsi knew that it was not in the slightest bit true, but now he changed tack.

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“I am prepared to forget all about this,” he said. “You just return this van to the main road up there—you get your donkeys out—and then we shall arrange for a tow truck to come out.”

The man frowned. “All the way up to the main road? That will take a long time.”

“I’m sure that you have plenty of time,” said Mr Polopetsi. “That is, unless you want to spend some of that time in prison.”

The man said nothing. Then he turned round and called out to the boy who had been watching from afar. “Get the donkeys,” he shouted. “The van is going up to the main road.”

Mr Polopetsi smiled. “And there’s another thing,” he said. “The detective—the chief detective, I should call her—has had her time wasted by having to come out to look for her van and then finding it gone. I see that you have grown some very good pumpkins down here. I suggest that you put four of your best pumpkins into the back of the van. That will make up for her wasted time.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it, and sulkily went off to fetch the pumpkins. Then, with its fine cargo of yellow vegetables stacked in the back, the tiny white van was connected to the team of donkeys, and the journey began. Mr Polopetsi began to walk alongside, but thought better of it and decided to make the rest of the journey in the van, with the pumpkins.

It was comfortable there, resting on some old sacking, watching the sky above and thinking with some satisfaction of the pleasure which Mma Ramotswe would experience when he told her that the tiny white van was safe, rescued from captivity vile, ready to resume duties—after some necessary repairs, of course.

THE DAY AFTER the return of the tiny white van—which had been fetched by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni from the side of the main Lobatse road and towed back with the apprentice at the wheel— was a day of taking stock. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had to decide what to do about the van, the engine of which had seized up, just as he had feared. His instinct was to scrap it, and to explain to Mma Ramotswe that it was hardly worth pouring money into such an old vehicle, but he knew what reaction such an opinion would bring, and so he devoted some time to looking at just what needed to be done and how long it would take to do it. Mr Polopetsi felt justly proud of himself. He had explained to an attentive audience of Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi how he had followed the tracks through the bush and how he had intimidated

the thief with references to senior detectives. Mma Ramotswe had smiled at that. “I suppose I am a senior detective,” she said. “In one sense at least. I suppose that strictly speaking you told no lies.”

For Mma Ramotswe, it seemed that things were improving rapidly. Only recently, her situation had seemed rather bleak, with the loss of the van, the absence of any progress on the Zam2

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bian case, and Note’s demands hanging over her. Now the van was back, and in the expert hands of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; they could claim something of a victory in the Zambian case; and she was positively looking forward to seeing Note and confronting

him with the information she had received from his mother.

She now no longer cared whether Note came to the house or to the office. She had nothing to hide from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni— she had not been married before, and the marriage which Trevor Mwamba had performed for them under the tree at the orphan farm was perfectly valid. She also realised that if Note had already been married at the time of her marriage to him, then her marriage to him was null and void, and this meant that Note had never been her husband at any point. That was a liberating thought for her, and it had a curious effect on her feelings for him. She was not afraid now. He had never been her husband. She felt free of him, quite free.

Note chose that afternoon to come to the garage, and she was ready for him. It was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni who spoke to him first, and he came through to the office to let her know that he had arrived.

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” he whispered. “I can tell him to go away. Do you want me to do that?”

Mma Makutsi watched from her desk, pretending not to be too interested, but excited nonetheless. She would be happy to tell Note to go away too; they had only to ask her and she would deal with him in a most decisive manner.

Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair. “No,” she said. “I want to speak to him. I want to say something to him.”

“Do you want me to be there?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “This is something that I wish to do for myself,” she said. And Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew,

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from her tone, that she was resolved. Note would have to be a strong man to stand up to Mma Ramotswe in this mood. He glanced at Mma Makutsi, who raised an eyebrow, and made a slow cutting movement across her throat. She too realised what a risk Note was running.

Mma Ramotswe walked out of the office and saw Note standing next to a customer’s car, running a hand across the highly polished bodywork.

“Nice car,” he said. “There are some rich people in this town these days. Lots of cars like this.”

“Don’t put your finger-marks on it, please,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The apprentice has spent hours polishing that car.”

Note looked at her in astonishment. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything Mma Ramotswe launched into her attack.

“I went to see your mother,” she said. “I went to your place the other night. Did she tell you?”

Note shook his head. “I have not been down there over the last few days.”

“Poor woman,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She must be very ashamed of you.”

Note’s eyes widened. “You mind your own business,” he spat out. “You keep away from her.”

“Oh, I have no plans to go there again,” retorted Mma Ramotswe. “And I don’t want to see you again, either.”

Note sneered. “You’re getting a bit cheeky, aren’t you? You know what I do to cheeky women?”

Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes, but only briefly. She remembered

the violence, yes, but now it seemed less frightening.

“You listen to me,” she said. “If you’ve come for money from me, the answer is that I do not have to give you a single thebe, not

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one. Because I was never your wife in the first place, and I owe you nothing. Nothing.”

Note moved slowly towards her. “You say you were not my wife? Why do you say that?”

“Because you were still married when you married me,” she said. “That makes you the bigamist, not me. I am not the one who could be reported to the police. You are. You were married to another girl and you had a child by her, didn’t you? I know that now.”

Note stopped in his advance. She saw his lip quiver, and she saw his fingers move in that strange way, as if he were practising the trumpet. She wondered for a moment whether he would strike her, as he had struck her before those many years ago, but decided that he would not. Behind her she could hear Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cough, and drop a spanner loudly—his way of signalling

that he was at hand, that he would intervene should it be necessary. And there was Mr Polopetsi too, standing at the entrance to the garage, pretending to sweep the floor, but watching

closely. Her two friends, those two good men who were so different

from Note: her husband—her real husband—and that kind and helpful Mr Polopetsi were there at hand, ready to come to her aid. Note was no threat while they stood there; cruelty was a thing of shadows and hidden places, not a thing that flourished under the eyes of such men as those.

Note looked at her, a look of pure hate, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe was afraid again, but then she stopped herself and taking a deep breath, she stepped towards him. Now they were face to face, and when she spoke she did not have to speak loudly.

“I loved you,” she said, making sure that he should hear each word. “You were not good to me. Now that is all over. I do not hate you, Note Mokoti, and I am …”—she paused. It was hard

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to say this, but she knew that she had to. “I want you to go in peace. That is all.” And she spoke in Setswana those two simple words that mean Go in Peace, Go Slowly.

Then she reached into the pocket of her skirt and took out a small envelope. Inside there was some money—not ten thousand pula by any means, but some money to help him.

“I do not hate you, Note Mokoti,” she repeated. “This is a gift from me. It is to help you. Please go now.”

Note looked at the envelope which was being held out to him. For a moment he hesitated, but then he reached forward and took it. He looked at her.

“Thank you,” he said, and then he turned and began to walk away. But he stopped after a few paces, and turned round to face her again. She thought that he was going to say something, and there were things that she wished he might have said; but he did not speak, but left her standing there outside the garage, with the afternoon sun on her face. She turned back, to see Mr J.L.B. Matekoni coming towards her slowly, wiping his hands on a piece of greasy rag; and Mr Polopetsi with his broom, quite still, all pretence

of work abandoned. And she wanted to cry, but somehow there were no tears, for they had been shed many years ago, and now she was beyond tears for that part of her life and for that particular

suffering. She might weep for her tiny white van, yes, and for its travails, but she could no longer weep for the man to whom she had now said a final farewell.

“THERE,” said Mma Ramotswe as she raised a cup of bush tea to her lips. “That has settled that. No more Note Mokoti. No more searching for our friend from Zambia. Everything is settled. Except for one thing.”

“And what is that thing, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

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“Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What are we going to do about Charlie?”

Mma Makutsi picked up her cup and looked at Mma Ramotswe over the rim. “What makes you think that has not yet been settled?” she asked.

“Well, he’s not here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He hasn’t come back to work. Presumably he is still with that woman.”

Mma Makutsi put her cup down and examined her nails.

“Charlie will be back very soon,” she said. “Either tomorrow, or early next week. I dealt with that matter myself, as I thought you had enough on your plate at the moment.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. Mma Makutsi’s methods were sometimes rather unconventional, and she wondered what measures