Of course, businesses took some time to get established—Mma Ramotswe understood this—but how long could one go on at a loss? She had a certain amount of money left over from her father’s estate, but she could not live on that forever. She should have listened to her father; he had wanted her to buy a butchery, and that would have been so much safer. What was the expression they used? A blue-chip investment, that was it. But where was the excitement in that?
She thought of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. Now that was a business which would be making a profit. There was no shortage of customers, as everybody knew what a fine mechanic he was. That was the difference between them, she thought; he knew what he was doing, whereas she did not.
Mma Ramotswe had known Mr J.L.B. Matekoni for years. He came from Mochudi, and his uncle had been a close friend of her father. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was forty-five—ten years older than Mma Ramotswe, but he regarded himself as being a contemporary and often said, when making an observation about the world: “For people of our age …”
He was a comfortable man, and she wondered why he had never married. He was not handsome, but he had an easy, reassuring face. He would have been the sort of husband that any woman would have liked to have about the house. He would fix things and stay in at night and perhaps even help with some of the domestic chores—something that so few men would ever dream of doing.
But he had remained single, and lived alone in a large house near the old airfield. She sometimes saw him sitting on his verandah when she drove past—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni by himself, sitting on a chair, staring out at the trees that grew in his garden. What did a man like that think about? Did he sit there and reflect on how nice it would be to have a wife, with children running around the garden, or did he sit there and think about the garage and the cars he had fixed? It was impossible to tell.
She liked to call on him at the garage and talk to him in his greasy office with its piles of receipts and orders for spare parts. She liked to look at the calendars on the wall, with their simple pictures of the sort that men liked. She liked to drink tea from one of his mugs with the greasy fingerprints on the outside while his two assistants raised cars on jacks and cluttered and banged about underneath.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni enjoyed these sessions. They would talk about Mochudi, or politics, or just exchange the news of the day. He would tell her who was having trouble with his car, and what was wrong with it, and who had bought petrol that day, and where they said they were going.
But that day they talked about finances, and about the problems of running a paying business.
“Staff costs are the biggest item,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You see those two young boys out there under that car? You’ve no idea what they cost me. Their wages, their taxes, the insurance to cover them if that car were to fall on their heads. It all adds up. And at the end of the day there are just one or two pula left for me. Never much more.”
“But at least you aren’t making a loss,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m thirty pula down on my first month’s trading. And I’m sure it’ll get worse.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “Staff costs,” he said. “That secretary of yours—the one with those big glasses. That’s where the money will be going.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I know,” she said. “But you need a secretary if you have an office. If I didn’t have a secretary, then I’d be stuck there all day. I couldn’t come over here and talk to you. I couldn’t go shopping.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni reached for his mug. “Then you need to get better clients,” he said. “You need a couple of big cases. You need somebody rich to give you a case.”
“Somebody rich?”
“Yes. Somebody like … like Mr Patel, for example.”
“Why would he need a private detective?”
“Rich men have their problems,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You never know.”
They lapsed into silence, watching the two young mechanics remove a wheel from the car on which they were working.
“Stupid boys,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They don’t need to do that.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I had a letter the other day. It made me very sad, and I wondered whether I should be a detective after all.”
She told him of the letter about the missing boy, and she explained how she had felt unable to help the father.
“I couldn’t do anything for him,” she said. “I’m not a miracle worker. But I felt so sorry for him. He thought that his son had fallen in the bush or been taken by some animal. How could a father bear that?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni snorted. “I saw that in the paper,” he said. “I read about that search. And I knew it was hopeless from the beginning.”
“Why?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
For a moment, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was silent. Mma Ramotswe looked at him, and past him, through the window to the thorn tree outside. The tiny grey-green leaves, like blades of grass, were folded in upon themselves, against the heat; and beyond them the empty sky, so pale as to be white; and the smell of dust.
“Because that boy’s dead,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, tracing an imaginary pattern in the air with his finger. “No animal took him, or at least no ordinary animal. A santawana maybe, a thokolosi. Oh yes.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent. She imagined the father—the father of the dead boy, and for a brief moment she remembered that awful afternoon in Mochudi, at the hospital, when the nurse had come up to her, straightening her uniform, and she saw that the nurse was crying. To lose a child, like that, was something that could end one’s world. One could never get back to how it was before. The stars went out. The moon disappeared. The birds became silent.
“Why do you say he’s dead?” she asked. “He could have got lost and then …”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “No,” he said. “That boy would have been taken for witchcraft. He’s dead now.”
She put her empty mug down on the table. Outside, in the workshop, a wheel brace was dropped with a loud, clanging sound.
She glanced at her friend. This was a subject that one did not talk about. This was the one subject which would bring fear to the most resolute heart. This was the great taboo.
“How can you be sure?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Come on, now, Mma Ramotswe. You know as well as I do what goes on. We don’t like to talk about it do we? It’s the thing we Africans are most ashamed of. We know it happens but we pretend it doesn’t. We know all right what happens to children who go missing. We know.”
She looked up at him. Of course he was telling the truth, because he was a truthful, good man. And he was probably right—no matter how much everybody would like to think of other, innocent explanations as to what had happened to a missing boy, the most likely thing was exactly what Mr J.L.B. Matekoni said. The boy had been taken by a witch doctor and killed for medicine. Right there, in Botswana, in the late twentieth century, under that proud flag, in the midst of all that made Botswana a modern country, this thing had happened, this heart of darkness had thumped out like a drum. The little boy had been killed because some powerful person somewhere had commissioned the witch doctor to make strengthening medicine for him.
She cast her eyes down.
“You may be right,” she said. “That poor boy …”
“Of course I’m right,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “And why do you think that poor man had to write that letter to you? It’s because the police will be doing nothing to find out how and where it happened. Because they’re scared. Every one of them. They’re just as scared as I am and those two boys out there under that car are. Scared, Mma Ramotswe. Frightened for our lives. Every one of us—maybe even you.”
MMA RAMOTSWE went to bed at ten that night, half an hour later than usual. She liked to lie in bed sometimes, with her reading lamp on, and read a magazine. Now she was tired, and the magazine kept slipping from her hands, defeating her struggles to keep awake.
In the early hours of the morning she awoke in terror, her heartbeat irregular, her mouth dry. She sat up and reached for the light switch, but when she turned it on nothing happened. She pushed her sheet aside—there was no need for a blanket in the hot weather—and slipped off the bed.
The light in the corridor did not work either, nor that in the kitchen, where the moon made shadows and shapes on the floor. She looked out of the window, into the night. There were no lights anywhere; a power cut.
She opened the back door and stepped out into the yard in her bare feet. The town was in darkness, the trees obscure, indeterminate shapes, clumps of black.
“Mma Ramotswe!”
She stood where she was, frozen in terror. There was somebody in the yard, watching her. Somebody had whispered her name.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. And it would be dangerous to speak, anyway. So she backed away, slowly, inch by inch, towards the kitchen door. Once inside, she slammed the door shut behind her and reached for the lock. As she turned the key the electricity came on and the kitchen was flooded with light. The fridge started to purr; a light from the cooker winked on and off at her: 3:04; 3:04
CHAPTER NINE
THE BOYFRIEND
THERE WERE three quite exceptional houses in the country, and Mma Ramotswe felt some satisfaction that she had been invited to two of them. The best-known of these was Mokolodi, a rambling chateau-like building placed in the middle of the bush to the south of Gaborone. This house, which had a gatehouse with gates on which hornbills had been worked in iron, was probably the grandest establishment in the country, and was certainly rather more impressive than Phakadi House, to the north, which was rather too close to the sewage ponds for Mma Ramotswe’s taste. This had its compensations, though, as the sewage ponds attracted a great variety of bird life, and from the verandah of Phakadi one could watch flights of flamingos landing on the murky green water. But you could not do this if the wind was in the wrong direction, which it often was.
The third house could only be suspected of being a house of distinction, as very few people were invited to enter it, and Gaborone as a whole had to rely on what could be seen of the house from the outside—which was not much, as it was surrounded by a high white wall—or on reports from those who were summoned into the house for some special purpose. These reports were unanimous in their praise for the sheer opulence of the interior.
“Like Buckingham Palace,” said one woman who had been called to arrange flowers for some family occasion. “Only rather better. I think that the Queen lives a bit more simply than those people in there.”
The people in question were the family of Mr Paliwalar Sundigar Patel, the owner of eight stores—five in Gaborone and three in Francistown—a hotel in Orapa, and a large outfitters in Lobatse. He was undoubtedly one of the wealthiest men in the country, if not the wealthiest, but amongst the Batswana this counted for little, as none of the money had gone into cattle, and money which was not invested in cattle, as everybody knew, was but dust in the mouth.
Mr Paliwalar Patel had come to Botswana in 1967, at the age of twenty-five. He had not had a great deal in his pocket then, but his father, a trader in a remote part of Zululand, had advanced him the money to buy his first shop in the African Mall. This had been a great success; Mr Patel bought goods for virtually nothing from traders in distress and then sold them on at minimal profit. Trade blossomed and shop was added to shop, all of them run on the same commercial philosophy. By his fiftieth birthday, he stopped expanding his empire, and concentrated on the improvement and education of his family.
There were four children—a son, Wallace, twin daughters, Sandri and Pali, and the youngest, a daughter called Nandira. Wallace had been sent to an expensive boarding school in Zimbabwe, in order to satisfy Mr Patel’s ambition that he become a gentleman. There he had learned to play cricket, and to be cruel. He had been admitted to dental school, after a large donation by Mr Patel, and had then returned to Durban, where he set up a practice in cosmetic dentistry. At some point he had shortened his name—”for convenience’s sake”—and had become Mr Wallace Pate BDS (Natal).
Mr Patel had protested at the change. “Why are you now this Mr Wallace Pate BDS (Natal) may I ask? Why? You ashamed, or something? You think I’m just a Mr Paliwalar Patel BA (Failed) or something?”
The son had tried to placate his father.
“Short names are easier, father. Pate, Patel—it’s the same thing. So why have an extra letter at the end? The modern idea is to be brief. We must be modern these days. Everything is modern, even names.”
There had been no such pretensions from the twins. They had both been sent back to the Natal to meet husbands, which they had done in the manner expected by their father. Both sons-in-law had now been taken into the business and were proving to have good heads for figures and a sound understanding of the importance of tight profit margins.
Then there was Nandira, who was sixteen at the time and a pupil at Maru-a-Pula School in Gaborone, the best and most expensive school in the country. She was bright academically, was consistently given glowing reports from the school, and was expected to make a good marriage in the fullness of time—probably on her twentieth birthday, which Mr Patel had felt was precisely the right time for a girl to marry.
The entire family, including the sons-in-law, the grandparents, and several distant cousins, lived in the Patel mansion near the old Botswana Defence Force Club. There had been several houses on the plot, old colonial-style houses with wide verandahs and fly screens, but Mr Patel had knocked them down and built his new house from scratch. In fact, it was several houses linked together, all forming the family compound.
“We Indians like to live in a compound,” Mr Patel had explained to the architect. “We like to be able to see what’s going on in the family, you know.”
The architect, who was given a free rein, designed a house in which he indulged every architectural whimsy which more demanding and less well-funded clients had suppressed over the years. To his astonishment, Mr Patel accepted everything, and the resulting building proved to be much to his taste. It was furnished in what could only be called Delhi Rococo, with a great deal of gilt in furniture and curtains, and on the walls expensive pictures of Hindu saints and mountain deer with eyes that followed one about the room.
When the twins married, at an expensive ceremony in Durban to which over fifteen hundred guests were invited, they were each given their own quarters, the house having been considerably expanded for the purpose. The sons-in-law were also each given a red Mercedes-Benz, with their initials on the driver’s door. This required the Patel garage to be expanded as well, as there were now four Mercedes-Benz cars to be housed there; Mr Patel’s, Mrs Patel’s car (driven by a driver), and the two belonging to the sons-in law.
An elderly cousin had said to him at the wedding in Durban: “Look, man, we Indians have got to be careful. You shouldn’t go flashing your money around the place. The Africans don’t like that, you know, and when they get the chance they’ll take it all away from us. Look at what happened in Uganda. Listen to what some of the hotheads are saying in Zimbabwe. Imagine what the Zulus would do to us if they had half a chance. We’ve got to be discreet.”
Mr Patel had shaken his head. “None of that applies in Botswana. There’s no danger there, I’m telling you. They’re stable people. You should see them; with all their diamonds. Diamonds bring stability to a place, believe me.”
The cousin appeared to ignore him. “Africa’s like that, you see,” he continued. “Everything’s going fine one day, just fine, and then the next morning you wake up and discover your throat’s been cut. Just watch
out.”
Mr Patel had taken the warning to heart, to an extent, and had added to the height of the wall surrounding his house so that people could not look in the windows and see the luxury. And if they continued to drive around in their big cars, well, there were plenty of those in town and there was no reason why they should be singled out for special attention.
MMA RAMOTSWE was delighted when she received the telephone call from Mr Patel asking her whether she could possibly call on him, in his house, some evening in the near future. They agreed upon that very evening, and she went home to change into a more formal dress before presenting herself at the gates of the Patel mansion. Before she went out, she telephoned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“You said I should get a rich client,” she said. “And now I have. Mr Patel.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni drew in his breath. “He is a very rich man,” he said. “He has four Mercedes-Benzes. Four. Three of them are all right, but one has had bad problems with its transmission. There was a coupling problem, one of the worst I’ve seen, and I had to spend days trying to get a new casing …”
YOU COULD not just push open the gate at the Patel house; nor could you park outside and hoot your horn, as everybody did with other houses. At the Patel house you pressed a bell in the wall, and a high-pitched voice issued from a small speaker above your head.
“Yes. Patel place here. What do you want?”
“Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Private …”
A crackling noise came from the speaker.
Ladies' Detective Agency 01 - The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency Page 8
