The Double Comfort Safari Club

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “There are many creeds and beliefs; there are many ways of leading your life; there are many roads to oneness with the world. But there are other ways, too, and these are all about us. There are those who worship money and success. There are those who do not care about the suffering of others, as long as they are all right. There are those who think that science and mastery of the physical world will bring us happiness and save us at the end of the day. I cannot agree with any of these. I do not think that science alone will deliver us from the consequences of our greed and our stupidity—it is science that has made the very things that are poisoning our world. I do not think that material success will necessarily make us happier—the faces of the rich tell us that; I do not think that a big car or a big house makes a big man. I think that the measure of whether a life has been a good one is how much love there has been in that life—love both given and received.

  “This is a place of love, here where we are gathered together today. Our message is love, not fear, nor enmity, nor dismissal of others. It is just love. That is all.”

  Mma Ramotswe listened to each of these words, as did all the others present. She glanced along the pew: a man who worked in the diamond office sat quite still, his eyes fixed on the face of this visitor; another man sat with his eyes raised to the ceiling, his brow knitted in concentration and reflection; and a woman in the next row, immediately in front of Mma Ramotswe, a woman whom she recognised but knew little about, other than that she lived by herself near the Sanitas tea garden, this woman, moved by some private sorrow as much as by the words being spoken, cried almost silently, unobserved by others, apart from Mma Ramotswe, who stretched out her hand and laid it on her shoulder. Do not cry, Mma, she began to whisper, but changed her words even as she uttered them, and said quietly, Yes, you can cry, Mma. We should not tell people not to weep—we do it because of our sympathy for them—but we should really tell them that their tears are justified and entirely right.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A BAD STORY ABOUT A BAD WOMAN

  MMA RAMOTSWE had told Mma Makutsi that she could have compassionate leave. “As many days as you like, Mma,” she said. “You must be there at the hospital. You must be at Phuti’s bedside—that is where you should be.”

  Mma Makutsi had thanked her, but assured her that she would only take a day or two at the most. She was not one to take unscheduled leave, and had always insisted on coming to work, even when suffering from the colds or flu that a lesser employee would have seized upon as an excuse for staying at home. “I am paid for a month’s work,” she said, “and that is what I shall always do.”

  But this was an exceptional situation, and even Mma Makutsi accepted the need to be away. Phuti Radiphuti was making good progress: there was no sign of infection, the doctors said, and his wound was healing nicely. “He is always so pleased to see you, Mma,” confided one of the nurses. “I can tell that you will make him better quickly. Some relatives—ow!—they make sick people even sicker.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Mma, I’m telling you! I have looked after a patient who I am sure died because he could not face going back to his wife. She came in here and nagged and nagged him. It was his fault he was ill. It was his fault there was no money. She should never have married a man like him when she could have done much better. And so on, and so on. He said to me, I am going to go now. I cannot face that woman any more. And he did, Mma. Would you believe it? He went the next day.”

  “And was she sorry? That wife? Was she sorry that he was late?”

  “Not at all, Mma. She wailed—all right, she wailed a bit—but then, ten minutes later, she said, That lazy man. Look what he has done now! He has gone and died, and who is going to look after everything? Me! It is always me. Always. Oh, he is a selfish man to die.”

  Mma Makutsi had been shocked by this story, but flattered by the nurse’s tribute. She had seen how cheerful Phuti looked when she came to see him; she had seen his expression when he talked about what they would do when he was discharged from hospital; how they would start to furnish his house afresh, ready for the wedding. And the wedding? When would that be? She hardly dared ask the question, but asked it anyway, and he said, “I shall have to learn to walk again before I can get married. I have to be able to walk on this new leg of mine before I can have a wedding.”

  She discreetly interrogated the nurse about artificial limbs. “Six months?” said the nurse. “It will probably hurt him at first, but then the stump will toughen up and he will be all right. I have seen patients running after a minibus one year after they have lost a leg.” The nurse paused. “Don’t worry, Mma, he will still be a man. I know about these things. You must not worry about that.”

  Mma Makutsi had glared at her disapprovingly. That was none of her business, and she should not be making comments about private matters of that sort. But she was glad nonetheless to know that Phuti had not had any other injuries that she had not heard about.

  WITHOUT MMA MAKUTSI, the office seemed very quiet. The garage was busy, though, and the mechanical noises that came through the shared wall were reassuring and companionable. Every so often she heard the apprentices raising their voices over something or other—those young men loved to shout, she thought—it is always those with the fewest sensible things to say who make the loudest noise in saying them. But they were just young men, and no worse, she felt, than any other young men. Or perhaps they were—certainly Charlie was, even if Fanwell had shown some better qualities. But we were all young once, she said to herself, and foolish, and eager to show the world how much we knew, when we knew so little; she could not blame Charlie and Fanwell for that.

  The business, of course, had to continue, even in the absence of Mma Makutsi. There were several outstanding matters needing attention, including the case of Mrs. Grant; Mma Makutsi had been doing the preliminary work on that, and the investigation would have to wait until she got back to the office. But now there was a new client, a Mr. Robert Kereleng, who had telephoned to make an appointment for that morning. She would have preferred to have had Mma Makutsi with her for this meeting, as she valued her assistant’s comments on new clients—provided, of course, that these comments were delivered after the client had gone.

  At ten o’clock, shortly before Mr. Kereleng was due to arrive, she made herself a cup of red bush tea, using, out of deference to the absent Mma Makutsi, the smaller of the two teapots. Then she sat at her desk and waited until Mr. Polopetsi put his head round the door and announced that there was somebody to see her.

  “I am free to help you,” he whispered. “There is nothing for me to do in the garage—or nothing urgent—and since she is not here …” He looked longingly at Mma Makutsi’s desk; he would have given anything to have occupied that desk, to be a full-blown assistant detective, but Mma Ramotswe had explained to him that there simply was not enough work and this was, after all, the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. “It is not that a man cannot be a detective, Rra,” she said. “It is not that. It is more a question of what the clients want. I think that they want to see lady detectives. That is just the way it is.”

  But with Mma Makutsi away, there was no reason why Mr. Polopetsi should not sit there. And his perspective on things—which was often rather astute—would be welcome.

  “Of course you can sit in, Rra. That seat over there. But first, show in this Mr. Kereleng.”

  She tidied her desk, moving her cup to one side. That was another aspect of Mma Makutsi’s absence—who would make the tea when the client came in? She had used the smaller teapot, and had made only enough for one. She could not ask Mr. Polopetsi; he knew how to make tea, but his drop in status—from assistant hospital pharmacist to unqualified garage hand and occasional sub-assistant detective (as Mma Makutsi put it)—was bad enough without rubbing it all in by making him into a junior tea-maker too. So there would just have to be no tea.

  Mr. Kereleng was ushered in, and Mma Ramotswe saw a man in his early thirties, well dre
ssed, and with a pleasant, open expression. She felt comfortable with him immediately, even before he greeted her in the polite, formal fashion, and shook hands firmly and sincerely.

  “You are very kind to see me, Mma Ramotswe,” he said.

  “That is why we are here, Rra. We are here to see people.”

  He nodded. “I never thought that I would be coming to somebody like you,” he said, and then, apparently embarrassed, he corrected himself. “Not that there is anything wrong with you, Mma. No, it’s just that I never thought that I would need a detective.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Nobody does,” she said. “People think that private detectives are for other people, and then they discover that there is something in their life that needs help, and that is when they turn to us. That is why we are here.”

  “Exactly,” muttered Mr. Polopetsi. “Mma Ramotswe is the lady to sort out your problems.”

  Mr. Kereleng absorbed this.

  “And what are these problems, Rra?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mr. Kereleng did not hesitate. “It is a woman,” he said. “Let me tell you about it, Mma.”

  KERELENG. That is my name. Robert Monageng Kereleng, BSc. I don’t always put the BSc in, Mma, but I tell you about it now because it is relevant to the story of my life. Do they do degrees in private detection, Mma? They don’t? I was only joking. The University of Botswana has better things to do than to teach detection—sorry, Mma, that’s not to suggest that what you do is not important. It is very important—and I mean that. Otherwise would I have come to see you?

  “I have a BSc in biology. Yes! I knew when I was a very small boy—this high—that I wanted to be a biologist. I was always looking at how living things worked—trees, grass, seeds, frogs. Yes, frogs! When I was a little boy—ten, maybe—I used to catch frogs in the rainy season and cut them up to see how their organs worked. I would not do that now, Mma, because if there is one thing that biology teaches you it is to respect living things. Now I would never kill anything unless it was for food. That is how much I respect living things, Mma Ramotswe.

  “Not even a snake. No, I would not. I would not kill a snake unless it was necessary to do so to avoid being bitten. Snakes have their role in the country’s ecology, Mma, they have their place. That is one thing that we really have to start teaching our children. If you see a snake, do not pick up the first stone to hand and throw it at the snake. Do not do that. That snake has its purpose, even if it is a mamba or something like that. But that is a very difficult lesson to teach people, you know, and I think that there are some people who will not be content until there are no snakes left in Botswana. Foolish people.

  “We live in Gaborone, Mma. My father had a bottle store—you may know the one, over by the supermarket. Yes, that one. People used to call it a gold mine, and I wondered why they did that when it was a store and not a mine. Then, when I got a bit older, I knew that they were talking about how much money the store made, which is true. My father made quite a bit of money. Then he died. That is often the way it works, Mma Ramotswe: a man makes a lot of money and then he dies before he has the time to enjoy the fruits of his labour.

  “My poor father would have liked to have enjoyed his money. I said to him, ‘Daddy, you are an old man now, and an old man does not have to work. You have earned the right to sit in the sun now. You are entitled to count your cattle.’ He thought about this, but he was worried about looking after the bottle store. ‘You have a good manager,’ I said. ‘He can run the store for you and you can retire. That is the way to do it.’ I did not want to run the bottle store, Mma, because I was studying biology and I wanted to work in a laboratory. You understand that, I think, Mma Ramotswe. I have heard people talking about you. They say that you are a lady who understands everything.

  “My father listened to my advice. He was sad that I did not want to take over the bottle store, as it would have given him great pleasure to see a big sign above the store saying Kereleng and Son. But he wanted me to be happy and to do the things that I wanted to do, and so he put the manager in charge. ‘He is a very good businessman,’ he said to me. ‘I shall not be surprised to find out after a year that I have not one bottle store, but two. Perhaps even three!’

  “I said, ‘I am very happy for you, my daddy. Now you can go back to the village and talk to all the old men there. You will have a lot to talk about after all these years.’

  “He went back to the village, Mma Ramotswe, and I got a job in the Ministry of Agriculture, in their laboratory. I was very happy doing that work, and my father was very happy out in the village. He wrote to me every two weeks and told me what he and his friends were talking about. Which was not very much, Mma—you know how old men are. They always talk about the same things and tell the same stories many times. Do you remember when we had that drought, the bad one? Do you remember that man who brewed the beer that made everybody sick? Do you remember …

  “He was very happy. But then, Mma, he became late. It was very sudden. He was talking with his friends and he just fell off his chair. It was a good way to leave, and he had had a good life. I was sad, of course, but I knew that he would have a good place in heaven, and that made it easier to bear. I was in charge of all his affairs, and went to see the manager of the bottle store. He yelled and wailed when I told him that my father was late. ‘What is to happen now?’ he cried. ‘Oh, what is to happen?’

  “I said to him, ‘What do you mean—what is to happen? What do you mean?’

  “He looked away. He would not meet my eyes. Then he said, ‘Nothing. I did not mean to say that. It is just that when one is very sad all sorts of meaningless words come out. I did not mean to say anything but that I am sad. I am very sad, Rra.’

  “I thought no more about it, but when I went round to the bottle store a few days later, I found that it was closed. There was a woman hanging about, Mma, and I recognised that she was one of the people who worked in the store. I said to her, ‘What is happening here?’ And she said, ‘The manager has run away. There are some people over there who say that he is in Mahalapye now. I am waiting for my wages. Please pay me.’

  “I am afraid that the manager had stolen most of the takings, Mma. For six months or more he had been taking money out of the till. When my father became late he feared that there would be people who would come and look at the accounts—lawyers and accountants—and so he ran away. I was left with some money, as the store itself was worth quite a lot, but it was not nearly as much as I would have got had the manager not been a thief.”

  MR. KERELENG sat back in his chair.

  “So now you want me to find this manager of yours,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Have you been to the police?”

  Mr. Kereleng looked surprised. “No, I do not expect you to find him,” he said. “You see, that was only Part One of my story. There is another part, which is called Part Two.”

  “Excuse me, Rra,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “Would you like some tea? This is a very long story, and you might like some tea to drink while you are telling it to us.”

  Mr. Kereleng said that he would like tea, and for her part Mma Ramotswe was pleased that Mr. Polopetsi had offered to make it. It was interesting, she thought; some men are more modern than you think they are.

  I WAS ANGRY with the manager, as you can expect, and I did try to find him. However I soon realised that there was very little I could do, as he had gone over the border to South Africa. Once people do that, Mma, then they are lost. If you are chasing anybody, catch them before they get to the border or you will never catch them. You may as well chase smoke rising from a fire.

  “I put the money I had left into the bank, as I thought that I would buy a house. Then I could settle down and find a wife and start a family. It would be a very good life. But the way it worked out was the other way round—I found a lady first, before I found the house.

  “Let me tell you about this lady. She is a very beautiful lady—one of the most beautiful ladies in Botswana. And it is not ju
st me who says that—it is everybody. Anybody who meets that lady says the same thing. She could be Miss Botswana twice over, if you ask me.

  “I met her at a hotel. There was a jazz concert, and I was there with some friends. This lady and some of her friends joined us—we had a very good time. She knew who I was, I think, because she had heard about our bottle store, as everybody had. I told her that I had sold the bottle store. She was interested in that. She asked me where I had put the money—only joking, she said. But I told her anyway—I said that I had put it in the Standard Bank. She laughed and said that the bank was always the safest place to put money, and that people who put their money under their beds were asking for trouble. She said that an aunt of hers had put two thousand pula under her mattress and had left it there for a year. When she went back, she discovered that the money had been eaten by ants, and there were only a few scraps of paper left.

  “I saw this lady the following day, and we went for a drink in a different hotel. Then the next day we went to have a meal at the Sun Hotel. She liked that place, as she said it was very sophisticated. I said to her, ‘Anywhere you like, I like.’ And she said, ‘We are very well suited—maybe we can live together. You did say that you were thinking of buying a house.’ I told her that I was, and she suggested that we go and look for a house together. I could not believe my luck: here I was, going off to choose a house with one of the most glamorous ladies in Botswana, and I a scientific officer (second class) in the government laboratories. I thought that I was a very lucky man.

  “We went to an agent. He showed us a house that was very bad—it had no bath, and there was a big stain on the kitchen floor. He said that he could not see this stain, but it was certainly there, as if a cow had been slaughtered right there. The next house, though, was better, and we both liked it. It was for sale at a very good price because the owner had gone to live in Francistown and needed to get rid of it quickly. I managed to knock another ten thousand pula off the price, and that was it. I had a house.