The Double Comfort Safari Club

by Alexander McCall Smith

  They went from the office to the area beside the water where, under the spreading boughs of a tree, chairs had been arranged around an open fireplace. The water was clogged with reeds, over which a brightly coloured bird hovered in flight. A guide, wearing the ubiquitous khaki uniform of the Delta, was standing beside one of the chairs, staring at the place where the fire had been laid, poking at the cold ashes with a stick. He looked up when they approached.

  “This is Mighty,” said the manager.

  Mighty shook hands with the visitors. Mma Ramotswe found herself warming to him immediately, recognising in him the real countryman, the type that her father had been. Obed Ramotswe had known all there was to know about cattle; she felt that this man knew everything there was to know about the animals of the wild, which was the same sort of thing.

  “Do you remember an American lady called Mrs. Grant?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mighty looked doubtful. “We get many Americans, Mma. Germans, Swedes, British—all of these people. It is difficult to remember one person out of many hundreds. How many years ago was it, Mma?”

  “Four. It was in June or July of that year, Rra.”

  “Oh,” said Mighty. “That is a long time ago, Mma. A long time.”

  “She stayed for almost a week, Rra. She was very happy here.”

  Mighty looked out over the water. “A week? That is unusual. Most of our visitors are here for two or three days. An American lady? Now, I think I can remember a lady who stayed. Yes, she was a very pleasant lady. She was very happy here, you are right.” He paused. “We have the old duty rosters in the office. The details will be there. Should I get the page for that week?”

  The manager and Mma Ramotswe both agreed that this was the thing to do. Mighty went off, and while he was gone Mma Ramotswe looked around the camp—at the tempting chairs and the tables beyond, set out for lunch. It would be good to be a guest here, she thought; one might sit in one of these chairs and drink something cold—lemonade, perhaps—and then progress to the lunch table and eat … She brought herself back to reality. She and Mma Makutsi were not here to sit about—as if they were members of some double comfort safari club—they were here to find somebody, to talk to him, and then to return to Gaborone.

  When Mighty returned he took a crumpled document out of his pocket. “I have looked in the roster for June, Mma, and I found it straightaway,” he said, handing the paper to Mma Ramotswe. “I have taken it from the book. This is it.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked down at the piece of paper. It was not complicated, and she saw immediately the information that she needed. Against the name of each guide was written the name of a guest, or group of guests, together with the days during which the guide would be on duty. Mrs. Grant, she saw, had been looked after by a guide called Tebogo. It was a common enough name. “So it was this Tebogo,” she said, holding up the paper. “He was the one who looked after the American lady.”

  Mighty nodded. “He was the one.”

  Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder. “So that’s it, Mma. We have found out what we came for. Maybe we should go back to Maun now.”

  Mma Ramotswe turned to her assistant. “But we cannot go back, Mma. We have just arrived. The boatman won’t be back until tomorrow. You heard him.”

  Mma Makutsi looked disappointed, but seeing Mighty looking at her, she made an effort to mask her concern.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mma,” said Mighty suddenly. “Everything is very safe here.”

  Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant laugh. “Scared, Rra?” she said. “Who is scared?”

  You are, thought Mma Ramotswe, but said nothing.

  “Tebogo will be back soon,” said Mighty, glancing at the sinking sun. “He has taken some people on a game walk. He will not be long.”

  Mma Ramotswe noticed the glance at the sun. People who lived in towns had stopped doing that—they had watches to enslave them. Here in the bush it was different: what the watch said was less important than what the sun said, and that, she thought, was the way it should be.

  SHE DID NOT NOTICE Tebogo arriving; suddenly he was there, having joined their company while her attention was diverted by a playful monkey that was taunting them from the safety of the tree.

  “This is Tebogo,” said Mighty.

  Mma Ramotswe turned round to see a tall man in khaki uniform standing at the edge of the circle of chairs. He was in his late forties, she thought, possibly slightly younger, but certainly a man with some experience of life. He had an open countenance, with the same clear look in his eyes that she had seen in Mighty’s. It was something to do with being a game-spotter, she imagined; these people were used to gazing out into the distance, picking up the tiniest clue of an animal’s presence—a change in the colour of background vegetation, an unusual movement of leaves, a shape that was wrong for its place. Looking for such things perhaps explained this quality in their eyes—the brightness, the quick movements.

  Mighty continued with his explanation. He told Tebogo that Mma Ramotswe had come to see him “all the way from Gaborone,” and that she had “important news.” At this, a shadow passed over Tebogo’s face, a look of alarm, and she said quickly, “Good news, Rra.”

  He looked at her expectantly, and then glanced again at Mighty, as if for confirmation.

  She went straight to the point. “There was a lady you looked after, Rra. She was called Mrs. Grant.”

  For a moment he looked confused, but then he nodded. “Yes, maybe, Mma. Maybe.”

  “She was here for some days,” went on Mma Ramotswe.

  Tebogo nodded. “I am not sure, Mma. It is not easy to remember one person after a long time. It is difficult, Mma.”

  “It must be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that you people have good memories. It is your job that helps you to remember. You see things and you remember them.”

  Mighty laughed. “Sometimes, Mma, sometimes. Not always.”

  “Well, Mma Grant remembered you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You were very kind to her.”

  Tebogo looked down modestly. “It is our job, Mma. We are kind to people because it is our job. Not just me—everybody here.”

  For a few moments, Mma Ramotswe was silent as she weighed his remark. No, it was not true. They were professional in their dealings with their guests, and that meant they were courteous and attentive, but kindness was another matter—it required that there be something in the heart. She looked at Mighty; he had it too, she suspected—that quality of kindness that visitors to the country so often remarked upon.

  “I think that you were kind to her, Rra,” she said quietly. “But I have not come to talk about that. I have come to tell you what has happened to that lady. She is late, I’m afraid to say.”

  She watched. Again, she was sure that she was right: he was upset.

  “I am very sorry to hear that, Mma. I’m sure that she was a nice lady.”

  She knew that he meant it. If there was anything that she had learned in her years as a private detective, it was the ability to tell when somebody meant what they said.

  “I believe she was, Rra,” she said. “And a generous one too.”

  Mma Makutsi had been quiet until now, but this was her opportunity. “Generous to you,” she said.

  Tebogo looked inquiringly at Mma Makutsi. “Oh?”

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She spoke to her lawyer before she died. Over in America. She spoke to him, and told him that she wanted to give you some money. And now that is why we are here. We have come to find you and tell you about this money.”

  For a moment Tebogo simply stared at her. Then he shook his head. “I cannot believe this, Mma. It cannot be true.”

  “It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Grant has left you three thousand dollars. That is …”

  “Almost twenty thousand pula,” interjected Mighty.

  Tebogo shook his head again. Then he smiled. “That is … It is …”

  “It is very good luck,” said Mighty.

  “I a
m very grateful,” said Tebogo. He let out a low whistle. “Twenty thousand pula!”

  “Be careful that you do not spend it all at once,” said Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She had a tendency to bossiness, she thought, and she should have a word with her about it at some point. But it was difficult to broach the subject of a person’s failings, particularly if that person was Mma Makutsi, with her ever so slightly prickly nature. Perhaps her shoes would say something; Mma Makutsi had once, jokingly—and she must have been joking—told her that her shoes occasionally gave her advice. Well, perhaps they could tell her not to be so bossy. They must have witnessed it, after all—shoes see everything; there are no secrets we can keep from our shoes.

  “I’m sure that Tebogo will be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “and I really don’t think we need to tell him how to look after his money.”

  “I will put it in the bank,” said Tebogo. “And then I will spend it later.”

  “That sounds very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “There are school fees for my son,” he went on.

  Mma Ramotswe nodded her approval. “Yes, that would be a good thing to spend it on.”

  “And my mother is very old,” Tebogo continued.

  “Then you can make her comfortable,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “And I can buy some cattle for my cattle post.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought that a good idea too. “That too. School fees, mother, and cattle. All of these are very fine purposes, Rra.”

  Tebogo looked thoughtful. “I have just remembered something,” he said. “I have a letter from a lady in America. I still have it. It may be that lady, that Mma Grant.”

  Mighty explained that this was quite common. “People often write to us,” he said. “They write to thank us, or they send us a postcard to show where else they have been.”

  “I keep all these things,” said Tebogo. “Would you like to see it? I can go and fetch it from my place. I think I know where it will be.”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she would, and Tebogo walked off to the staff quarters to fetch the letter. A few minutes later he returned, clutching a large envelope. From this he drew out a typed letter to which was attached a couple of newspaper cuttings and a photograph.

  “This is what she sent me,” he explained. “Those pages from the newspaper are about a man from her home town who was breeding ostriches. I had showed her some ostriches, and she thought I might be interested in that. And there is a photograph of me and her standing together outside the camp. I remember this lady. I had just forgotten that she was called Mma Grant.”

  He was clearly exhilarated by the news that Mma Ramotswe had given him, and he spoke quickly, the excitement showing in his voice. Mma Ramotswe took the sheaf of papers from him, and looked at the press cuttings. She found it touching that a woman like Mrs. Grant, who lived so far from the world of this man, should have sent him things to read from her newspaper. But that was how people were: they reached out to one another, no matter what dividing chasms lay between them—chasms of geography, and nation, and language; in spite of all these, people could still look at others and see that we were all the same, at least in those things that mattered, those things of the spirit, of the heart—human things.

  “Ostriches,” she muttered.

  “Yes,” said Tebogo. “I have read the articles. It is very interesting. But I felt a bit sorry, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up sharply. “Sorry for Mma Grant?”

  He shook his head. “No, for the ostriches. They are so far away from Africa. They are living in a cold place. They must be very sad.”

  “They do not know about any of that,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “An ostrich that is born in another place does not know about Africa. And they do not have very big heads, Rra. So they do not know where they are.”

  Tebogo gave Mma Makutsi a challenging look. “Animals and birds know exactly where they are,” he said reproachfully. “They know many things, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe folded up the ostrich articles and detached the photograph from the letter. “So this is …” She stopped. She had seen a photograph of Mrs. Grant in the obituary that the lawyer had sent her. The late Mrs. Grant was thin, even gaunt. This Mrs. Grant was by contrast traditionally built. The late Mrs. Grant had grey hair, cut short, and a prominent nose. This Mrs. Grant had blonde, shoulder-length hair and a very small nose. They were not the same person; she had absolutely no doubt about it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MOST UNFORTUNATE

  IT WAS FORTUNATE that Mma Makutsi chose this moment of dismaying discovery to engage Tebogo in conversation about the antics of the monkey in the tree above them. The monkey, which had been joined by three or four of its troop, was chattering excitedly, competing with its fellows over some morsel it had found in the higher branches. Leaving her assistant, Mma Ramotswe took Mighty to one side.

  “There is something wrong,” she whispered.

  Mighty drew in his breath. “You don’t think he deserves the money?”

  “No. It’s not that. It’s the wrong person.”

  Mighty looked puzzled. Glancing over his shoulder to check that they could not be overheard by Tebogo, he assured her that there was no question but that Tebogo had looked after Mrs. Grant. “It is in the book,” he said. “And he remembers her.” He gestured to the letter. “That letter is signed by Mrs. Grant, isn’t it? Yes, look at it. That says Grant.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I know,” she whispered. “I know that. But that lady in the picture is not Mrs. Grant. I have her photograph with my things in the room. I’ll show you, if you like. That is not the lady.”

  Mighty made a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t see how this can be,” he said.

  Mma Ramotswe fiddled anxiously with the papers. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I cannot pay the money to the wrong man. I have my duty to Mrs. Grant’s lawyer, a certain Mr. Maxwell. He is my client, Rra. Can you see that?”

  Mighty nodded, again looking furtively at Tebogo. “I understand, Mma. But I just don’t see how this can be. A lady called Mrs. Grant came to this camp …”

  Mma Ramotswe took hold of his forearm. “Hold on, Rra. You said that a lady called Mrs. Grant came to the camp …”

  “I did. And I have already shown you the evidence of that.”

  Mma Ramotswe drew him further away from the other two, who were still engaged in their observation of the monkeys. “A lady called Mrs. Grant,” said Mma Ramotswe. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if testing each word. “Do you think that Grant is a common name, Rra? I’ve certainly seen it before. Have you?”

  Mighty considered this. “I think so,” he said. “We’ve had other Grants before. Maybe it’s a common name in America, like … like Tebogo in Botswana. Or Ramotswe …”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled, but did not let the joke distract her. “You’ve had other Grants before, you say. But not at the same time.”

  “No, not at the same time.”

  It was all falling into place. “Mighty,” she said, “what if there were two Mma Ramotswes? Or two Mma Grants?”

  Mighty frowned. “Two Mma Ramotswes?” He stared at her, and then he put his hand to his cheek and stroked it. “Oh,” he said. Then, “Oh,” again.

  “Oh,” echoed Mma Ramotswe. She looked in his eyes. He was a sharp-witted man. He understood. But there was one final piece of the jigsaw to fit into place. “Can you think of another camp with an animal in its name?”

  Mighty answered quickly. “Our neighbour,” he said. “Three miles away. Lion’s Tail Camp.”

  “Can you take me there?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mighty looked doubtful. “Right now?”

  “Yes. Right now, Rra.”

  “It’s getting late. We’ll have to go by boat.”

  “I’m ready to go.”

  Mighty still looked worried. “I don’t like to travel on the water at night. It would be dark by the time we c
ame back.”

  “Give me a torch,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall sit in the front and shine it ahead of us. If there are any hippos, we shall see their eyes in the beam of the torch.”

  “You are a brave lady, Mma. Maybe that is why you’re a detective.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I am no braver than anybody else.” Was that true? she wondered. There was Mma Makutsi, after all … “I think that I shall leave my assistant back here. I don’t think that she will want to come.”

  WITH MIGHTY’S EXPERT NAVIGATION through the spreading channels of the Delta, it took them barely half an hour to reach Lion’s Tail Camp. It was a more modest camp than Eagle Island, with smaller, tented rooms for the visitors, but still with that stylish old-safari feel that Botswana did so well. The manager was away in Maun, but the head guide, Moripe Moripe, an old friend of Mighty, greeted them warmly and listened attentively to Mma Ramotswe’s story. As her explanation drew to a close, he started to nod encouragingly.

  “Yes, Mma,” he said. “I remember that lady. Mma Grant was here at the time. You are right.” He paused, as if fetching something from the dim recesses of memory. “It was July, Mma. I remember it because that was the month that my grandmother became late.”

  “Are you sure of that? July?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  She felt the familiar excitement that came with the solving of a mystery. But in this case, although she was pleased to have found out what happened, she felt appalled at what she had done. She had raised the hopes of a man who would now have to be told that the fortune he thought he was going to receive would no longer be his.

  She reached into the bag she had brought with her and took out the obituary cutting. “Is this that lady?” she asked.

  Moripe Moripe examined the photograph. “That is the lady. She had hair like that. That is her.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Mma Ramotswe, looking into his eyes. It seemed unlikely to her that somebody would remember one guest of many, and after a few years had passed.