The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party (22 page)

She made an effort to stop thinking about it. Sometimes, she found, it was better to defer deliberations of that sort until the end of a case, when you had to hand all the information you were going to get and could put the jigsaw together without suddenly finding fresh pieces. And she had almost reached her destination—the premises of the not very imaginatively named Botswana Cattle Food Company, from the chimneys of which emanated wisps of steam, rising up in short-lived spouts and clouds. A large truck, painted with the name of the company, was reversing towards a loading bay and a security guard, bespectacled and officious, was approaching the van.

The guard told her where to park before directing her to the front office. He noted her name on his clipboard and smiled at her. “You have many cattle, Mma?” he asked.

She nodded. “I have a cattle post. My father—he is late now—was good with them. He was a fine judge of cattle.”

“I have cattle too,” he said. “Not many. Three. Out there.” He waved a hand in the direction of the Kalahari.

She hesitated. She did not like to miss opportunities to talk to people, as this was the way one found things out. This guard must know Mr. Seleo; if she wanted to find out about his employer, then she should chat to him. Security guards, cleaners, porters—these were the ones who often knew what people were really like.

“I have come to see Rra Seleo,” she said.

The guard beamed. “Yes. If you go to the office, you will find him. He is always there.”

“You must know him well,” she said. “I have never met him.”

“Yes. You will meet him, Mma. He will be there.”

She tried again. “What’s he like?”

“You will see, Mma. If you ask at the office, they will take you to him. He is over there.”

It was not working. “Thank you, Rra. I’ll go there.”

He began to walk with her. “So you haven’t met him, Mma?”

“No.”

“He is a good man. A kind man.”

“Kind? Why do you say he’s kind, Rra? Usually these businessmen are tough, aren’t they? You do not find many kind people running businesses these days, I think.”

The guard considered this gravely before replying. “I don’t know about that, Mma. Perhaps you are right; I am just an ordinary man and do not know about these things. But I can tell you about Mr. Seleo. He never shouts. He never fires people if they are late
for work. You don’t see him chasing after the young secretaries—there is none of that here.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I am glad to hear that, Rra. There is too much of those things going on in Gaborone. I’m glad that it is not happening here.”

“Yes, Mma. I’m glad too.”

They had reached the door to the office, and the guard opened it for her before he went back to his post at the gate. Mma Ramotswe thanked him and made her way over to a reception desk. A young woman took her name and lifted the telephone. She spoke briefly, and then pointed to a door on the other side of the room.

“That is where he is,” she said. “In there.”

MR. FORTITUDE SELEO
was a tall, well-built man somewhere in his mid-fifties, or a bit beyond. His hair was greying and his face was lined about the eyes and mouth. When he stood up to greet Mma Ramotswe, she immediately saw the reason for the lines: a broad smile spread across his face.

“Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “I am very happy to meet you, Mma. You are well, I hope.”

It was an effusive greeting, and it took Mma Ramotswe slightly aback. But she recovered quickly and returned the smile.

“I am very well, Rra. Thank you. And you are well?”

“Very well too, Mma Ramotswe. Very well. And glad that winter is over.”

“I am glad too, Rra.”

He indicated the chair in front of his desk, and she sat down.

“So, Mma, you are the great detective, aren’t you? I have heard about you—even down here.”

Mma Ramotswe’s embarrassment was unfeigned. “I didn’t think that people knew about me, Rra. I am not famous.”

“No, perhaps not famous, Mma. But people driving along the Tlokweng Road see your sign. What is it, Mma? The No Ladies Detective Agency? That makes them think: Who are these no ladies?”

“It is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Rra.”

Mr. Seleo laughed. “Oh, I see. But that is how people know about you.” He paused, watching her, his smile still broad. “So why have you come to see me, Mma? Is it something to do with my friend Botsalo Moeti? Something to do with a dead cow?”

Clovis Andersen was quite clear on this: do not let your reactions show. Control your feelings. Do not look excessively surprised or dismayed.

Mma Ramotswe felt both of these emotions. “Oh,” she said lamely. “So, you know.”

He seemed concerned about the effect of his words. “I’m sorry, Mma,” he said quickly, his smile fading. “I did not mean to take you by surprise.”

“I did not think that you knew,” Mma Ramotswe said.

“Knew what?”

“That you knew that I was interested in this affair.”

Mr. Seleo leaned back in his chair. The smile and jovial manner had both returned. “Oh, I knew all right,” he said. “In the country we all know what’s going on, Mma. I heard about your visit. The bush has eyes, you know.”

“And those eyes were watching me,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“They were.”

He looked at her with complete affability and equability; the security guard, she thought, must be absolutely right.

“I’m afraid,” continued Mr. Seleo, “that relations between me and my neighbour are not all that I would wish them to be. It is so important, Mma, to get on with your neighbours—as I’m sure you are very well aware.”

“It is very important indeed,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “A fight with a neighbour is like a fight in your own home. Almost as bad.”

He considered this. “Yes, I think I’d agree. And for this reason I did my best to get on with Botsalo Moeti. I really did. But his cattle kept coming onto my land, and I had to take the matter up with him. I did so as gently as possible—I invited him round for a meal, and my wife made a great big stew and lots of trimmings. I raised the issue as tactfully as I could, but he flew off the handle, Mma. He went off like a firework.”

It was exactly as she had imagined in the car; or at least this part of it was. And there was no question in her mind now as to whom she believed and as to whose cattle had wandered.

“There has been a whole lot of things since then,” Mr. Seleo explained. “It seems that he’s a man who just has to settle scores. If he thinks that you’ve done something to him, then he will attempt to get back at you. It’s quite extraordinary, Mma Ramotswe. So along comes this business with the cow—somebody does something nasty to one of his cows and he gets the idea that this is his chance to even things up with me. I’m not at all surprised that he’s trying to pin the attack on me—that’s the way he is, I’m afraid.”

She sat in silence once he had finished. Mma Ramotswe was usually positive in her outlook, but now she felt somewhat bleak. There were some people who would never change—they seemed irredeemably malevolent. Fortunately there were few of these, but you did come across them from time to time, and then you felt strangely dirtied by the contact.

After a while she spoke. “I am very sorry, Rra,” she said. “I am very sorry that I even thought that you might be responsible for such a thing.”

Mr. Seleo shrugged. “You were only doing your job, Mma. I don’t hold anything against you.”

“So what do we do about Mr. Moeti?”

The smile did not slip. “We have to live with him, Mma. What else can we do?”

She could not think of anything else to say, so she brought the conversation round to cattle-lick. She had used his lick and her cattle loved it. They could not say thank you, of course, but she could on their behalf. This made Mr. Seleo burst into peals of laughter.

“Oh, Mma,” he said, “that is extremely amusing. You are the spokesman for the cattle of Botswana! And have the cattle got anything further to say? Are they happy with conditions in general?”

She thought for a moment. Were the cattle of Botswana happy? “I think they are,” she said. And then she became more definite. “Yes, they certainly are.” She hesitated. “Or most of them.”

An idea had occurred to her. It was not the most obvious idea, and she was not sure whether it would work. Happiness, she thought, is a healer, and could sometimes shift a log-jam in the most seemingly impossible circumstances. In every human heart, even the most forbidding, there was a place that could be touched. The difficulty was finding it; there were people who concealed that place with dogged determination. Sometimes, though, their guard slipped for a moment or two, and the way to a heart lay open.

Mr. Seleo showed her out, saying that he would walk her to her van.

“Tell me, Rra,” she said. “Would you do something to end this dispute with your neighbour?”

“Of course,” he said. “But what can I do? The fences that he complains of are his, not mine. His cattle keep coming over onto my land. It’s not my fault.”

“But what if that were to stop?”

“Then I wouldn’t have to talk to him about it. It would not be a problem.”

“And do you have to talk to him about it often?”

He thought for a moment. “Every few days I have to telephone him. Or I go over to see him at his place.” He paused. “But I am always polite, Mma.”

She told him that she was sure he was. But then she thought: How easy would it be to get annoyed by a neighbour—even a smiling, agreeable one like this—who kept raising an issue with you, day after day? Very easy, she thought.

“Perhaps you should think of stopping that, Rra. Just for a while. Perhaps that would help.”

There was a sudden and very obvious change in Mr. Seleo’s demeanour. The smile was still there, of course, but the light had gone from it; it was frozen. “Why should I, Mma? I am in the right here, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that, Rra, but I think …”

He waited for her to finish. What did she think, and how should she put it? They were standing outside the main building of the factory, now, and she turned to face the building, looking up at the hissing steam pipes. There was a pleasant smell in the air—rather like the smell of baking cakes.

“I think we could sort this out,” she said. “But it will require you to swallow your pride.”

He looked at her intently. “I am not a proud man, Mma.”

“Good,” she said. “So, Rra, would you like me to tell you what I think you should do? You may not like it, but I think it may be the solution to this problem you have. But I need first to ask you something. Does Mr. Moeti look after his cattle well?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a difficult question for me, Mma.”

“Why? Do you not know?”

“No, I know perfectly well. It’s just that I do not like to speak ill of people, Mma, especially when it comes to the way they treat their cattle.”

There was no doubt in her mind that he meant it. This man, she thought, really is a good man. “You are very right about that, Rra,” she said. “We should not speak badly about people—except where we have to. And this is one of those occasions. I have to know.”

“Terribly,” he blurted out. “He’s hopeless—a hopeless farmer. He has no idea how to look after cattle. He thinks he does, but he doesn’t, I’m afraid. Just look at the condition of his herd.”

It was the answer for which she had hoped. “So that’s why they wander?”

He nodded. “Yes, and if I were one of his cows I would move on. I’d emigrate to Namibia, maybe.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed, and then asked a further question. “Your cattle, of course, are happy, I imagine.”

“Yes. They are in very good condition.”

“They get plenty of healthy cattle-lick? Cattle-lick with all the right things? Vitamins, magnesium, salt—all those other things that cattle need?”

This broadened his smile. “Yes, as you can imagine.”

“And his cattle get none?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think they get anything extra at all. Just look at them. He probably doesn’t know that they need it.”

She sniffed at the air. “There’s plenty of cattle-lick round here, Rra, isn’t there?”

The smile grew proud. “Naturally. This is cattle-lick headquarters, you might say.”

She took his arm and began to walk to her van. She had something to explain to him, and she did this as they walked together. When they reached the van, they stood for a while longer. He nodded
from time to time, with the air of one to whom something was becoming clear. Then she drove off and Mr. Seleo returned to his office.

In her van, Mma Ramotswe started to smile. It’s infectious, she thought.

 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
 
 AN OFFER OF HELP

O
NE WEEK ONLY!”
exclaimed Mma Potokwane. “My, my! In one week you will be Mma Grace Radiphuti! Just think of that!”

Mma Potokwane had dropped in on the offices of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency ostensibly to share a cup of tea with her old friend Mma Ramotswe, but in reality with the ulterior motive of asking Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to fix the orphan farm tractor. This tractor, an ancient grey machine, had been nursed by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni over the years—all at no cost—and could generally be persuaded to do what was asked of it; now, however, the wheel on one side appeared to be turning at a different speed from its counterpart on the other, resulting in the tractor’s refusal to travel in a straight line without vigorous correction by the driver. “Could Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni possibly come out and take a look at it?” Mma Potokwane had asked as Mma Ramotswe came to meet her outside the office.