Precious and Grace (14 page)

She hesitated at the fence, but only briefly. Bending down, she pulled two strands sufficiently apart to squeeze herself through.
Am I really doing this?
she asked herself.
Is this really Mma Ramotswe, respectable citizen, climbing through a fence in the middle of the night?
Is this what a traditionally built woman should be doing? She almost laughed at the thought—it was that absurd. But she had committed herself; she was now in her neighbour's garden and had her task ahead of her.

That task was clear enough. It had been a long time ago—over thirty years—but Rosie had said that she had laid stones around the grave of Susan's pet dog. Well, if these stones were sufficiently large—the sorts of stones used to mark the boundaries of flower beds—then there was a possibility that they would still be there. Her neighbour's garden had been untended for years, with beds left uncultivated and plants allowed to grow unrestrained. There was even a clump of prickly pears that other neighbours had begged Vain Kwele to remove: once those got onto the land they could run rife. But he had done nothing, with the result that the prickly pears had colonised a whole section of his yard, making for an ugly and impenetrable corner. Down at the end of the garden, though, running along the front fence, was a line of random shrubs, self-seeded for the most part, that was less inhospitable than the rest. It was here that she would find what she was looking for—if it was to be found at all.

Playing the steadily weakening beam of the flashlight on the ground in front of her, she made her way along the front of the garden. Something caught the light at her feet—an empty beer bottle, tossed across the fence by some passer-by; and something small and dark that moved—a dung beetle labouring with its trophy towards its home. She stepped sideways to avoid disturbing it and held the flashlight closer to the ground in the hope of getting a better view of where she was putting her feet.

And there, not far ahead of her, to be made out in the fading beam, but only just, was a small rectangle of stones embedded in the soil. It looked like a flower bed, but was too small for that, and she knew at once that this was the place where all those years ago Rosie had made a grave for her charge's dog. She bent down and examined the stones. One or two of them had become almost completely covered with sand, but were revealed when she brushed this aside with her hand. In a dry country, the bones of the land often remain visible for years—there is no mulch, no covering loam to obliterate the marks that people leave on the earth; they simply remain there. Nor is there the rain to wash those bones away—just the wind, which will eventually erode what lies on the surface, although that will take many years.

Yes, she thought. Yes. This is exactly what Rosie meant. This was the proof that Mma Ramotswe needed to establish that what Rosie had said was true, and that however much she might have been motivated by the prospect of reward, this woman had been who she claimed to be, and, what was more, she had loved that child.

She looked down at the earth. We cry over bits of earth; we fight over it; we take our monuments and place them upon the land to assert our claims; we make small patches sacred in some way, as happened here over thirty years ago when a much-loved animal was buried amidst a child's tears.

The beam of the flashlight now flickered and then failed altogether, the batteries finally drained of their weakening amps. She turned away; this was not the time to feel bad about how Rosie had been treated. She could rectify that over the next day or two when she would seek her out and apologise. Then she would bring Susan and Rosie together, and let them talk about whatever it was they would wish to talk about. She suspected that Susan wanted to say thank you, but she may wish to say other things too. In all of it there would be tears, she thought, but then tears had their place in the reliving of the past.

She began to walk back towards the fence. Without any light to guide her, she trod carefully, making sure that her footfall was firm enough to give warning to any snakes that might be abroad. The steps of a traditionally built woman, she thought, would deter any snake except…except the puff adder, the sluggish, traditionally built snake that could hardly be bothered to get out of anybody's way, and one of them was moving slowly across her path as she neared the fence. She felt it underfoot—a soft, giving feeling—and she heard the sound of its hiss. And then she felt something hit her ankle, as if she had trodden on a branch that had whipped up and struck her.

She knew immediately what had happened, and although she jumped back instinctively, she realised that it was too late and that the snake, now retreating into the cover of vegetation, had struck her.

She thought of her father, of Obed Ramotswe, and wanted to cry out to him, which she did. She screamed for him, as a child will scream for its parent. “Oh Daddy, Daddy!”…There was silence. Then she screamed again.

A light came on in Vain Kwele's house. There was a voice, thick with sleep: “Who is that? Who is that out there?”

She called out, “Me! Me!”

“Which me?”

She started to cry, and hobbled towards the neighbour's door, which was now opening to allow a square of light to fall outside.

“Mma Ramotswe! What are you doing, Mma? Is something wrong?”

She stuttered out what had happened, and her neighbour gasped.

“I will drive you to the hospital,” he said. “I will take you there right now.”

She nodded. It would be quicker going with him than going back to wake up Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. With a snake bite, she knew, time was of the essence. If it was a mamba that had bitten her, then she might only have a few minutes. What did people say about the bite of that snake? That you had four minutes at the most? In which case, she was now down to three.

In the light from the door she looked down at her leg. There was no blood, no sign of a wound, and all she saw was a small scratch. Yet the skin could be broken and some poison may easily have entered her system—in which case she would soon feel the symptoms.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” she said.

He invited her to sit down. “I shall fetch my car keys,” he said.

She closed her eyes. Did she feel any of the symptoms? Did she feel a tightening of the chest as the neurotoxin took effect? That would make breathing difficult. And then it would go to the eyes, and vision would go, and the heart would race as it tried to pump blood about a body that sensed the venom the blood bore with it.

She felt no pain. Nothing. She looked again at her ankle. There was nothing to see beyond the scratch. “I don't think I am going to die,” she said, under her breath. And then added, “Yet.”

M
MA MAKUTSI AND FANWELL
looked at Mma Ramotswe with concern. She was seated on her verandah, her leg freshly bandaged just above the ankle; at her side, on a small, rather rickety table was a pot of red bush tea.

“We were shocked, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “Very shocked indeed.”

“Yes,” said Fanwell. “To our foundations, Mma. We were shocked to our foundations.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. They were her fourth set of visitors that morning, and everyone had expressed much the same sentiments of shock; this was flattering, but had made her feel as if she was making a fuss about nothing. She felt completely well and had now decided that the doctor who said she should rest for two days had been far too cautious. After this visit from Mma Makutsi and Fanwell, she would bring her convalescence to an end and resume normal life.

“Tell us what happened,” said Mma Makutsi. “You were in your neighbour's garden at midnight and…”

Fanwell frowned. “Why were you in your neighbour's garden, Mma—especially at midnight?”

Mma Ramotswe made a gesture that implied that this was not a question they needed to bother about. “I'll explain in due course,” she said. “It's a bit complicated. I was there and my light ran out of power.”

“So you were in the dark?” prompted Fanwell.

“Yes, I was in the dark and couldn't really see where I was putting my feet. And I trod on a snake—I think it was a puff adder.”

Mma Makutsi's detection instincts came to the fore. “How could you tell in the dark, Mma?”

“I felt it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You know how most snakes are thin and quite lean? Well this was fat and soft. That meant it was a puff adder—that is what they are like.”

“She's right,” said Fanwell, nodding in agreement. “Those snakes are like that. They are two or three times as fat as ordinary snakes.”

Mma Ramotswe continued her account. “It struck, and I thought that I was dead. I thought: this is the end.”

Fanwell drew in his breath. “Ow, Mma! I have heard that your whole life flashes before you just before you die. Have you heard that? Did that happen?”

“She did not die,” Mma Makutsi pointed out. “So her life would not have flashed before her, Fanwell.”

“My neighbour took me to hospital,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He drove very fast and we almost went off the road, but we got there in a couple of minutes, I think.” She paused. “They put me on a trolley and wheeled me in. I told them what had happened and they fetched a doctor straightaway. He looked at my leg and said that he could not find the puncture wounds of a snake bite. He said that the snake must just have grazed my leg with its fang as it struck. He said this sometimes happens if the snake starts its strike from the wrong angle.”

“You were very lucky,” said Mma Makutsi. “If a puff adder gets its fangs into you, then it is very serious.”

“Your leg dies,” said Fanwell. “Then you die. That's what happens, unless they can chop it off in time.”

“The doctor said that no venom had been injected,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Although he thought it possible a tiny amount might have got in through the scratch. That's why they said I should sit in my chair at home today and tomorrow—in case I developed any symptoms. But there is nothing. I am feeling one hundred per cent. I do not need to stay here.”

Mma Makutsi's face registered a rapidly changing range of emotions as Mma Ramotswe gave this account.
No venom had been injected
—relief;
a tiny amount
—mouth in a tiny O;
sit in my chair
—nodded agreement;
developed any symptoms—
renewed anxiety;
one hundred per cent
—a smile of encouragement, tempered with slight concern over the non-following of medical advice. At the end of it all, she said, “You have been very lucky, Mma. And we are lucky too, aren't we, Fanwell? If that snake had injected its poison then you could be dead by now, and we could have lost our dear friend.”

“And colleague,” said Fanwell. He thought for a moment, looking at Mma Makutsi. “You would now be the managing director, Mma.”

“We do not like to think about that sort of thing,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “Mma Ramotswe has survived this great danger.”

“She is still with us,” said Fanwell. “That is very clear. She is still with us.” He paused before delivering the final verdict. “The head of that snake was turned aside by the hand of God. That is the only conclusion we can reach. God was present in Gaborone last night, and his divine intervention on behalf of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency bore the result we see before us. That is all I can say on this.”

Mma Ramotswe felt that enough had now been said. She was aware of how differently things might have turned out, but she did not think there was much to be gained by further dwelling on the whole matter. It was time, she felt, to put what had happened behind her and get on with her day. The bandage, which was anyway quite unnecessary in her view, had slipped, exposing what now seemed to be a quite unharmed ankle. She noticed that both Mma Makutsi and Fanwell had their eyes firmly fixed on the freshly exposed site, and that they seemed surprised, perhaps even disappointed, that there was no more spectacular injury to be seen.

“I think this bandage is not needed,” said Mma Ramotswe, bending down to remove it. “Hospitals feel they have to put a bandage on anybody who goes there—just in case. Sometimes you get a bandage even if you are just visiting somebody.”

It was a joke, but Fanwell did not see it as such. “I will be careful next time I visit somebody in the hospital. I would not want a bandage.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe briskly, rising to her feet. “That is the end of all that.” She looked at her watch. “I think I shall meet Mma Potokwane for lunch at the President Hotel. She said that she would be in town today. I shall catch her there, and then I shall come into the office, Mma Makutsi, and tell you about some progress I have made in the case of the Canadian lady.”

“That is a very difficult case,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are now four more ladies who say their name is Rosie. I shall be interviewing two more of them tomorrow.”

“I think those interviews can be cancelled,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall explain why when I come to the office.”

Mma Makutsi looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Mma?”

“I am very sure,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that we have already met our Rosie.” She paused, and then added, “And I think that the house in which Mma Susan lived is closer than we think.”

THE RAISED VERANDAH
of the President Hotel, reached by an open staircase from the public square below, was busy when Mma Ramotswe arrived. The hotel was known for its lunchtime curries, and these had now been laid out on the buffet table for those wanting to fit in an early lunch before the official lunch hour began at one o'clock. Over that hour, the hotel was popular with civil servants from the government departments just a short walk away. The permanent secretaries of various ministries—men and women burdened with responsibility and importance—would meet one another to exchange the gossip that is so important a part of the life of all officials throughout the world: who is next in line for promotion; who has overspent his or her departmental budget; which minister can be given just the right amount of unhelpful advice so as to hasten an inevitable departure from the Cabinet; and which ministerial mouth to put words into, if necessary, in order to thwart the objectives of new ministers who did not recognise just who should run the country, which everybody knew should be permanent secretaries.

At less senior, and less official, tables, the conversation might follow different lines. Here business might be discussed, or children, or affairs of the heart, or any of the day-to-day matters that were the stuff of ordinary life. At such a table, a sought-after one because of the view it commanded over the square below, sat Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwane, contemplating, with evident pleasure, the ample helping of curry that each had on the plate in front of her. They had been given the table in the face of stiff competition because of Mma Ramotswe's friendship with the head waiter. His father had known her father—indeed he had bought a bull from him many years ago. That bull had been the founder of a dynasty of particularly fine cattle, and all of his progeny called to reproductive duty had been named Obed in his honour. That was a connection that could hardly be forgotten, and it was a perfectly valid reason for allocating the best table to Mma Ramotswe, even if one or two senior civil servants felt that by rights it should be theirs. It was also grounds for larger helpings of everything and for a complimentary pot of tea at the end of the meal.

Mma Ramotswe told Mma Potokwane about her brush with disaster. Her friend shook her head at the mention of puff adders, and told her own story of finding one on the steps of her office only two months previously. “It was sitting there, Mma—or lying there, should I say…” She stopped, and lowered her voice. “There he is, Mma Ramotswe. There's Mr. Polopetsi. See him—helping himself to curry?”

Mr. Polopetsi had his back to them, but when he turned round, holding his plate, he saw them, and waved with his free hand. Mouthing a greeting, he returned to his table, where a companion, a man in a loud checked jacket, was awaiting him.

“Have you seen him here before?” asked Mma Potokwane. “Is this a place he likes to come to?”

“Once or twice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I've seen him eating with his wife here. She's—”

But she did not have to explain. “I know who she is,” said Mma Potokwane. “I've seen her photograph in the papers. She's going places, I think.”

“She's already there,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane was staring thoughtfully at Mr. Polopetsi on the other side of the verandah. “You know, Mma,” she began, “Mr. Polopetsi is such a…such a modest man, even perhaps a bit mousy.” She transferred her gaze to Mma Ramotswe. “Not that I want to be rude, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe reassured her that she would never imagine her friend being rude. “You're right,” she said. “Mr. Polopetsi is a bit on the timid side—in fact, he's very much on the timid side. He's not one to chase the lions away, is he?” She could not help but imagine Mr. Polopetsi encountering a lion, and smiled. The lion would open its mouth to roar and Mr. Polopetsi would quiver with fear. And so would she, come to think of it; so perhaps one should not use that picture to diminish Mr. Polopetsi. Sometimes the most unlikely people could turn out to be brave; and again she brought Mr. Polopetsi to mind for a few moments, although this time he was in hot pursuit of the lion, rather like one of those tall, red-blanketed Masai warriors who killed lions as a rite of passage to manhood. How would Mr. Polopetsi look in a Masai blanket? How would he look carrying one of those long spears with which Masai warriors armed themselves? Somehow it was hard to envision it.

Mma Potokwane tackled her curry. It was just the right strength, she said. Those people over in India, how did they manage to eat those extremely hot curries? What did they do to their stomachs? Mma Ramotswe was not sure. She covered her curry with butter, which quickly melted and took some of the heat out of it.

They talked easily and without any real interruption. Two old friends having lunch together; what could be more relaxing and therapeutic than that, especially if one of them had recently had a close encounter with a deadly puff adder? Although Mma Potokwane did make one tactless remark, and that was to enquire of Mma Ramotswe whether she had ever made a will. The trigger for this was not so much her friend's recent brush with death as her ambition to ensure that all her friends considered a legacy for the Orphan Farm. The issue, though, was not pursued, and Mma Potokwane remained uncertain whether Mma Ramotswe was testate or intestate.