To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) (19 page)

“That was very generous of you, Mma.” Mma Ramotswe looked at her old friend’s face. People change. Things had happened to that face. The years. “Was it a silver Mercedes-Benz, Mma?”

Poppy smiled. “It was a lovely car, Mma. Yes, it was silver.”

Mma Ramotswe pressed ahead. “And so the reverend is driving around in it right now—doing the Lord’s work?”

Poppy continued to smile. “He was, but then he sent the car out into the rural areas for his followers out there to do the work. They are using it somewhere else, I think—maybe up in Maun. He has people up there, and they must travel up and down to Gaborone on the Lord’s work, I think.”

“I see.” They were the only words that came to Mma Ramotswe, and yet they were just right. She did see. She saw very well. And now she had to speak to Mma Boko to ascertain whether what she saw was indeed what was there.

SHE FOUND MMA BOKO
talking to two women at one of the tables under the trees. They were stacking hymn books and inserting sheets of paper into each.

“These are the reverend’s texts for the day,” explained Mma Boko, handing one of the sheets to Mma Ramotswe.

“Very interesting,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But, Mma, could I have a quiet word with you?”

Mma Boko excused herself from her companion, joining Mma Ramotswe under another tree. The tree was in flower, and tiny flecks of blossom, white and virtually weightless, drifted from its boughs. “What is it, Mma?” she asked. “I must help those ladies.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that I wanted to ask you something connected with what we talked about the other day.”

“Yes, Mma?”

“That young woman who lives next door. You know she is here?”

Mma Boko gave a start. “Where, Mma? I don’t see her.”

“She’s over there—with the reverend.”

Mma Boko looked over in the direction of the knot of people around the Reverend Flat Ponto. She drew in her breath audibly. Mma Ramotswe could see that she was struggling with something—but with what? Jealousy? “I see.” Mma Boko composed herself, and her expression now was sweet. “You see, he has helped her in the past, Mma. He sometimes goes to give her texts. He is trying to save her.” Her eyes shone. “That is what he does, Mma. He saves people.”

Especially ladies, thought Mma Ramotswe. And there were so many ladies to be saved.

“Saves them?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Boko stared at her. “Of course.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. It was difficult to judge how one should approach these matters, she thought. You had to be honest, but you had to be careful not to be too brutal.

“You have a special relationship with the reverend, don’t you, Mma?”

Mma Boko gave her a searching look. And then the decision was made. Mma Ramotswe was to be trusted. “I believe that he and I will one day become joint agents of the Lord, Mma. I believe that—since you ask.”

“You believe that he will marry you?”

“If the Lord approves,” said Mma Boko. “Which I think he does. He has already given signs of that approval.”

“I see.”

“Yes, he approves very firmly, I believe.”

Mma Ramotswe steeled herself. The moment could not be put off much longer. “Mma Boko, may I ask you something? Who told you about the businessman who rents the flat for Nametso? Was it the reverend, by any chance?”

The question took Mma Boko by surprise, and she seemed to struggle with something before she answered. But then she said, “Yes, it was. He told me about it. He disapproved very strongly—as you can imagine.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. He would; he would.

“Do you see him about the place often?” she asked. “Does he go to save Nametso just about every day?”

Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Boko’s hands were shaking. She knew. And of course that should not surprise her; a woman would know these things. She was equally convinced, though, that Mma Boko would have denied any knowledge she had of what the Reverend Flat Ponto was up to. She would have known and not known, both at the same time. That was the way people survived in the face of crushing disappointment.

“Oh, Mma,” Mma Boko suddenly blurted out. “That girl is a Jezebel. She is leading the reverend astray. He knows that his future must be with me, and yet he is being kind to her because she needs support—and saving. But his heart is not in anything that he does with her, Mma. I know that. I know that very well.”

There was nothing more that Mma Ramotswe could say to Mma Boko other than to hold her hand briefly and whisper, “I am sure that he loves you, Mma. But it is good to be careful about loving men back. Think about that, Mma.”

SHE LEFT MMA BOKO
and began to look for Poppy. The crowd was now quite large, and there were children running around, squealing and yelling and making everything noisier and more chaotic. Eventually she found Poppy talking to an elderly man in a wheelchair. She drew her aside and a young couple came and wheeled the man off to one of the food tables.

“Are you enjoying the picnic?” asked Poppy. “People love these occasions.”

“It is all very joyful,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“That is the reverend’s influence,” said Poppy. “He spreads light wherever he goes.”

Mma Ramotswe was non-committal. “Well, he’s certainly popular.” She looked at Poppy. Who, she wondered, did Poppy have to pick up the pieces? Were there children, or siblings, who would provide her with a shoulder to cry on? For a few moments she wondered whether she should do this at all, or whether she should walk away and let these people get on with living their lives as they saw fit. But then she thought, No, I shall not do that—because if I don’t do anything there will be more Poppies and more Nametsos and poor Mma Bokos. There were any number of ladies with hearts to break, just looking for a charismatic preacher to break them.

“Mma,” began Mma Ramotswe, “I have found out something that makes me very happy.”

“Oh yes?” asked Poppy.

“Yes. I have found out that the Mercedes-Benz you gave to the reverend is being put to very good use.”

“I know that,” said Poppy. “It is doing the work of the Lord up in Maun. Or somewhere up there.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No, Mma, it is doing good work far closer to home. He has given it to a young woman—a very attractive young woman. She is driving round in it right here in Gaborone.”

Poppy frowned. “I don’t think so, Mma. The reverend told me—it is out in a remote area doing work there.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I’m afraid not, Mma. It is being used by that young woman over there. You see her? Right next to the reverend? He is being very kind to her. He visits her most days, I believe—trying to save her, of course—and he has given her the car for her own use. For getting to work and going shopping too, I think. She has some very nice clothes, and she needs to go off and buy those. A silver Mercedes-Benz is ideal for that sort of thing, you know.”

Poppy listened to this in silence. She pursed her lips. She looked down at the ground, and then up at the sky. Mma Ramotswe reached out and took her hand—the hand of an old friend.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
happened rather quickly. Mma Ramotswe found Mma Potokwane helping herself to a plateful of sausages from one of the barbecue pits.

“I am helping myself,” explained the matron. “After all, don’t they say that the Lord helps those who help themselves?”

“They do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I think that it is probably true. But, Mma, I have something very important to tell you.”

Mma Potokwane listened gravely as Mma Ramotswe outlined her exchanges with Mma Boko and Poppy. As the tale lengthened and its full implications became clear, she looked around for a table on which to put down her plate of untouched sausages. “This is very shocking, Mma,” she said, wiping sausage fat from her fingers.

“It is the way the world is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think this sort of thing is going on all the time.”

Mma Potokwane straightened the front of her blouse. It was such a gesture as might be made by one setting out for battle—a girding of the chest, a readiness to carry the banner. “I am ready, Mma Ramotswe. I am going to have a word with the reverend.”

“Be careful, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Ha!” snorted Mma Potokwane.

“He has many admirers here,” cautioned Mma Ramotswe.

“Ha!” Mma Potokwane repeated.

Mma Ramotswe watched in fascination as Mma Potokwane strode across the clearing to the place where the reverend was standing, surrounded by a small coterie of ladies. She watched as Mma Potokwane elbowed her way past these women and took the reverend firmly by the arm, leading him away from the circle. Then she watched as the reverend was addressed by Mma Potokwane, who gestured firmly as she spoke, jabbing one index finger into his chest while shaking the other one directly under his nose. The reverend, cowed, took a step backwards, only to be immediately advanced upon by Mma Potokwane. A further step back led to a fresh and even more intrusive advance.

It only took ten minutes, and then Mma Potokwane returned to Mma Ramotswe and her plate of sausages. The matron was smiling broadly.

“Well?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Simple,” said Mma Potokwane. “All solved.”

Mma Ramotswe was wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Mma Potokwane said. “He’s like many men like that. Lots of hot air and no muscle. No backbone either. One push and they fall to bits.”

“And?”

“Well, I told him that we knew what he was up to. I told him that unless he took certain steps right now, today, then I would be clapping my hands and addressing everybody present. I would tell them that the Lord had spoken to me about the Reverend Flat Ponto and instructed me to tell them all about some of his part-time activities.”

Mma Ramotswe began to smile.

“Yes,” Mma Potokwane went on. “I told him that there were certain things he could do. He could restore to Poppy everything he had taken from her, including the silver Mercedes-Benz. Then he could tell Nametso that he was going back to his wife and that she was to go and see her mother without delay—and be kind to her again, as a daughter should be. I think that young woman will still do anything for that man, and so I suspect she will obey.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered whether he would comply.

“Oh, he will, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “I gave him half an hour to do these things. I also told him that he should watch his step in future, as we would be keeping an eye on him. I told him there was to be no further taking advantage of the members of his church.”

“And do you really think he will do that?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane thought for a few moments. “I think he will,” she said. “There’s a reason why that man will do as I ask.”

Mma Ramotswe waited to hear it.

“I only realised it today,” said Mma Potokwane. “It came back to me. Flat Ponto was one of our children—a long time ago.”

Mma Ramotswe expressed amazement. “A graduate of the Orphan Farm?”

“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “I had forgotten about him, but then I remembered. And so I am sure that he will do as I tell him, Mma. And anyway, he was very ashamed when he saw it was me.”

“I can imagine,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“I think he might behave better in future,” Mma Potokwane concluded. “I have seen something today.”

“And what was that, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane pointed to a group of women standing under a tree. “There is a woman over there who has lost her husband. I happen to know about her—she lives in Tlokweng.”

Mma Ramotswe waited. “That woman over there, Mma? The thin one?”

“That’s her, Mma. And I saw him with her a short while ago. I saw how kind he was being to her. He went over to speak to her, and I watched him reach into his pocket and give her money. That woman is very poor, Mma. He gave her some money—I saw it happen.”

“So he is a kind man, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “I think he is. And that’s the biggest thing in my view, Mma Ramotswe—kindness. He’s a kind man who is also a bit weak…But then, what men aren’t a bit weak, Mma Ramotswe?”

“You’re right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not always easy for men.”

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Mma Potokwane. “Flat’s problem is simply a problem that many men have—and reverends are obviously no exception.”

“Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. She knew about that problem—the problem that so many men experienced. It was all to do with women and the effect that women had on them. Some men simply could not resist. It was not really their fault, she felt—it was a sort of design flaw in men. But they would have to try, and if Mma Potokwane, or her like, was around to help them try, then that might make it a bit easier for them. Poor men.

Mma Ramotswe’s gaze shifted to Mma Potokwane’s plate of sausages.

“You have these,” said Mma Potokwane magnanimously. “I will get some more for myself.”

Mma Ramotswe thanked her, and took the plate. Then she thought: of course, these sausages are now cold. The next plate of sausages would be warm.

“No, Mma,” she said, handing the plate back to Mma Potokwane. “You are too generous, far too generous. I shall go and get some for myself—it is no bother.”

ON MONDAY MORNING,
Mma Ramotswe collected the mail on her way in to the office and had already opened and perused it by the time Mma Makutsi arrived. Mma Makutsi viewed the pile of letters on Mma Ramotswe’s desk with an inquisitive eye. “There are many people writing to
us,
Mma,” she said. The
us
was stressed because Mma Makutsi preferred to open everything herself, even if she immediately passed it on to Mma Ramotswe: this ensured that she saw everything, even those letters marked
personal
or
confidential.

There was one letter in particular that Mma Ramotswe had set aside from the rest—a mixed bag of bills, advertisements, and rambling missives from members of the public who wrote, out of the blue, for information on family history, unsolved crimes, and ancient rural jealousies.

“There is a letter I think you should see,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is from Mma Mogorosi.”