She realised, though, that such a threat meant nothing to them, particularly to Puso, for whom the idea of being thirty was inconceivable. Motholeli was a bit more prudent-she had seen how a world could draw in-but her younger brother, not yet ten, felt himself immortal. That would change, of course, but traces of that attitude, she thought, lasted well into adult life, and had to. The realisation of our mortality came slowly, in dribs and drabs, until we bleakly acknowledged that everything was on loan to us for a short time-the world, our possessions, the people we knew and loved. But we could not spend our time dwelling on our mortality; we still had to behave as if the worst would not happen, for otherwise we would not do very much, we would be defeated and give up.
That Saturday the children would not be going to the supermarket, as they had things to do with friends. Motholeli was going with her Girl Guide group to Mokolodi, for a nature talk from Mma Ramotswe’s friend Neil Whitson, and Puso was accompanying a friend and his parents to their farm. So Mma Ramotswe did her shopping by herself, hesitating by the sweet-biscuit shelves and surrendering to temptation; succumbing further at the bakery section, where she purchased a dozen sugar-dusted doughnuts; and exposing a final weakness on the way out when she paused at the newspaper counter and bought two expensive packets of ostrich biltong.
Her next call was the President Hotel, in the centre of town, where she sat at her normal table, the one on the left-hand side of the veranda, looking out over the open square below. The waiter, who knew her well, brought over a pot of red bush tea unasked, and a large fruit scone. She sat back in her chair and contemplated both with satisfaction. The world was an imperfect place-as the events of the last few days had demonstrated-but within that vale of tears there were many sites and times of quietude and contentment, and this place and this moment on the veranda was one such.
She looked out over the square, twenty feet or so below the raised veranda of the hotel. It was a typical bustling Saturday-morning scene, with shoppers and strollers moving lazily between the various traders who had their wares spread out on groundsheets and on pieces of newspaper about them. A display of cheap sunglasses, examined with admiration by two young men and a woman in an unflattering yellow trouser suit; a stout woman selling dresses from a mobile rack; a cobbler conjuring sandals out of strips of rough leather-Mma Ramotswe marvelled at the ingenuity of the sellers in making attractive displays out of cheap merchandise. That is how we live, she thought, by selling things to one another, or by working, as she did, to make money to buy things from these people who were so keen to sell them. Not all the things we bought we needed; very few of them, perhaps, especially when it came to fancy shoes and dresses. How many outfits did you really need? she wondered. On the other hand, when you saw something you liked, then it so often seemed that you needed it, and in a sense, if you believed that you needed something, then you really did. She sighed. This was economics, and try as she might, she had been unable to make much sense of economics beyond the simple truism, so often stressed by her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, that one should not spend more money than one actually had. And yet, when one read the newspapers, that is exactly what so many economists seemed to recommend that people do. It was all very puzzling.
The fruit scone disappeared rather more quickly than she would have liked. The red bush tea, though, lasted: a single pot might be eked out over an hour, giving ample time to absorb what was happening below in the square and to plan the rest of the day. A Saturday-afternoon sleep, perhaps; there was a great deal to be said for that, especially in hot weather, when nobody would wish to be out in the sun until at least four o’clock. Then, with the sun beginning to sink, it might be cool enough to venture out into the garden and inspect the plants. On particularly hot days-as today was proving to be-they could look so discouraged, as if every drop of moisture had been sucked out of them by the dry air. But they had their ways: the plants in her garden were native to Botswana, and knew about heat and dust and how to make the most of every drop of rain that came to them. These were the waxy-leaved plants of the Kalahari, the mopipi trees, the strange, spiky aloes that sent up their red flowers in fierce defiance of the creeping brown of drought and aridity.
“Mma?”
Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman who had appeared at her side.
“Are you Mma Ramotswe, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe looked up at the other woman. The stranger was older than her, but only by a decade or so. She was of traditional build herself, but her figure was largely concealed by the folds of a generously cut shift dress made out of a flecked green fabric. It was like a tent, thought Mma Ramotswe-a camouflage tent of the sort that the Botswana Defence Force might use. But I do not sit in judgement on the dresses of others, she told herself, and a tent was a practical enough garment, if that is what one felt comfortable in.
“I am Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Would you like to sit down, Mma? There is probably enough tea in the pot if we get the waiter to fetch another cup.”
“Oh, I cannot drink up all your tea, Mma,” said the woman. “But I will sit down. I am Mma Felo.”
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head. She had heard of the name; the Felos had a hotel somewhere, she thought, and quite a few cattle too. They were influential people. “I have heard of your name,” she said. “There is a hotel…”
The woman nodded. “That is us. It is very hard work, though, Mma. Never buy a hotel, Mma Ramotswe, unless you like working day and night.”
“I will not buy one,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I already have a business.”
“Yes,” said Mma Felo. “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I have driven past your place-and your husband’s garage too.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered where the conversation was going. It was not unusual for people to approach her like this, circumspectly, indirectly, before the request for help was made. Was Mma Felo about to do the same? Mma Ramotswe waited, and then she said, tentatively, “Is there anything I can do to help you, Mma?”
Mma Felo’s reaction was unexpected. She seemed to find this very amusing. “Oh no, Mma! My goodness, I do not need to be seeing detectives! Certainly not!”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Well, you never know, Mma. Lots of people seem to need my help. I did not mean to give you a fright.”
Mma Felo assured her that she had neither taken offence nor been frightened. “I do not want anything of you, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “No, I just thought that I would say hello.”
“That is very kind, Mma.”
Mma Felo nodded. “I try to be a kind person, Mma. I have a lot of money, you know, and I am always giving it away. This cause, that cause. A school needs something. Can you buy it, Mma? This person needs an operation over in South Africa and there is no money. Can you help with the bus fare, Mma? And so on. It is never-ending.” She paused. “And of course there is our friend, Mma Potokwane. I know that you know her, Mma. She has spoken to me about you.”
Mma Ramotswe now remembered that Mma Potokwane had also spoken to her about Mma Felo. She had said something about her kindness; so that was true, even if Mma Felo mentioned it herself.
“I often used to see you, Mma,” went on Mma Felo. “You used to drive past our place, past the hotel. You had that small van. That small white van.”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. It was still raw, that place in her memory. “I had such a van, Mma.”
Mma Felo spoke gently. “Mma Potokwane told me about it. She said that you were very sad when the van was sold. She said that your husband made you do it.”