Part 7 (2/2)

”Don't I think what, Mma?” asked Mma Bopedi.

Mma Ramotswe realised that she had included the other woman in her reverie, and apologised.

”I was just thinking about our men,” she said.

Mma Bopedi raised an eyebrow. ”Oh, really, Mma? Well, to tell you the truth, I also think about our men from time to time. Not very often, but sometimes. You know how it is.”

Mma Ramotswe bade Mma Bopedi farewell and continued with her journey. Now, outside the optician's shop, she came across Mr Motheti Pilai, standing quite still, looking up at the sky.

”Dumela, Rra,” she said politely. ”Are you well?”

Mr Pilai looked down. ”Mma Ramotswe,” he said. ”Please let me look at you. I have just been given these new spectacles, and I can see the world clearly for the first time in years. Ow! It is a wonderful thing. I had forgotten what it was like to see clearly. And there you are, Mma. You are looking very beautiful, very fat.”

”Thank you, Rra.”

He moved the spectacles to the end of his nose. ”My wife was always telling me that I needed new gla.s.ses, but I was always afraid to come here. I do not like that machine that he has which s.h.i.+nes light into your eyes. And I do not like that machine which puffs air into your eyeball. So I put it off and put it off. I was very foolish.”

”It is never a good thing to put something off,” said Mma Ramotswe, thinking of how she had put off the Government Man's case.

”Oh, I know that,” said Mr Pilai. ”But the problem is that even if you know that is the best thing to do, you often don't do it.”

”That is very puzzling,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”But it is true. It's as if there were two people inside you. One says: do this. Another says: do that. But both these voices are inside the same person.”

Mr Pilai stared at Mma Ramotswe. ”It is very hot today,” he said.

She agreed with him, and they both went about their business. She would stop no more, she resolved; it was now almost one o'clock and she wanted to have enough time to locate Mr Sipoleli and to have the conversation with him that would start her enquiry.

THE TREE was easily identified. It stood a short distance from the main entrance to the Ministry, a large acacia tree with a wide canopy that provided a wide circle of shade on the dusty ground below. Immediately beside the trunk were several strategically placed stones-comfortable seats for anyone who might wish to sit under the tree and watch the daily business of Gaborone unfold before him. Now, at five minutes to one, the stones were unoccupied.

Mma Ramotswe chose the largest of the stones and settled herself upon it. She had brought with her a large flask of tea, two aluminum mugs, and four corned beef sandwiches made with thickly cut slices of bread. She took out one of the mugs and filled it with bush tea. Then she leaned back against the trunk of the tree and waited. It was pleasant to be seated there in the shade, with a mug of tea, watching the pa.s.sing traffic. n.o.body paid the slightest attention to her, as it was an entirely normal thing to see: a well-built woman under a tree.

Shortly after ten past one, when Mma Ramotswe had finished her tea and was on the point of dozing off in her comfortable place, a figure emerged from the front of the Ministry and walked over towards the tree. As he drew near, Mma Ramotswe jolted herself to full wakefulness. She was on duty now, and she must make the most of the opportunity to talk to Mr Sipoleli, if that, as she expected, was the person now approaching her.

The man was wearing a pair of neatly pressed blue trousers, a short-sleeved white s.h.i.+rt, and a dark brown tie. It was exactly what one would expect a junior civil servant, in the clerical grade, to wear. And as if to confirm the diagnosis, there was a row of pens tucked neatly into his s.h.i.+rt pocket. This was clearly the uniform of the junior clerk, even if it was being worn by a man in his late forties. This, then, was a clerk who was stuck where he was and was not going any further.

The man approached the tree cautiously. Staring at Mma Ramotswe, it seemed as if he wanted to say something but could not quite bring himself to speak.

Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. ”Good afternoon, Rra,” she said. ”It is hot today, is it not? That is why I am under this tree. It is clearly a good place to sit in the heat.”

The man nodded. ”Yes,” he said. ”I normally sit here.”

Mma Ramotswe affected surprise. ”Oh? I hope that I am not sitting on your rock, Rra. I found it here and there was n.o.body sitting on it.”

He made an impatient gesture with his hands. ”My rock? Yes it is, as a matter of fact. That is my rock. But this is a public place and anybody can sit on it, I suppose.”

Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. ”But Rra, you must have this rock. I shall sit on that one over on that side.”

”No, Mma,” he said hurriedly, his tone changing. ”I do not want to inconvenience you. I can sit on that rock.”

”No. You sit on this rock here. It is your rock. I would not have sat on it if I had thought that it was another person's rock. I can sit on this rock, which is a good rock too. You sit on that rock.”

”No,” he said firmly. ”You go back where you were, Mma. I can sit on that rock any day. You can't. I shall sit on this rock.”

Mma Ramotswe, with a show of reluctance, returned to her original rock, while Mr Sipoleli settled himself down.

”I am drinking tea, Rra,” she said. ”But I have enough for you. I would like you to have some, since I am sitting on your rock.”

Mr Sipoleli smiled. ”You are very kind, Mma. I love to drink tea. I drink a lot of tea in my office. I am a civil servant, you see.”

”Oh?” said Mma Ramotswe. ”That is a good job. You must be important.”

Mr Sipoleli laughed. ”No,” he said. ”I am not at all important. I am a junior clerk. But I am lucky to be that. There are people with degrees being recruited into my level of job. I have my Cambridge Certificate, that is all. I feel that I have done well enough.”

Mma Ramotswe listened to this as she poured his tea. She was surprised by what she had heard; she had expected a rather different sort of person, a minor official puffed up with his importance and eager for greater status. Here, by contrast, was a man who seemed to be quite content with what he was and where he had got himself.

”Could you not be promoted, Rra? Would it not be possible to go further up?”

Mr Sipoleli considered her question carefully. ”I suppose it would,” he said after a few moments' thought. ”The problem is that I would have to spend a lot of time getting on the right side of more senior people. Then I would have to say the right things and write bad reports on my juniors. That is not what I would like to do. I am not an ambitious man. I am happy where I am, really I am.”

Mma Ramotswe's hand faltered in the act of pa.s.sing him his tea. This was not at all what she had expected, and suddenly she remembered Clovis Andersen's words of advice. Never make any prior a.s.sumptions, he had written. Never decide in advance what's what or who's who. This may set you off on the wrong track altogether.

She decided to offer him a sandwich, which she pulled out of her plastic bag. He was pleased, but chose the smallest of the sandwiches; another indication, she thought, of a modest personality. The Mr Sipoleli of her imagining would have taken the largest sandwich without hesitation.

”Do you have family in Gaborone, Rra?” she asked innocently.

Mr Sipoleli finished his mouthful of corned beef before answering. ”I have three daughters,” he said. ”Two are nurses, one at the Princess Marina and the other out at Molepolole. Then there is my firstborn, who did very well at school and went to the university. We are very proud of her.”

”She lives in Gaborone?” asked Mma Ramotswe, pa.s.sing him another sandwich.

”No,” he replied. ”She is living somewhere else. She married a young man she met while she was studying. They live out that way. Over there.”

”And this son-in-law of yours,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”What about him? Is he good to her?”

”Yes,” said Mr Sipoleli. ”He is a very good man. They are very happy, and I hope that they have many children. I am looking forward to being a grandfather.”

Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. Then she said: ”The best thing about seeing one's children married must be the thought that they will be able to look after you when you are old.”

Mr Sipoleli smiled. ”Well, that is probably true. But in my case, my wife and I have different plans. We intend to go back to Mahalapye. I have some cattle there-just a few-and some lands. We will be happy up there. That is all we want.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent. This patently good man was obviously telling the truth. Her suspicion that he could be behind a plot to kill his son-in-law was an absurd conclusion to have reached, and she felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. To hide her confusion, she offered him another cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully. Then, after fifteen minutes of further conversation about matters of the day, she stood up, dusted down her skirt, and thanked him for sharing his lunch hour with her. She had found out what she wanted to know, at least about him. But the meeting with the father also threw some doubt on her surmises as to the daughter. If the daughter was at all like the father, then she could not possibly be a poisoner. This good una.s.suming man was unlikely to have raised a daughter who would do a thing like that. Or was he? It was always possible for bad children to spring from the loins of good parents; it did not require much experience of life to realise that. Yet, at the same time, it tended to be unlikely, and this meant that the next stage of the investigation would require a considerably more open mind than had characterised the initial stage.

I have learned a lesson, Mma Ramotswe told herself as she walked back to the tiny white van. She was deep in thought, and she barely noticed Mr Pilai, still standing outside the optician's shop, gazing at the branches of the tree above his head.

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