Part 9 (1/2)

She pa.s.sed Pilane, and glanced down the road to Mochudi, to her right. This was a good place for her, and a bad one too. It was a good place, because it was the village of her girlhood; a bad place because right there, not far from the turnoff, was the place where a path crossed the railroad and her mother had died on that awful night, when the train had struck her. And although Precious Ramotswe was only a baby, that had been the shadow across her life; the mother whom she could not remember.

Now she was getting close to her destination. She had been given exact directions, and the gate was there, in the cattle fence, exactly where she had been told it would be. She drew off the road and got out to deal with the gate. Then, setting off on the dirt track that led west, she made her way to the small compound of houses that she could see about a mile or so distant, tucked amongst a cover of bush and overlooked by the tower of a metal windmill. This was a substantial farm, thought Mma Ramotswe, and she felt a momentary pang. Obed Ramotswe would have loved to have had a place like this, but although he had done well with his cattle, he had never been quite rich enough to have a large farm of this type. This would be six thousand acres, at least; maybe more.

The farm compound was dominated by a large, rambling house, topped by a red tin roof and surrounded on all sides by shady verandahs. This was the original farmhouse, and it had been encircled, over the years, by further buildings, two of which were houses themselves. The farmhouse was framed on either side by a luxuriant growth of purple-flowered bougainvillaea, and there were paw-paw trees behind it and to one side. An effort had been made to provide as much shade as possible-for not far to the west, perhaps just a bit farther than the eye could see, the land changed and the Kalahari began. But here, still, there was water, and the bush was good for cattle. Indeed, not too far to the east, the Limpopo began, not much of a river at that point, but capable of flowing in the rainy season.

There was a truck parked up against an outbuilding, and Mma Ramotswe left the tiny white van there. There was an enticing place under the shade of one of the largest trees, but it would have been rude of Mma Ramotswe to choose such a spot, which would be likely to be the parking place of a senior member of the family.

She left her suitcase on the pa.s.senger seat beside her and walked towards the gate that gave access to the front yard of the main house. She called out; it would have been discourteous to barge in without an invitation. There was no reply, and so she called out again. This time, a door opened and a middle-aged woman came out, drying her hands on her ap.r.o.n. She greeted Mma Ramotswe politely and invited her to come into the house.

”She is expecting you,” she said. ”I am the senior maid here. I look after the old woman. She has been waiting for you.”

It was cool under the eaves of the verandah, and even cooler in the dim interior of the house. It took Mma Ramotswe's eyes a moment or two to get accustomed to the change in light, and at first there seemed to be more shadows that shapes; but then she saw the straight-backed chair on which the old woman was sitting, and the table beside her with the jug of water and the teapot.

They exchanged greetings, and Mma Ramotswe curtsied to the old woman. This pleased her hostess, who saw that here was a woman who understood the old ways, unlike those cheeky modern women from Gaborone who thought they knew everything and paid no attention to the elders. Ha! They thought they were clever; they thought they were this and that, doing men's jobs and behaving like female dogs when it came to men. Ha! But not here, out in the country, where the old ways still counted for something; and certainly not in this house.

”You are very kind to have me to stay here, Mma. Your son is a good man, too.”

The old woman smiled. ”No, Mma. That is all right. I am sorry to hear that you are having troubles in your life. These troubles that seem big, big in town are small troubles when you are out here. What matters out here? The rain. The gra.s.s for the cattle. None of the things that people are fretting over in town. They mean nothing when you are out here. You'll see.”

”It is a nice place,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”It is very peaceful.”

The old woman looked thoughtful. ”Yes, it is peaceful. It has always been peaceful, and I would not want that to change.” She poured out a gla.s.s of water and pa.s.sed it to Mma Ramotswe.

”You should drink that, Mma. You must be very thirsty after your journey.”

Mma Ramotswe took the gla.s.s, thanked her, and put it to her lips. As she did so, the old woman watched her carefully.

”Where are you from, Mma?” she said. ”Have you always lived in Gaborone?”

Mma Ramotswe was not surprised by the question. This was a polite way of finding out where allegiances lay. There were eight main tribes in Botswana-and some smaller ones-and although most younger people did not think these things should be too important, for the older generation they counted a great deal. This woman, with her high status in tribal society, would be interested in these matters.

”I am from Mochudi,” she said. ”That is where I was born.”

The old woman seemed visibly to relax. ”Ah! So you are Kgatla, like us. Which ward did you live in?”

Mma Ramotswe explained her origins, and the old woman nodded. She knew that headman, yes, and she knew his cousin, who was married to her brother's wife's sister. Yes, she thought that she had met Obed Ramotswe a long time ago, and then, dredging into memory, she said, ”Your mother is late, isn't she? She was the one who was killed by a train when you were a baby.”

Mma Ramotswe was mildly surprised, but not astonished, that she should know this. There were people who made it their business to remember the affairs of the community, and this was obviously one. Today they called them oral historians, she believed; whereas in reality, they were old women who liked to remember the things that interested them most: marriages, deaths, children. Old men remembered cattle.

Their conversation went on, the old woman slowly and subtly extracting from Mma Ramotswe the full story of her life. She told her about Note Mokoti, and the old woman shook her head in sympathy, but said that there were many men like that and that women should look out for them.

”My family chose my husband for me,” she said. ”They started negotiations, although they would not have pressed the matter if I had said that I didn't like him. But they did the choosing and they knew what sort of man would be good for me. And they were right. My husband is a very fine husband, and I have given him three sons. There is one who is very interested in counting cattle, which is his hobby; he is a very clever man, in his way. Then there is the one you know, Mma, who is a very big man in the Government, and then there is the one who lives here. He is a very good farmer and has won prizes for his bulls. They are all fine men. I am proud.”

”And have you been happy, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. ”Would you change your life at all if somebody came and said: here is some medicine to change your life. Would you do it?”

”Never,” said the old woman. ”Never. Never. G.o.d has given me everything a person could ask for. A good husband. Three strong sons. Strong legs that even today can take me walking five, six miles without any complaint. And you see here, look. All my teeth are still in my head. Seventy-six years and no teeth gone. My husband is the same. Our teeth will last until we are one hundred. Maybe longer.”

”That is very lucky,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”Everything is very good for you.”

”Almost everything,” said the old woman.

Mma Ramotswe waited. Was she due to say something more? Perhaps she might reveal something she had seen her daughter-in-law do. Perhaps she had seen her preparing the poison, or had word of it somehow, but all she said was: ”When the rains come, I find that my arms ache in the wet air. Here, and just here. For two months, three months, I have very sore arms that make it difficult to do any sewing. I have tried every medicine, but nothing works. So I think, if this is all that G.o.d has sent me to carry in this life, then I am still a very lucky woman.”

THE MAID who had shown Mma Ramotswe in was summoned to take her to her room, which was at the back of the house. It was simply furnished, with a patchwork bedcover and a framed picture of Mochudi Hill on the wall. There was a table, with a crocheted white doily, and a small chest of drawers in which clothes could be stored.

”There is no curtain in this room,” said the maid. ”But n.o.body ever goes past this window and you will be private here, Mma.”

She left Mma Ramotswe to unpack her clothes. There would be lunch at twelve o'clock, the maid explained, and until then she should entertain herself.

”There is nothing to do here,” said the maid, adding, wistfully, ”This is not Gaborone, you know.”

The maid started to leave, but Mma Ramotswe prolonged the conversation. In her experience, the best way of getting somebody to talk was to get them to speak about themselves. This maid would have views, she felt; she was clearly not a stupid woman, and she spoke good, well-enunciated Setswana.

”Who else lives here, Mma?” she asked. ”Are there other members of the family?”

”Yes,” said the maid. ”There are other people. There is their son and his wife. They have three sons, you see. One who has got a very small head and who counts cattle all day, all the time. He is always out at the cattle post and he never comes here. He is like a small boy, you see, and that is why he stays with the herdboys out there. They treat him like one of them, although he is a grown man. That is one. Then there is the one in Gaborone, where he is very important, and the one here. Those are the sons.”

”And what do you think of those sons, Mma?”

It was a direct question and probably posed prematurely, which was risky; the woman could become suspicious at such prying. But she did not; instead she sat down on the bed.

”Let me tell you, Mma,” she began. ”That son who is out at the cattle post is a very sad man. But you should hear the way that his mother talks about him. She says he is clever! Clever! Him! He is a little boy, Mma. It is not his fault, but that is what he is. The cattle post is the best place for him, but they should not say that he is clever. That is just a lie, Mma. It is like saying that there is rain in the dry season. There isn't.”

”No,” said Mma Ramotswe. ”That is true.”

The maid barely acknowledged her intervention before continuing. ”And then that one in Gaborone; when he comes out here he makes trouble for everybody. He asks us all sorts of questions. He pokes his nose into everything. He even shouts at his father, would you believe it? But then the mother shouts at him and puts him in his place. He may be a big man in Gaborone, but here he is just the son and he should not shout at his elders.”

Mma Ramotswe was delighted. This was exactly the sort of maid she liked to interview.

”You are right, Mma,” she said. ”There are too many people shouting at other people these days. Shout. Shout. You hear it all the time. But why do you think he shouts? Is it just to clear his voice?”

The maid laughed. ”He has a big voice, that one! No, he shouts because he says that there is something wrong in this place. He says that things are not being done properly. And then he says ...” She lowered her voice. ”And then he says that the wife of his brother is a bad woman. He said that to the father, in so many words. I heard him. People think that maids don't hear, but we have ears the same as anybody. I heard him say that. He said wicked things about her.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. ”Wicked things?”

”He says that she is sleeping with other men. He says that when they have their firstborn it will not be of this house. He says that their sons will belong to other men and different blood will get this farm. That's what he says.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent. She looked out of her window. There was bougainvillaea directly outside, and its shadow was purple. Beyond it, the tops of the thorn trees, stretching out to the low hills on the horizon; a lonely land, at the beginning of the emptiness.

”And do you think that's true, Mma? Is there any truth in what he says about that woman?”

The maid crumpled up her features. ”Truth, Mma? Truth? That man does not know what truth means. Of course it is not true. That woman is a good woman. She is the cousin of my mother's cousin. All the family, all of them, are Christians. They read the Bible. They follow the Lord. They do not sleep with other men. That is one thing which is true.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF BEAUTY.