Alexander Smith: The Double Comfort Safari Club

“Four. It was in June or July of that year, Rra.”

“Oh,” said Mighty. “That is a long time ago, Mma. A long time.”

“She stayed for almost a week, Rra. She was very happy here.”

Mighty looked out over the water. “A week? That is unusual. Most of our visitors are here for two or three days. An American lady? Now, I think I can remember a lady who stayed. Yes, she was a very pleasant lady. She was very happy here, you are right.” He paused. “We have the old duty rosters in the office. The details will be there. Should I get the page for that week?”

The manager and Mma Ramotswe both agreed that this was the thing to do. Mighty went off, and while he was gone Mma Ramotswe looked around the camp-at the tempting chairs and the tables beyond, set out for lunch. It would be good to be a guest here, she thought; one might sit in one of these chairs and drink something cold-lemonade, perhaps-and then progress to the lunch table and eat… She brought herself back to reality. She and Mma Makutsi were not here to sit about-as if they were members of some double comfort safari club-they were here to find somebody, to talk to him, and then to return to Gaborone.

When Mighty returned he took a crumpled document out of his pocket. “I have looked in the roster for June, Mma, and I found it straightaway,” he said, handing the paper to Mma Ramotswe. “I have taken it from the book. This is it.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at the piece of paper. It was not complicated, and she saw immediately the information that she needed. Against the name of each guide was written the name of a guest, or group of guests, together with the days during which the guide would be on duty. Mrs. Grant, she saw, had been looked after by a guide called Tebogo. It was a common enough name. “So it was this Tebogo,” she said, holding up the paper. “He was the one who looked after the American lady.”

Mighty nodded. “He was the one.”

Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder. “So that’s it, Mma. We have found out what we came for. Maybe we should go back to Maun now.”

Mma Ramotswe turned to her assistant. “But we cannot go back, Mma. We have just arrived. The boatman won’t be back until tomorrow. You heard him.”

Mma Makutsi looked disappointed, but seeing Mighty looking at her, she made an effort to mask her concern.

“Don’t be afraid, Mma,” said Mighty suddenly. “Everything is very safe here.”

Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant laugh. “Scared, Rra?” she said. “Who is scared?”

You are, thought Mma Ramotswe, but said nothing.

“Tebogo will be back soon,” said Mighty, glancing at the sinking sun. “He has taken some people on a game walk. He will not be long.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed the glance at the sun. People who lived in towns had stopped doing that-they had watches to enslave them. Here in the bush it was different: what the watch said was less important than what the sun said, and that, she thought, was the way it should be.

SHE DID NOT NOTICE Tebogo arriving; suddenly he was there, having joined their company while her attention was diverted by a playful monkey that was taunting them from the safety of the tree.

“This is Tebogo,” said Mighty.

Mma Ramotswe turned round to see a tall man in khaki uniform standing at the edge of the circle of chairs. He was in his late forties, she thought, possibly slightly younger, but certainly a man with some experience of life. He had an open countenance, with the same clear look in his eyes that she had seen in Mighty’s. It was something to do with being a game-spotter, she imagined; these people were used to gazing out into the distance, picking up the tiniest clue of an animal’s presence-a change in the colour of background vegetation, an unusual movement of leaves, a shape that was wrong for its place. Looking for such things perhaps explained this quality in their eyes-the brightness, the quick movements.

Mighty continued with his explanation. He told Tebogo that Mma Ramotswe had come to see him “all the way from Gaborone,” and that she had “important news.” At this, a shadow passed over Tebogo’s face, a look of alarm, and she said quickly, “Good news, Rra.”

He looked at her expectantly, and then glanced again at Mighty, as if for confirmation.

She went straight to the point. “There was a lady you looked after, Rra. She was called Mrs. Grant.”

For a moment he looked confused, but then he nodded. “Yes, maybe, Mma. Maybe.”

“She was here for some days,” went on Mma Ramotswe.

Tebogo nodded. “I am not sure, Mma. It is not easy to remember one person after a long time. It is difficult, Mma.”

“It must be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that you people have good memories. It is your job that helps you to remember. You see things and you remember them.”

Mighty laughed. “Sometimes, Mma, sometimes. Not always.”

“Well, Mma Grant remembered you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You were very kind to her.”

Tebogo looked down modestly. “It is our job, Mma. We are kind to people because it is our job. Not just me-everybody here.”

For a few moments, Mma Ramotswe was silent as she weighed his remark. No, it was not true. They were professional in their dealings with their guests, and that meant they were courteous and attentive, but kindness was another matter-it required that there be something in the heart. She looked at Mighty; he had it too, she suspected-that quality of kindness that visitors to the country so often remarked upon.

“I think that you were kind to her, Rra,” she said quietly. “But I have not come to talk about that. I have come to tell you what has happened to that lady. She is late, I’m afraid to say.”

She watched. Again, she was sure that she was right: he was upset.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Mma. I’m sure that she was a nice lady.”

She knew that he meant it. If there was anything that she had learned in her years as a private detective, it was the ability to tell when somebody meant what they said.

“I believe she was, Rra,” she said. “And a generous one too.”

Mma Makutsi had been quiet until now, but this was her opportunity. “Generous to you,” she said.

Tebogo looked inquiringly at Mma Makutsi. “Oh?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She spoke to her lawyer before she died. Over in America. She spoke to him, and told him that she wanted to give you some money. And now that is why we are here. We have come to find you and tell you about this money.”

For a moment Tebogo simply stared at her. Then he shook his head. “I cannot believe this, Mma. It cannot be true.”

“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Grant has left you three thousand dollars. That is…”

“Almost twenty thousand pula,” interjected Mighty.

Tebogo shook his head again. Then he smiled. “That is… It is…”

“It is very good luck,” said Mighty.

“I am very grateful,” said Tebogo. He let out a low whistle. “Twenty thousand pula!”

“Be careful that you do not spend it all at once,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She had a tendency to bossiness, she thought, and she should have a word with her about it at some point. But it was difficult to broach the subject of a person’s failings, particularly if that person was Mma Makutsi, with her ever so slightly prickly nature. Perhaps her shoes would say something; Mma Makutsi had once, jokingly-and she must have been joking-told her that her shoes occasionally gave her advice. Well, perhaps they could tell her not to be so bossy. They must have witnessed it, after all-shoes see everything; there are no secrets we can keep from our shoes.

“I’m sure that Tebogo will be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “and I really don’t think we need to tell him how to look after his money.”