Alexander Smith - Tea Time for the Traditionally Built People

She drove down Zebra Drive in her new van. There were no mysterious, unidentifiable rattles as there had been in the old van, nor bumps as she drove over parts where the road surface had been inexpertly repaired. All was smoothness, like being in a canoe, a mokoro , on the untroubled waters of the Okavango. For many people, that would have been perfect, but not for Mma Ramotswe. One could go to sleep in such a van, she thought, as one was driving along. It was not unlike being in bed.

For a few moments she felt herself becoming drowsy, and had to blink and shake her head to wake herself up, such was the power of auto-suggestion. I must not think such thoughts, she told herself; it was just like those occasions when one thought of doughnuts and immediately became hungry. Doughnuts. And in the pit of her stomach she felt a sudden pang of hunger, even though it was less than an hour since she had enjoyed a good breakfast of maize porridge and slices of bread spread thick with apricot jam. Apricot jam… The hunger pangs returned.

Mma Makutsi was already in the office when Mma Ramotswe arrived.

“There is a lady,” she said, nodding in the direction of the garage. “She is out there at the side. She would not come in.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. Had she forgotten that somebody was coming, or had Mma Makutsi made an appointment without telling her?

It was as if Mma Makutsi had read her mind. “She has no appointment. She just turned up.”

People sometimes turned up; it was not unusual. They saw the sign and came to take a closer look. Sometimes they were shy and stood under the tree for a while, plucking up the courage to go into the office. Mma Ramotswe was always reassuring to such people. “You must not be ashamed,” she said. “Anybody can need a private detective-even a private detective.”

She settled herself behind her desk. “You may fetch her, Mma. Tell her that I am here.”

She glanced at her desk and pushed a few papers to the middle. A tidy desk might create a good impression in the eyes of some, but a desk that was quite bare could send quite the wrong message. Not that this was likely to be a client who would need impressing; a woman who came on foot and who was shy about waiting inside was unlikely to be the sort of client who would notice these things.

Mma Makutsi brought her in.

“Dumela, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, Good morning, and reached out to shake the woman's hand. “O tsogile jang?” How are you?

Her greeting was returned. “Ke tsogile senile, wena o tsogile jang?” I am fine, and how are you?

Mma Ramotswe gestured for her visitor to sit down, and as she did so she realised where she had seen this woman before. She had looked familiar; now she knew. “You and I have met before, haven't we, Mma?”

The visitor inclined her head. “We have, Mma. That morning. You were walking to work.”

“Yes. I remember.”

There was silence. Mma Ramotswe waited a few moments before she spoke. “I said to you, Mma, that you could come and speak to me. I am glad that you have come.”

The woman looked up, surprised. “Why?”

“Why am I glad that you have come?” Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “Because that is why we're here, Mma. It is our job to help people. That is what we do.”

The woman looked uncertain and Mma Ramotswe added, gently, “We do not want your money, Mma. We help everyone. You do not need to pay.”

“Then how do you eat, Mma?” asked the woman.

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “As you can tell, Mma, I am not one who does not get enough food. We eat because there are some rich people who come to us. They pay us. Rich people can be very unhappy, you know, Mma.”

The woman did not look as if she believed this. “Rich people must be very happy, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had settled herself back at her desk and was following the conversation with interest.

“What Mma Ramotswe says is true,” Mma Makutsi interjected. “We have many rich people who come into this office and sit where you are sitting, Mma, in that very chair, and cry and cry, Mma. I'm telling you. Many tears-many, many tears.”

Mma Ramotswe thought this a bit of an exaggeration but did not contradict her assistant. There were people who cried in the office-that was only to be expected when people were discussing their problems-but not all of these were rich, and they generally did not cry quite the volume of tears implied by Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “So, Mma, you are here now and we are here too. I think this would be a good time for us to talk. You must not be afraid of talking to us.”

“We tell nobody,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “You need not worry about that.”

The woman nodded. “I know that,” she said. “Somebody told me that you people are like priests. They said that a person can tell you anything, and you will not talk about it.”

Mma Ramotswe was patient, but in the ensuing silence she glanced discreetly at her watch. She wondered whether a priest was what this woman needed; on occasion, people came into the office simply because they needed to unburden themselves of some secret. She listened, of course, to these people and she felt that it probably helped. But often she was unable to provide the thing that they needed: forgiveness. She could point them in the right direction for that, but she could not provide it. She had a feeling that this was one of those cases.

“There is something troubling you, Mma, isn't there? Something you have done?”

The woman stared at the floor. “Something I have done?” Her voice was flat-without salience. “No, Mma. It is something I am doing.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. At the other side of the room she saw Mma Makutsi watching, her large glasses catching the morning light from the windows.

She probed gently. “Something you are still doing? A bad thing?”

The woman moved her head so slightly that it would have been easy to miss the acknowledgement. “I did not think about it,” she said quietly. “I did not think about it at all. It just happened.”

Mma Makutsi leaned forward at her desk. It was difficult for her, with the client's chair facing Mma Ramotswe, and she always found herself addressing the back of the client's head, as she did now. But it gave her a certain advantage, she found, to speak from behind somebody; it was like interrogating a person under a strong light. Clovis Andersen disapproved of that, of course. Never use third-degree methods , he wrote. It does not get to the truth . What was this third degree? Mma Makutsi wondered. And what were the first and second degrees? Were they worse, or in some way better?

“You did not know what you were doing, Mma?” she prompted. “Or you did not know that what you did was bad?”

Mma Ramotswe gave Mma Makutsi a discouraging look.

“Mma Makutsi is just trying to help,” she said.

The woman looked anxiously over her shoulder. “I do not know, Mma,” she said. “I am not an educated woman.”

Mma Ramotswe spoke soothingly. “That is not important, Mma. There are many people who have not had an education who are very clever people indeed. It is not their fault that they have not been to school.”

“People laugh at people like me,” said the woman. “These days, when everybody is so educated.”

“If they laugh at you, then they are fools themselves,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Big fools.” She paused. “But, Mma, you must tell me what is making you unhappy. What is this thing?”

The woman looked up and met Mma Ramotswe's gaze. “I am a lady with two husbands,” she said. “That is me.”

There was a sound from the back of the room-a form of hissing from Mma Makutsi-an exhalation, really, not a hiss of disapproval. “Two husbands,” she muttered.