In the Company of Cheerful Ladies by Alexander McCall Smith Page A
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, Political, Women Private Investigators, Botswana, No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (Imaginary organization), Ramotswe; Precious (Fictitious character), Women private investigators - Botswana
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wherever that is.
The man pointed back towards Tlokweng. I live over that way, he said. I would prefer to go home now. I do not want to go to the other place.
They lifted up the bicycle together and placed it in the back of the van. Then Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi got into the tiny white van on one side and the man on the other. With the
4 9
three of them in the cab, there was barely enough room for Mma Ramotswe to change gear, and each time she did it she dug Mma Makutsi in the ribs.
This is not a big van, Mma Ramotswe said brightly to their passenger. But it always goes. So it will get us to Tlokweng very easily.
She looked sideways at the man. He looked as if he was in his late forties. He had a good face, she thought; an intelligent face, the face of a teacher, perhaps, or of a senior clerk. And he spoke well too, enunciating each word clearly, as if he meant it. So many people spoke carelessly these days, she thought, running their words together so that it was sometimes quite difficult to make out what they were saying. And as for people on the radio, these so-called disc jockeys, they spoke as if they had hiccups. Presumably they thought that it was fashionable to talk like this; that it made them more alluring, which it probably did if one was star-struck, and with nothing much in ones head, but which only sounded ridiculous to her.
I will have your bicycle fixed for you, she said to the man. It will be made as good as new. I promise you that.
The man nodded. I cannot pay myself, he said. I have not got the money for that.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had thought as much. In spite of all the progress which Botswana had made, and in spite of the prosperity which the diamonds had brought to the country, there were still many, many poor people. They should not be forgotten. But why was this man, who seemed to be educated, not in a job? She knew that there were many people who could not find a job, but usually these were people who had no skills. This man did not seem to be like that.
It was Mma Makutsi who asked the question for her. She had been thinking the same thing as Mma Ramotswe. She had noticed the disparity between the signs of povertysomething
5 0
that Mma Makutsi knew all aboutand the educated voice. She had seen, too, that the mans hands were what she would describe
as well-kept. These were not the hands of a manual labourer, nor those of a man who tended the land. She noticed such hands at her part-time typing classes at the Kalahari Typing School for Men. Many of her pupils there, who worked in offices, had hands like this mans.
Do you work in an office, Rra? she asked. And may I ask you: What is your name?
The man glanced at her, and then turned away.
My name is Polopetsi, he said. And no, I have no work. I am looking for work, but there is no place that will take me.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. It is hard now, she said. That must be very bad for you. She paused. What did you do before?
Mr Polopetsi did not answer directly, and the question seemed to hang in the air for a while. Then he spoke.
I was in prison for two years. I have been out for six months.
The tiny white van swerved slightly, almost imperceptibly. And nobody will give you a job? asked Mma Ramotswe.
They will not, he answered.
And you always tell them that you have been in prison? interjected Mma Makutsi.
I do, said Mr Polopetsi. I am an honest man. I cannot lie to them when they say what have you been doing this last year. I cannot tell them that I was in Johannesburg or something like that. I cannot tell them that I have been working.
So, you are an honest man, said Mma Ramotswe. But why were you in prison? Are there honest men in prison? She asked the question before she thought about it and she immediately realised that it sounded very rude; as if she were questioning the mans story.
He did not seem to take objection.
The man pointed back towards Tlokweng. I live over that way, he said. I would prefer to go home now. I do not want to go to the other place.
They lifted up the bicycle together and placed it in the back of the van. Then Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi got into the tiny white van on one side and the man on the other. With the
4 9
three of them in the cab, there was barely enough room for Mma Ramotswe to change gear, and each time she did it she dug Mma Makutsi in the ribs.
This is not a big van, Mma Ramotswe said brightly to their passenger. But it always goes. So it will get us to Tlokweng very easily.
She looked sideways at the man. He looked as if he was in his late forties. He had a good face, she thought; an intelligent face, the face of a teacher, perhaps, or of a senior clerk. And he spoke well too, enunciating each word clearly, as if he meant it. So many people spoke carelessly these days, she thought, running their words together so that it was sometimes quite difficult to make out what they were saying. And as for people on the radio, these so-called disc jockeys, they spoke as if they had hiccups. Presumably they thought that it was fashionable to talk like this; that it made them more alluring, which it probably did if one was star-struck, and with nothing much in ones head, but which only sounded ridiculous to her.
I will have your bicycle fixed for you, she said to the man. It will be made as good as new. I promise you that.
The man nodded. I cannot pay myself, he said. I have not got the money for that.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had thought as much. In spite of all the progress which Botswana had made, and in spite of the prosperity which the diamonds had brought to the country, there were still many, many poor people. They should not be forgotten. But why was this man, who seemed to be educated, not in a job? She knew that there were many people who could not find a job, but usually these were people who had no skills. This man did not seem to be like that.
It was Mma Makutsi who asked the question for her. She had been thinking the same thing as Mma Ramotswe. She had noticed the disparity between the signs of povertysomething
5 0
that Mma Makutsi knew all aboutand the educated voice. She had seen, too, that the mans hands were what she would describe
as well-kept. These were not the hands of a manual labourer, nor those of a man who tended the land. She noticed such hands at her part-time typing classes at the Kalahari Typing School for Men. Many of her pupils there, who worked in offices, had hands like this mans.
Do you work in an office, Rra? she asked. And may I ask you: What is your name?
The man glanced at her, and then turned away.
My name is Polopetsi, he said. And no, I have no work. I am looking for work, but there is no place that will take me.
Mma Ramotswe frowned. It is hard now, she said. That must be very bad for you. She paused. What did you do before?
Mr Polopetsi did not answer directly, and the question seemed to hang in the air for a while. Then he spoke.
I was in prison for two years. I have been out for six months.
The tiny white van swerved slightly, almost imperceptibly. And nobody will give you a job? asked Mma Ramotswe.
They will not, he answered.
And you always tell them that you have been in prison? interjected Mma Makutsi.
I do, said Mr Polopetsi. I am an honest man. I cannot lie to them when they say what have you been doing this last year. I cannot tell them that I was in Johannesburg or something like that. I cannot tell them that I have been working.
So, you are an honest man, said Mma Ramotswe. But why were you in prison? Are there honest men in prison? She asked the question before she thought about it and she immediately realised that it sounded very rude; as if she were questioning the mans story.
He did not seem to take objection.
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