It had been a long statement from Mma Makutsi. It was wrong, Mma Ramotswe felt, but it had some basic insights that were probably true. Mma Makutsi was right in saying that those who criticised something often did so because they wanted that very thing and did not have it. That was surely true. But she was not certain that one should look at all criticism in that light.
“If you are unintelligent in the head,” Mma Makutsi continued, “then you are going to boost yourself, Mma Ramotswe. And how do you do that? You belittle other people—you say that they are unintelligent in the head. Do you see that?”
Mma Ramotswe did, and Mma Makutsi went on, “And so if you are a man and you are worried about how small your brain is—and some men, Mma, have very small brains. Big bodies, maybe, Mma. Lots of muscle and whatnot, but their brains?” She shook her head, and Mma Ramotswe for a moment pictured Mma Makutsi’s brain inside it: the same brain that had guided her to that famous ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College. “Their brains, Mma Ramotswe, not much, I’m afraid. And so those men—it is those men I’m talking about, Mma—they are the ones who say that women are not very good at certain things and that men should be left to do them. They say that because they know that women are actually better than them at doing whatever it is they are talking about.”
“Very possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “In many cases I think that is probably what’s going on, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi lowered her voice. “And here’s another thing, Mma—just between you and me. There are men who are always talking about how good they are with ladies. You know, in paying attention to ladies in that way, Mma. In doing the sort of thing that men like to do with ladies. You know what I’m talking about, Mma?”
“I think I do, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, looking away.
“Well, here’s something, Mma,” Mma Makutsi continued. “Those men who keep boasting about that, they are the ones who, I’m sorry to say, Mma, are unfortunate in that department, Mma, and who do not have many lady friends. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do, Mma. But look, we must get on with the letters—they are building up and we have answered none of them…”
That had been the end of that conversation, but the memory of it came back as she stood in the car park with the security guard who was looking at her in that way which might have been condescension; which might, just might, have stemmed from the fact that he felt that life had not brought him what he wanted, and so he needed to boost himself in the way identified by Mma Makutsi. Just possibly.
And he had referred to envy, which certainly was a factor in village life in Botswana. Everybody has some little failing, and Mma Ramotswe knew that a failing of her countrymen was an occasional tendency to be envious of the possessions of others.
“It’s her car, you see, Mma,” the security guard explained. “She is worried that others will be envious of her car.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Ah! I was wondering, Rra. So there are junior people in the building who have no car and would be envious. I can see how that might be so.”
The security guard shook his head, with elaborate patience. “No, Mma. Not that. It is the sort of car that is the problem. She has a Mercedes-Benz, you see.”
“A Mercedes-Benz!”
“And not just an ordinary one,” the security guard continued. “It is a new one—very smart. Everything included. Special tyres and so on. All made by Germans.”
“By Germans,” Mma Ramotswe muttered. She was thinking…Where did Nametso get a Mercedes-Benz?
“A wealthy daddy,” said the security guard. “She must have a wealthy daddy. That is how a young woman like her gets hold of a Mercedes-Benz.” He paused. “Would you like me to take a note inside for her?” he asked.
Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “That’s kind of you, Rra, but I think I need to go away and think about something.”
“About what, Mma?”
“About things I need to think about, Rra. There are so many of them, I find.”
“That’s very true,” he said. “Very true, Mma—make no mistake.”
“But thank you anyway, Captain.”
Captain! The word hung in the air like a shining, benevolent sun, imparting to those below a glow of warmth and pride. Captain! One word, one small word, could bring such pleasure, just as one word, one equally small word, might cause such distress. Envy, Mercedes-Benz—those words were, in the circumstances, thought Mma Ramotswe, deeply significant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE TRACK MARKED PRIVATE LIFE
WHILE MMA RAMOTSWE was engaged in conversation with her new friend, the informally promoted security consultant, Mma Makutsi was on her way to the home address of the teacher from whom Mr. Mogorosi, the husband until recently under suspicion, was receiving instruction in mathematics. This was a small house near the Mechanical Trades College, the sort of house which she might expect to be favoured by a government official on the cusp of promotion but unable yet to afford something in one of the more expensive suburbs. Such a person would be just outside the zone of comfort enjoyed by the next rung down on the social and economic ladder—a comfort that, paradoxically, came from not having to compete with those around you. Where everybody is poor, or on a tight budget, then there is little or no pressure to flaunt your possessions—everybody is in it together. Once you haul yourself up to the next level, though, life can become competitive. And one had to worry, too, about falling. The nearer the bottom, the less devastating is the prospect of a fall.
Mma Makutsi had driven to this house with Charlie, who had been briefed on the story that they would come up with if they found the teacher in.
“We are going to enquire about mathematics lessons,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall be your auntie. I shall be enquiring about lessons for my nephew—you.”
Charlie giggled. “But I am not your nephew, Mma.”
“Of course you aren’t,” said Mma Makutsi. “This is to get information, Charlie.” She paused. “Haven’t you heard of cover stories?”
“Oh, I know all about those,” said Charlie. “You don’t have to tell me about all that, Mma.”
She glanced at him. Charlie had so much to learn, she thought; so much that it made it almost impossible to know where to start. That was the problem with ignorance: it tended to be so vast and so all-encompassing that tackling it became rather like struggling with a weed that had established itself in all parts of the garden. If you plucked the weed in one corner, then its offshoots might simply proliferate elsewhere behind your back.