“I heard something, Mma,” she began. “I heard that you had become a very keen member of the Church of…”
“The Church of Christ, Mechanic,” Poppy prompted. “Yes, Mma. I am a sort of elder now. They call us the Blessed Ones—not that I would boast about such a thing.”
“Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it must be a great honour to be blessed.”
Poppy nodded. “Yes, Mma, I think it is.”
“And I heard too,” Mma Ramotswe continued, “that you have been very good to the reverend. I heard that you gave him a Mercedes-Benz.”
Poppy seemed surprised that Mma Ramotswe should know this, but confirmed the fact. “Yes, Mma. I gave him a car to help him in his work.” Then she added, “But the reverend has asked me not to talk about it. He doesn’t want people discussing it. He is very modest, you see.”
“That was very generous of you, Mma.” Mma Ramotswe looked at her old friend’s face. People change. Things had happened to that face. The years. “Was it a silver Mercedes-Benz, Mma?”
Poppy smiled. “It was a lovely car, Mma. Yes, it was silver.”
Mma Ramotswe pressed ahead. “And so the reverend is driving around in it right now—doing the Lord’s work?”
Poppy continued to smile. “He was, but then he sent the car out into the rural areas for his followers out there to do the work. They are using it somewhere else, I think—maybe up in Maun. He has people up there, and they must travel up and down to Gaborone on the Lord’s work, I think.”
“I see.” They were the only words that came to Mma Ramotswe, and yet they were just right. She did see. She saw very well. And now she had to speak to Mma Boko to ascertain whether what she saw was indeed what was there.
* * *
—
SHE FOUND MMA BOKO talking to two women at one of the tables under the trees. They were stacking hymn books and inserting sheets of paper into each.
“These are the reverend’s texts for the day,” explained Mma Boko, handing one of the sheets to Mma Ramotswe.
“Very interesting,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But, Mma, could I have a quiet word with you?”
Mma Boko excused herself from her companion, joining Mma Ramotswe under another tree. The tree was in flower, and tiny flecks of blossom, white and virtually weightless, drifted from its boughs. “What is it, Mma?” she asked. “I must help those ladies.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that I wanted to ask you something connected with what we talked about the other day.”
“Yes, Mma?”
“That young woman who lives next door. You know she is here?”
Mma Boko gave a start. “Where, Mma? I don’t see her.”
“She’s over there—with the reverend.”
Mma Boko looked over in the direction of the knot of people around the Reverend Flat Ponto. She drew in her breath audibly. Mma Ramotswe could see that she was struggling with something—but with what? Jealousy? “I see.” Mma Boko composed herself, and her expression now was sweet. “You see, he has helped her in the past, Mma. He sometimes goes to give her texts. He is trying to save her.” Her eyes shone. “That is what he does, Mma. He saves people.”
Especially ladies, thought Mma Ramotswe. And there were so many ladies to be saved.
“Saves them?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Boko stared at her. “Of course.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. It was difficult to judge how one should approach these matters, she thought. You had to be honest, but you had to be careful not to be too brutal.
“You have a special relationship with the reverend, don’t you, Mma?”
Mma Boko gave her a searching look. And then the decision was made. Mma Ramotswe was to be trusted. “I believe that he and I will one day become joint agents of the Lord, Mma. I believe that—since you ask.”
“You believe that he will marry you?”
“If the Lord approves,” said Mma Boko. “Which I think he does. He has already given signs of that approval.”
“I see.”
“Yes, he approves very firmly, I believe.”
Mma Ramotswe steeled herself. The moment could not be put off much longer. “Mma Boko, may I ask you something? Who told you about the businessman who rents the flat for Nametso? Was it the reverend, by any chance?”
The question took Mma Boko by surprise, and she seemed to struggle with something before she answered. But then she said, “Yes, it was. He told me about it. He disapproved very strongly—as you can imagine.”
Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. He would; he would.
“Do you see him about the place often?” she asked. “Does he go to save Nametso just about every day?”
Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Boko’s hands were shaking. She knew. And of course that should not surprise her; a woman would know these things. She was equally convinced, though, that Mma Boko would have denied any knowledge she had of what the Reverend Flat Ponto was up to. She would have known and not known, both at the same time. That was the way people survived in the face of crushing disappointment.
“Oh, Mma,” Mma Boko suddenly blurted out. “That girl is a Jezebel. She is leading the reverend astray. He knows that his future must be with me, and yet he is being kind to her because she needs support—and saving. But his heart is not in anything that he does with her, Mma. I know that. I know that very well.”
There was nothing more that Mma Ramotswe could say to Mma Boko other than to hold her hand briefly and whisper, “I am sure that he loves you, Mma. But it is good to be careful about loving men back. Think about that, Mma.”
* * *
—
SHE LEFT MMA BOKO and began to look for Poppy. The crowd was now quite large, and there were children running around, squealing and yelling and making everything noisier and more chaotic. Eventually she found Poppy talking to an elderly man in a wheelchair. She drew her aside and a young couple came and wheeled the man off to one of the food tables.
“Are you enjoying the picnic?” asked Poppy. “People love these occasions.”
“It is all very joyful,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“That is the reverend’s influence,” said Poppy. “He spreads light wherever he goes.”
Mma Ramotswe was non-committal. “Well, he’s certainly popular.” She looked at Poppy. Who, she wondered, did Poppy have to pick up the pieces? Were there children, or siblings, who would provide her with a shoulder to cry on? For a few moments she wondered whether she should do this at all, or whether she should walk away and let these people get on with living their lives as they saw fit. But then she thought, No, I shall not do that—because if I don’t do anything there will be more Poppies and more Nametsos and poor Mma Bokos. There were any number of ladies with hearts to break, just looking for a charismatic preacher to break them.