“I need to speak to her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I need to speak to her out here, in my van. I do not want to speak to her when there are other people about.”
The student looked blank. “So?” she said.
“So I wonder if you would go and tell her, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could you go and tell her that there is somebody out here who needs to speak to her?”
The young woman frowned. “Could you not go yourself, Mma? Why do you need me to do this for you?”
Mma Ramotswe looked searchingly into the face of the young woman before her. What bond was there between them? Were they strangers, people who would have no reason to do anything for one another? Or was this still a place where one might go and speak to another, even a complete stranger, and make a request for help, as had been possible in the past?
“I am asking you,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “I am asking you …” And then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before she continued, “I am asking you, my sister.”
For a moment the young woman said nothing, but then she moved her head slightly; she nodded. “I will do that,” she said. “I will go.”
MMA TSAU, a squat, rather round woman, appeared from the door of the kitchen office, paused, and looked out over the grounds of the college. Her gaze fell upon the tiny white van and she hesitated for a moment. Within the van, Mma Ramotswe raised a hand, which Mma Tsau did not see, but she saw the van, and the young woman had said, “There is a woman who needs to see you urgently, Mma. She is outside in a small white van. She is too big for that van, if you ask me, but she wants to see you there.”
The cook made her way across the ground to the van. She had a curious gait, Mma Ramotswe observed; a slight limp perhaps, or feet that pointed out to the side rather than forwards. Mma Makutsi was slightly inclined to do that, Mma Ramotswe had noticed, and although she had never said anything about it, one day she would pluck up the courage to suggest that she should think about the way she walked. One had to be careful, though: Mma Makutsi was sensitive about her appearance and might be demoralised by such a remark, even if it was meant helpfully.
Mma Tsau peered into the van. “You are looking for me, Mma?” The voice was a loud one, surprisingly loud for one of such small stature; it was the voice of one who was used to shouting at people. Professional cooks had a reputation for shouting, Mma Ramotswe recalled. They shouted at the people who worked for them in their kitchen, and some of them—the really famous ones—threw things too. There was no excuse for that, of course. Mma Ramotswe had been shocked when she had read in a magazine about a famous chef somewhere overseas who threw cold soup over the heads of his junior staff if they did not measure up to his expectations. He swore at them too, which was almost as bad. To use strong language, she thought, was a sign of bad temper and lack of concern for others. Such people were not clever or bold simply because they used such language; each time they opened their mouths they proclaimedI am a person who is poor in words . Was Mma Tsau one of those chefs, she wondered; this round little person with the blue spotted scarf tied round her head like a doek? It seemed unlikely that she would throw cold soup over somebody’s head.
“Yes, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to put to the back of her mind the sudden mental picture which had come to her of Mma Tsau tipping a pot of soup over … Charlie. What a picture! And it was replaced immediately by an image of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, frustrated by some piece of sloppy work, doing a similar thing to the apprentice; and Mma Makutsi pouring soup over … She stopped herself. “I would like to talk to you, please.”
Mma Tsau wiped her brow. “I am listening,” she said. “I can hear you.”
“This is private,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We could talk in my van, if you don’t mind.”
Mma Tsau frowned. “What is this private business?” she asked. “Are you trying to sell something, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe looked about her, as one might do if about to impart a confidence. “It is about your husband,” she said.
The words had their desired effect. When her husband was mentioned, Mma Tsau gave a start, as if somebody had poured … She moved her head back and squinted at Mma Ramotswe through narrowed eyes.
“My husband?”
“Yes, Mma, your husband.” Mma Ramotswe nodded in the direction of the passenger door. “Why don’t you get into the van, Mma? We can talk in here.”
For a moment it seemed as if Mma Tsau was going to turn around and go back to her office. There was a moment of hesitation; the eyes moved; she continued to stare at Mma Ramotswe. Then she started to walk round the front of the van, slowly, her eyes still on Mma Ramotswe.
“You can wind down that window, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe as the other woman lowered herself into the seat beside her. “It will be cooler that way. It is very hot today, isn’t it?”
Mma Tsau had folded her hands on her lap and was staring down at them. She did not respond to Mma Ramotswe’s remark. In the confines of the van, her breathing was audibly laboured. Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment, allowing her to get her breath back. But there was no change in Mma Tsau’s breathing, which sounded as if the air was working its way through a small thicket of leaves, a rustling sound, the sound of a tree in the wind. She turned and looked at her visitor. She had been prepared to dislike this woman who had been stealing food from the college; this woman who had so unfairly threatened the inoffensive Poppy with dismissal. But now, in the flesh, with her laboured breathing and her odd walk, it was difficult not to feel sympathy. And of course it was always difficult for Mma Ramotswe not to feel sympathy for another, however objectionable his conduct might be, however flawed his character, simply because she understood, at the most intuitive, profound level what it was to be a human being, which is not easy. Everybody, she felt, could do evil, so easily; could be weak, so easily; could be selfish, so easily. This meant that she could understand—and did—which was not the same thing as condoning—which she did not—or taking the view—which she did not—that one should not judge others. Of course one could judge others, and Mma Ramotswe used the standards of the old Botswana morality to make these judgements. But there was nothing in the old Botswana morality which said that one could not forgive those who were weak; indeed, there was much in the old Botswana morality that was very specifically about forgiveness. One should not hold a grudge against another, it said, because to harbour grudges was to disturb the social peace, the bond between people.
She felt sorry, then, for Mma Tsau, and instinctively, without giving it any thought, she reached out and touched the other woman gently on the forearm, and left her hand there. Mma Tsau tensed, and the breath caught in her throat, but then she turned her head and looked at Mma Ramotswe, and her eyes were moist with tears.
“You are the mother of one of those girls,” Mma Tsau said quietly. It was not a question; it was a statement. Her earlier confidence was drained from her, and she seemed even smaller now, hunched in her seat.
Mma Ramotswe did not understand, and was about to say so. But then she thought, and it came to her what this other woman meant. It was a familiar story, after all, and nobody should be surprised. The husband, the father, the respectable citizen; such a man might still carry on with other women in spite of everything, in spite of his wife’s pain, and many did. And some of these men went further, and picked up girls who were far younger than themselves, some still at high school. They felt proud of themselves, these men, with their youthful girlfriends, whose heads they turned because they had money to throw around, or a fast car, or power perhaps.
“I hear what you say, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe began. “Your husband. I did not mean …”
“It has been going on for many years,” Mma Tsau interrupted her. “Just after we were married—even then, he started this thing. I told him how stupid he looked, running after these young girls, but he ignored me. I told him that I would leave him, but he just laughed and said that I should do that. But I could not, Mma. I could not …”