“And the goalkeeper has to stop that, doesn't he?” she asked.
“Of course,” Puso replied. “And we have a very good goalkeeper, Mma.”
“We?”
Puso explained again. “Our team. Swoopers. The goalie is Big Man Tafa. He is a very good goalie.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I see. Being a big man must be a good thing if you are a goalkeeper. Big Man Tafa must block the mouth of the goal.”
Puso shook his head. “Except he is very small, Mma.”
“Big Man Tafa is small?”
“Yes,” said Puso. “He is very small, Mma. But he is also a very good goalkeeper.”
Mma Ramotswe was silent. She was learning a great deal about football in a very short time. She was learning about possession of the ball, about strikers and their doings, about big men who were really small; and there would be more to learn no doubt during the second half.
They returned to their seats, the band marched off, and the match began once more. Mma Ramotswe noticed that the teams were now playing in different directions and that the pace of play seemed to have increased. The crowd, that seemed to have swelled for the second half, was even more vocal, and shouts in both English and Setswana were directed forcefully towards players who were thought not to be playing too well. And then, quite unexpectedly, a goal was scored and half the stadium erupted in a roar of triumph.
Mma Ramotswe was not sure exactly what happened, but there was no doubt amongst the Swooper supporters that the goal was Big Man Tafa's fault. And Mr. Molofololo, who had been watching the second half in silence, now turned to Mma Ramotswe and said, “See, Mma? We are going to lose now. Again. We're going to lose again.”
“But there is still time for us to score a goal,” said Mma Ramotswe soothingly.
“There is only ten minutes,” said Mr. Molofololo. “We are finished, Mma. Finished.”
He spoke in such dejected tones that Mma Ramotswe's heart went out to him. He was like a little boy she thought; this great man was like a little boy who had been beaten in some juvenile game of stones. She almost said to him, It's just a game, you know, but something stopped her. It was true that it was just a game, but for these people caught up in it, it seemed to be much more than that. It was more like a battle for life or death.
Defeat by one goal would have been bad enough, but there was more to come. With only a couple of minutes to go, the Township Rollers pressed home an advantage and broke through the Swoopers' defences. There was a flurry of activity and shouts from the crowd. Then another ball sailed past Big Man Tafa and the Township Rollers' supporters became ecstatic. Mr. Molofololo made a gesture of disgust and turned away.
“So is Big Man the traitor?” asked Mma Ramotswe gently.
Mr. Molofololo looked at her in surprise. “Big Man? Certainly not. He has allowed a couple of goals to get past him, but you can't save everything. This isn't like cooking, Mma.”
Again the reference to cooking, and again Mma Ramotswe bit her tongue. She had had enough of football, she thought, and it occurred to her that she should politely inform Mr. Molofololo that she would not be able to take on the case. But if she did that, then there would be no fee, and with prices rising as they were, the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency could not afford to be choosy about which cases it took on and which it did not. Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors provided a reasonable income for the family, but children were expensive, whether they were one's own or whether they were foster children like Puso and Motholeli. At the end of each month there was never very much money left over, although Mma Ramotswe was aware of how fortunate she was when compared with others. She thought of Fanwell, who gave every pula of his modest apprentice's salary to his grandmother. Compared with him, her position was comfortable indeed.
And there was another reason why she felt that she should resist the temptation to resign from the case. Mma Ramotswe had always appreciated a challenge, and although she had not been a private detective for all that long, she had never once turned down a case because she felt that it was too complicated. The world of football might be an alien one, but she had entered all sorts of unfamiliar surroundings in the course of her career and had been undaunted by them. She would have to learn a little bit more about football-she accepted that-but it appeared that she had a perfect domestic tutor on hand for that: Puso. He knew all about strikers and the like, and she would learn from him. No, she would remain on the case; there would be no resignation.
Mr. Molofololo went down to the dressing room after the match and took Puso with him, while Mma Ramotswe waited in the car. The crowd was now leaving the Stadium, and she caught snippets of conversation as people walked past. Why was Big Man on the wrong side of the goal? Did you see that? To which the reply, cut tantalisingly short, was Yes, you know what I think… What do you think? Mma Ramotswe asked herself. She would have loved to run past the two fans and ask them: Do you think he did not save those goals deliberately? Whose side do you think he was really on?
After about ten minutes, Puso reappeared with Mr. Molofololo. The owner of the Kalahari Swoopers looked extremely downcast, and his conversation on the way to drop them off at Zebra Drive was virtually monosyllabic.
“Bad,” he said. “Very bad.”
“I'm sorry, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I was very much hoping that you would win. But maybe the Township Rollers are just playing very strongly these days. Maybe they deserved to win.”
“No.”
“Oh well, perhaps things will be better at the next game. You never know.”
“Won't,” snapped Mr. Molofololo.
After that, Mma Ramotswe was silent. Then, as the driver brought the large car to a halt outside the house on Zebra Drive, she spoke to Mr. Molofololo again. She reminded him that when he had first come to see her they had spoken of her being given a list of all the names of the players, along with their addresses. Could Mr. Molofololo provide that?
“Yes.”
Mma Ramotswe opened the car door. “We have had a very good afternoon, Rra. Thank you very much for that. And Puso…”
Puso took his cue and thanked Mr. Molofololo for allowing him to watch the game. This produced a rather better response, and an offer to take the boy to the match that the Swoopers would play the following weekend. Would he like that?
The boy looked pleadingly at Mma Ramotswe, who nodded. “I would like that very much, Rra,” he said. “Thank you.”
They got out of the car and went into the house.
“I am so happy Mma,” said Puso.
Mma Ramotswe patted him affectionately on the head. “I can tell that. And I am glad that you are happy, Puso, even if it seems that the Swoopers themselves are not very happy.”
“Oh, I think they are happy,” said Puso. “I do not think they wanted to win very much.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. The little boy was about to go off to his bedroom, but she reached out to grab his arm. “Puso! Why did you say that?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I could tell,” he said. “One of them even smiled when the Township Rollers scored that first goal. I saw him.”
Mma Ramotswe's eyes widened. “He smiled? One of the players?”
“Yes. I was watching him, and I saw him smile. Then he suddenly stopped smiling, as if somebody had told him he mustn't.”
Mma Ramotswe stared at Puso. What was that expression that somebody had used the other day, and she had noted down as a very useful thing to say? Out of the mouths of babes… Yes, that was it.
She tried not to sound too concerned. You had to be careful when getting information from children; you had to be careful that you did not encourage them to embroider things. Clovis Andersen, author of The Principles of Private Detection, had written about that, she remembered. Always be very cautious when getting evidence from children, he advised. Never let the child think that you want a particular answer, because if you do that, the child will make something up in order to oblige. I have been involved in many cases where apparently valuable information from children has proved to be misleading because the child was trying to be helpful. Children, in general, do not have a clear idea of the distinction between what the world is and what we want it to be.