“Charlie is only trying to be helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe, giving the apprentice a sideways look. “And remember this, Charlie: there but for the grace of God go you. Remember that.”
She got into her van-the new blue van that drove so smoothly-and made her way over to Mma Makutsi’s house. It was possible that she was at the hospital, she thought, but if she had been there in the morning-as she said she would be-then she might be home by now. And turning into Mma Makutsi’s street, a street of modest houses occupied, she imagined, by people for whom reaching even this level of prosperity and comfort had been a battle, she pictured Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this piece of news about Violet. It was an odd thing, thought Mma Ramotswe, that we take such pleasure in hearing news of some piece of bad behaviour on the part of one of whom we have come to disapprove. Such news should sadden us, as any news of human failings should do, but it tended to do the opposite. Why? Because it confirmed the view we had of such people, and laid to rest doubts about our judgement. So, you see, I was right about her!
Which is more or less what Mma Makutsi said when Mma Ramotswe found her at home. “I am not surprised at all,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have always said that she was a bad woman, right from the first time I saw her at the beginning of our course at the Botswana Secretarial College. You should have seen her, Mma, looking out of the window with such an expression of boredom on her face. Why go to a secretarial college if you are not going to pay attention to what is being taught you? Why bother? Why not just go straight to one of those bars and become a lady of the afternoon?”
“Lady of the night,” corrected Mma Ramotswe gently. “Mind you, we have no proof that Violet was ever involved in that sort of thing. We must be fair to her.”
“Fair to her!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “Was she being fair to me when she got a job at Phuti’s shop for the only reason that she wanted to take him away from me? Was that fair, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. “Maybe not. All I am saying is that we should not accuse her of things that she has not done. As far as we know, she has never been one of those girls who sit about in bars.”
“But you yourself said that this Mr. Kereleng person met her in a bar. Did he not tell you that? What was she doing in the bar in the first place, Mma? That’s what I want to know.”
Mma Ramotswe felt that there was little point in further discussion of this aspect of the matter. “Whatever else she may have done, Mma, the issue is this: How do we help this poor man? Have you any ideas?”
Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “He is a very foolish man,” she said. “Imagine putting your house in somebody else’s name, especially when that somebody is Violet Sephotho! How stupid can you be!”
It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that this did not help. Mma Makutsi may not be herself after all the strain of Phuti’s accident and operation, but she should know by now that this was not how one spoke of one’s clients, most of whom were vulnerable in some way, or afraid. “Whether or not he was stupid,” she began, “that is…”
“Very stupid,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not just ordinary stupid-very stupid.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Maybe. But what about my question, Mma? Can you think of any way of helping this man?”
“No,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “I do not see what we can do. I have no ideas at all. None.”
“So Violet Sephotho will get away with it?”
Mma Makutsi grimaced. “That is a very bad thought, I admit. But I’m afraid, Mma, that you are right. Sometimes wickedness prevails.”
Sometimes wickedness prevails. The succinct words echoed in Mma Ramotswe’s ears. It was probably true-there were times when wickedness seemed to be so firmly entrenched that any attempt to dislodge it, any rebellion against it, appeared futile. That had happened; many people had led their whole lives under the shadow of wickedness in its manifold guises-under oppression or injustice, under the rule of some grubby tyranny. And yet people often managed to overcome the things that held them down because they refused to believe that they could not do anything about it, and acted as if they could do something. It had happened before and it would happen again. In her short career as a private detective, Mma Ramotswe had encountered relatively few instances of evil, but she had seen some, and in each case she had seen the wings of wickedness clipped. Violet Sephotho had now stepped over a boundary that separated mere nastiness from real wickedness. She could not be allowed to prevail; she could not, and Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi as much. But Mma Makutsi still doubted if anything could be done; although she now conceded that she would at least try to think of something, she held out little hope of coming up with a solution.
That issue put aside, they went on to talk of Phuti. “He is going to be discharged in a few days,” said Mma Makutsi. “The doctor says that he has rarely seen an amputation that went so well.”
The gist of this message was positive, but the word amputation hung in the air between them. There was an awful finality about it; an amputation might be treatment, but it had a ring of desperation to it, a sense of last resort.
Mma Makutsi went on bravely. “They have already measured him for a temporary leg,” she said.
“That is good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Then he will get a permanent leg later on?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I think that is the plan. Temporary leg, then permanent leg.”
“I am very sorry about all this,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You know that, don’t you, Mma? You and Phuti did not deserve this thing. You have been so good to him, and he is such a fine man. But we cannot control the things that happen, can we?”
Mma Makutsi considered this. “We cannot. And thank you, Mma, for saying that you are sorry. That makes my heart feel a little bit better.”
They drank tea together. Then Mma Ramotswe left to return home. She was no longer worried about Mma Makutsi; her assistant, she was sure, had deep wells of strength and character to draw upon. If you came from Bobonong, if you came from nothing and nowhere and got to where she had got to, then you were capable of dealing with most forms of adversity; she was sure of that.
THE NEXT DAY, with Mma Makutsi still on compassionate leave, Mma Ramotswe decided to start work on the case of Mrs. Grant. It would be a good case, she thought-there were few duties in life that were more enjoyable than that of informing another person of some piece of good fortune. Occasionally it fell to her during the course of her work to do just that-to give somebody the news of an unexpected inheritance from a forgotten relative, or to tell them of an insurance payout, or even a reward. Individual reactions to this sort of news varied; there were those who were frankly ecstatic, who ululated with delight; others were more controlled and pensive about why this stroke of good luck had come to them; others were greedy, and eager to find out whether the money they were about to receive could in any way be increased. If there was one legacy, might there be another? Might the insurance company be persuaded to pay out just a little bit more? For the most part, though, people were simply human in such circumstances, and behaved like children to whom a large bag of sweets had suddenly been dispensed. And why not? For most people, life was hard, and either uneventful or composed of the wrong sort of event; these little moments of material pleasure were harmless enough in the grand scheme of things.
She knew how to break the news of Mrs. Grant’s gift. She would tell the guide that his kindness was about to be rewarded. Then she would ask him what he would really like to do with an unexpected windfall. He would think of sensible things to do-people always did when asked that question-and then she would tell him that he would be able to do what he wanted. Finally, she would talk about the Standard Bank, and the various sorts of accounts that they offered to new customers. And with that, her duty would be done. It would be a simple, open-and-shut case, except for one thing, and she thought of it now as she prepared to leave the office and begin her inquiry. That thing was this: very few matters were simple-if they involved human beings, that is-and nothing, in her experience, was open-and-shut.