She turned round. “All right, Mma. You can take the money from the petty cash. Go and get those shoes.”
She felt better immediately for saying this. Mma Makutsi was a hard worker. She had not had much in this life, and she had worked diligently for everything she did have, including her shoes. This was a very distressing time, and if she could be helped through it by indulging her passion for shoes, then that was, perhaps, something that Mma Ramotswe owed her.
Mma Makutsi’s gratitude was plain to see. “Oh, Mma, that is very good news. Why don’t you come with me right now, and we can go and get those boots? And some boots for you too.”
Mma Ramotswe raised her hands in protest. “I do not need boots, Mma. I’ve got my comfortable flat shoes. You could walk across the Kalahari-and back-in those shoes of mine.”
“And what if you stand on a snake, Mma, while you’re walking across the Kalahari? What then?”
“I will be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’ve been walking about Botswana for a long time and I have not yet stood on a snake. And we’re not going to the Kalahari. We’re going to the Okavango Delta.”
“Careful, Mma!” Mma Makutsi warned. “There is always a first time for everything. There is something called the law of averages-you may have heard of it. It says that if you haven’t trodden on a snake yet, then you may tread on one soon-soon.”
THEY DROVE IN THE VAN to Riverwalk. There was a small parking incident, in which Mma Ramotswe narrowly avoided scraping the wing of the next-door car, a gleaming piece of German machinery. It was a narrow escape, and Mma Makutsi could not avoid a sharp intake of breath as the two vehicles had their close encounter.
“That car is far too big,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is taking up too much room. Soon there will be not enough room in Botswana for the rest of us if these big cars keep coming.”
“Maybe we should have given it a bit more room, Mma,” her assistant said. “I’m not criticising your driving, but it is sometimes a good idea to give big cars a bit more room.”
Mma Ramotswe was having none of that. “You are not a big person just because you have a big car. All people are entitled to the same amount of room.”
That settled, they made their way into the covered walkway between the shops. Halfway along, beside a shop selling clothing, was a shop devoted to tents, mosquito nets, sheath knives, and the other requirements of those setting off into the bush. Mma Ramotswe’s eye was drawn to a stand displaying compasses, and a booklet entitled How Not to Get Lost in the Bush. She picked up the booklet and paged through it. There was a section on how to find north, south, east, and west. She smiled as she read this; it could not have been intended for any local readers. Everybody she knew was fully aware of exactly which way north lay-because that was the direction in which the Francistown Road ran; South Africa was over there, beyond Tlokweng, to the east; Lobatse lay in the south; and to the west was the Kalahari, which anybody with a nose could smell, apart from anything else, because when the wind came from that quarter it was a fragrant mixture of dryness and emptiness and waving grass. But she had to acknowledge that if one did not know these things-and a visitor could hardly be expected to-then this book, with its diagrams and its explanation of how to track the passage of the sun by inserting a stick into the ground, was well worth its eighty-pula cover price.
The assistant approached them, and Mma Makutsi pointed to the boots, which were prominently displayed on a shelf behind the counter. Each woman gave her size, and the appropriate boxes were fetched from a cupboard.
“They will be very comfortable,” said Mma Makutsi. “You will not regret this, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe was not so sure. She had the distinct feeling that she was being pushed into the purchase of these boots by Mma Makutsi, and she did not think that she could legitimately pass the cost on to the client. She could hardly add to the bill Boots: 600 pula. Any client receiving that would be perfectly within his rights to challenge it, and if it could not be passed on, then she would have to pay it herself.
The assistant returned with boxes tucked under her arm. As the boots were unpacked, Mma Ramotswe noticed something about Mma Makutsi’s expression-a look of anticipation that went far beyond anything one might normally expect. It was the look that one might see on the face of a child about to be given a treat, a look that spoke of sheer, uncomplicated pleasure and excitement. We lose that look, she thought, as we get older; we forget what it is like to be so thrilled. This, then, was the look of a woman who loved shoes.
Mma Makutsi was attended to first. The boots were perfect, she said, and she would take them, or rather Mma Ramotswe would.
The assistant turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Your feet are much bigger,” she said. “These boots might be too small. But let us try, Mma.”
It was a slightly tight fit, but the assistant pointed out that suede gave under pressure and that they would fit perfectly well after a day or two’s use.
“Then we shall take those as well,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is: one pair for me and one pair for this lady. Two pairs.”
Mma Ramotswe threw her a glance. There were times, she thought, when Mma Makutsi forgot that she was an assistant detective, not a director of the agency; ninety-seven per cent notwithstanding, she was her assistant, and assistants did not make the decisions on important purchases. She was not one to put anybody down, and certainly not when Mma Makutsi turned to her to say, “Mma Ramotswe, you have been very kind. There are very few people who are lucky enough to have a boss as generous as you are. This is not just me saying this, Mma; I am speaking from my heart, from here.” And she pointed to her chest, and Mma Ramotswe smiled and thanked her, and told her that she was glad that they were both now well prepared for their trip. “I am very happy, Mma,” she said, which she was, and she was pleased with her new boots too, which she thought made her look quite a bit younger, and made her feel more agile.
She paid the bill, counting out twelve fifty-pula notes that had more or less depleted the office’s petty cash. Then, as they were about to leave the shop, Mma Makutsi took Mma Ramotswe’s arm. “There is a man staring at you,” she said. “Look, out there. Near that bench. He has a familiar face. Who is he, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe looked through the shop window to the walkway outside. Mr. Herbert Mateleke, part-time reverend, suspected adulterer, was standing in the shade, staring at her. It was almost as if he was following her, as she had earlier on imagined herself following him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN. COFFEE WITH A PART-TIME REVEREND
SO, RRA,” Mma Ramotswe said as she came out of the shop. “So, here you are standing, thinking about what to say to the faithful.”
Mma Makutsi now remembered where she had seen this man: he had been on television, talking about a plan to raise one million pula for some ambitious project-a flying-doctor plane, or something of that sort. There were so many people with projects, she thought, and most of them sounded very worthy. But how did one decide where one’s charity would go? It was very difficult. And then the further thought came that she did not give very much-in fact, she gave nothing, even though now she could spare one or two pula, her single-girl’s mite, so to speak. She would start giving one day, after she had received a little bit more herself; then she would give.
Herbert Mateleke laughed. It was a short laugh, though-that of one who had been distracted from something grave, and needed to get back to more serious thoughts. “I was not thinking of higher things, Mma. I was trying to make out whether it was you I saw in the shop. With the light like this, you see, the glass reflects and you cannot see exactly who is on the other side. Now I see it is you.”