“And my secretary, Mma Makutsi. We have been…”
“Assistant detective,” interjected Mma Makutsi, giving Mma Ramotswe a disapproving glance. “We have been buying equipment for a case.”
Herbert Mateleke nodded distractedly. “Yes, of course. You must need a lot of equipment.” He paused, gathering his thoughts for an aphorism. “We need a lot of equipment to find out the truth in this world.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Do you think so, Rra? I think that all we need in order to know the truth is these.” She pointed to her eyes. And then, pointing to her nose, “And this. This is a very big help in finding out what is true and what is not. Don’t you agree, Rra?”
There was no edge to what she said, but as she spoke to Herbert Mateleke she could not forget the fact that, at least in his wife’s eyes, he stood accused of having an affair. And that shirt-that bright blue shirt-was that the sort of shirt one expected a successful businessman and part-time reverend to wear? Or was it the shirt of a man who was trying to make himself a little bit more colourful, rather more interesting to women? She knew the warning signs with middle-aged men-they were like a set of traffic lights that glowed brightly in the dark. Greater attention to personal grooming? Bad sign. Pulling-in of the stomach to conceal paunch? Bad sign. Purchase of a more powerful car in bright red? Very, very bad sign.
Of course, the shirt could be interpreted in various ways. It was a loose-fitting, open-neck shirt of the sort worn by Nelson Mandela. Such shirts were not tucked into one’s trousers, but hung about the waist, allowing for air to circulate. They suited older men very well, those on whose physique prosperity, and particularly a diet of good Botswana beef, might have taken its toll, and they were perfect, of course, for Mr. Mandela himself, who lent them that grace and dignity that came so naturally to him. You might conclude, thought Mma Ramotswe, that Mr. Mateleke was wearing this shirt because it was comfortable and paid tribute, perhaps, to that most gracious of men who had popularised the style. Or you might conclude that here was a man who was paying attention to his clothes because he was having an affair. You might reach for either of these conclusions, but if you were a detective, and you had been approached by the wife of the man in question, who had given voice to her own suspicions, then you would be excused, surely, for reaching the second, less charitable of these conclusions.
Herbert Mateleke now leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence to Mma Ramotswe. She thought quickly: if he wanted to talk, then she should encourage him. This was exactly the sort of development that could make a potentially awkward enquiry that much easier.
“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that you should take the rest of the day off. Why don’t you go and do some shopping?”
Mma Makutsi could see what the situation was, and reacted accordingly, and with consummate professionalism. “It was just what I was hoping to do, Mma. Thank you very much.” She nodded to Herbert Mateleke. “It was very good to meet you, Rra, and I do like your shirt. It suits you very well.”
Herbert Mateleke acknowledged the compliment, but his acknowledgement was perfunctory, a matter of form; it was clear that there was something on his mind. As Mma Makutsi went off, Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “I am a bit hungry for some reason, Rra. I do not know why.”
He seized the opportunity. “But I am hungry too, Mma, and there is that place round the corner, near the bottle store.”
“I am told their food is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I would like to take you to lunch, Mma Ramotswe, if you will let me.”
The offer was accepted, and the two walked the short distance to the café. Nothing was said on this walk-or nothing significant-and it was not until they had sat down at their table and were examining the menu that Herbert Mateleke unburdened himself.
“You know something, Mma Ramotswe?” he began. “I am not a happy man.”
“But…”
He held up a hand. “Let me explain, Mma. I am a person who is always telling other people that they must rejoice and love the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia! That is what I am always saying. And when I see people who are happy, I say, ‘Alleluia! You are living in goodness and light!’ But all the time, Mma, inside me there is just an unhappiness and…”-he paused, staring straight into Mma Ramotswe’s eyes-“… and doubt.”
For a moment she said nothing. She knew that reverends sometimes had doubts about what they professed to believe, and that this could not be easy for them. It would be like telling somebody all the time to do something that one would not do oneself. But was she the person to address his doubts? Surely he should go and speak to somebody who knew something about these matters-another reverend, perhaps, or a teacher of theology. Of course, there were all sorts of other doubts… doubts about marriage? Was saying that one had doubts a way of saying that one was thinking of leaving one’s spouse? Mma Ramotswe was not sure; these days there were so many ways of describing unpleasant things and making them sound quite pleasant. Nobody ran away from their responsibilities any more-they were said to have gone off to find themselves. Nobody dismissed anybody from their job any more-they let them go. What if they said, “But I do not want to go!” The only reply would be, “But I’m still going to let you!” It showed what nonsense these silly expressions were-at least Setswana did not have them: words in Setswana meant exactly what they said.
“I am worried about my wife,” Herbert Mateleke blurted out. “I have started to doubt her.”
Mma Ramotswe looked down at the tablecloth. He was doubting her? But he was the one who was meant to be having the affair! Or was this a part of the modern business of turning everything on its head, of making bad sound good and good sound bad, or at least very dull?
At last she asked, “Why is this, Rra? Why are you doubting her?”
Her question was clear enough, but he appeared to need some time to answer it. When the answer came, however, it was unambiguous. “I think that she is seeing another man.”
Mma Ramotswe could not conceal her surprise. This was not the way she had thought the encounter would go. She should be trying to find out whether he was having an affair, and now here was he about to ask her-and she was sure the request would not be long in coming-to find out whether Mma Mateleke was seeing somebody.
He was staring at her. “You look surprised, Mma. I suppose I can understand.”
She gathered her thoughts. “Yes, I am a bit surprised, Rra. I cannot deny that.”
He sighed. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? If I went to anybody and said, ‘Do you realise that my wife is having an affair?’ they would be very surprised. They would say, ‘But she is a very respectable lady, Rra. She is that well-known midwife. And you are a part-time reverend.’ And so on. That is what they would say.”
Mma Ramotswe asked him why he thought Mma Mateleke was seeing somebody. Did he have any proof? She was trying to remember what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had told her. Something about a car and the Lobatse Road. The Lobatse Road was not a good place to conduct an affair; it was far too busy. Now some small, out-of-the-way road, some road that wandered away to a distant cattle post, or off into the Kalahari until it disappeared in the sand, that road would be the place for a lovers’ meeting.
He shook his head. “I have no proof. I have no letters filled with kisses and things like that. But I have seen her talking to a man. I saw her outside the Botswana Book Centre one day. She was talking to a man.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “But that is nothing, Rra! Many women talk to men. They may know a man from work, or something like that. Yes, maybe she knew him from work.”