Mma Makutsi swallowed. “I have heard that.”
“I’ll leave one by your bed, Mma. So if you need it, you can make a noise.” Mma Sepoi paused. “Of course it may not have been a lion,” she said.
Mma Makutsi looked relieved. A warthog would not frighten anybody; nor an anteater. “Of course. It may have been something else.”
“A leopard, perhaps,” said Mma Sepoi. “They are very dangerous too, you know.”
Later, on their way over to the office in the main camp, Mma Ramotswe noticed that her assistant was walking very close to her, almost bumping into her as they made their way along the narrow path. She tried not to smile; it had never occurred to her that Mma Makutsi would be nervous about being in the Delta. Had Mma Makutsi had a bad experience up in Bobonong, when she was a girl? Sometimes people could be afraid of snakes, for instance, if they had encountered a snake as a child. She had known somebody who had a tendency to faint at the very mention of snakes; and another, she now remembered, who panicked at the sight of a spider. Mma Ramotswe, of course, had a healthy respect for wild animals, but understood that they were generally quite harmless unless one intruded upon their territory, which she had no intention of doing. Mind you, she told herself, the river, on which she and Mma Makutsi had travelled earlier that day, was the territory of the hippopotamus, and the crocodile, and…
They arrived at the camp office. The manager appeared-a tall man, a South African, who stooped to shake hands with them. “I have heard why you have come here, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Our chief guide is here. He is called Mighty, and he keeps the roster of who looks after each guest. He will tell you who this fortunate man is.”
They went from the office to the area beside the water where, under the spreading boughs of a tree, chairs had been arranged around an open fireplace. The water was clogged with reeds, over which a brightly coloured bird hovered in flight. A guide, wearing the ubiquitous khaki uniform of the Delta, was standing beside one of the chairs, staring at the place where the fire had been laid, poking at the cold ashes with a stick. He looked up when they approached.
“This is Mighty,” said the manager.
Mighty shook hands with the visitors. Mma Ramotswe found herself warming to him immediately, recognising in him the real countryman, the type that her father had been. Obed Ramotswe had known all there was to know about cattle; she felt that this man knew everything there was to know about the animals of the wild, which was the same sort of thing.
“Do you remember an American lady called Mrs. Grant?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Mighty looked doubtful. “We get many Americans, Mma. Germans, Swedes, British-all of these people. It is difficult to remember one person out of many hundreds. How many years ago was it, Mma?”
“Four. It was in June or July of that year, Rra.”
“Oh,” said Mighty. “That is a long time ago, Mma. A long time.”
“She stayed for almost a week, Rra. She was very happy here.”
Mighty looked out over the water. “A week? That is unusual. Most of our visitors are here for two or three days. An American lady? Now, I think I can remember a lady who stayed. Yes, she was a very pleasant lady. She was very happy here, you are right.” He paused. “We have the old duty rosters in the office. The details will be there. Should I get the page for that week?”
The manager and Mma Ramotswe both agreed that this was the thing to do. Mighty went off, and while he was gone Mma Ramotswe looked around the camp-at the tempting chairs and the tables beyond, set out for lunch. It would be good to be a guest here, she thought; one might sit in one of these chairs and drink something cold-lemonade, perhaps-and then progress to the lunch table and eat… She brought herself back to reality. She and Mma Makutsi were not here to sit about-as if they were members of some double comfort safari club-they were here to find somebody, to talk to him, and then to return to Gaborone.
When Mighty returned he took a crumpled document out of his pocket. “I have looked in the roster for June, Mma, and I found it straightaway,” he said, handing the paper to Mma Ramotswe. “I have taken it from the book. This is it.”
Mma Ramotswe looked down at the piece of paper. It was not complicated, and she saw immediately the information that she needed. Against the name of each guide was written the name of a guest, or group of guests, together with the days during which the guide would be on duty. Mrs. Grant, she saw, had been looked after by a guide called Tebogo. It was a common enough name. “So it was this Tebogo,” she said, holding up the paper. “He was the one who looked after the American lady.”
Mighty nodded. “He was the one.”
Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder. “So that’s it, Mma. We have found out what we came for. Maybe we should go back to Maun now.”
Mma Ramotswe turned to her assistant. “But we cannot go back, Mma. We have just arrived. The boatman won’t be back until tomorrow. You heard him.”
Mma Makutsi looked disappointed, but seeing Mighty looking at her, she made an effort to mask her concern.
“Don’t be afraid, Mma,” said Mighty suddenly. “Everything is very safe here.”
Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant laugh. “Scared, Rra?” she said. “Who is scared?”
You are, thought Mma Ramotswe, but said nothing.
“Tebogo will be back soon,” said Mighty, glancing at the sinking sun. “He has taken some people on a game walk. He will not be long.”
Mma Ramotswe noticed the glance at the sun. People who lived in towns had stopped doing that-they had watches to enslave them. Here in the bush it was different: what the watch said was less important than what the sun said, and that, she thought, was the way it should be.
SHE DID NOT NOTICE Tebogo arriving; suddenly he was there, having joined their company while her attention was diverted by a playful monkey that was taunting them from the safety of the tree.
“This is Tebogo,” said Mighty.
Mma Ramotswe turned round to see a tall man in khaki uniform standing at the edge of the circle of chairs. He was in his late forties, she thought, possibly slightly younger, but certainly a man with some experience of life. He had an open countenance, with the same clear look in his eyes that she had seen in Mighty’s. It was something to do with being a game-spotter, she imagined; these people were used to gazing out into the distance, picking up the tiniest clue of an animal’s presence-a change in the colour of background vegetation, an unusual movement of leaves, a shape that was wrong for its place. Looking for such things perhaps explained this quality in their eyes-the brightness, the quick movements.
Mighty continued with his explanation. He told Tebogo that Mma Ramotswe had come to see him “all the way from Gaborone,” and that she had “important news.” At this, a shadow passed over Tebogo’s face, a look of alarm, and she said quickly, “Good news, Rra.”
He looked at her expectantly, and then glanced again at Mighty, as if for confirmation.
She went straight to the point. “There was a lady you looked after, Rra. She was called Mrs. Grant.”
For a moment he looked confused, but then he nodded. “Yes, maybe, Mma. Maybe.”
“She was here for some days,” went on Mma Ramotswe.
Tebogo nodded. “I am not sure, Mma. It is not easy to remember one person after a long time. It is difficult, Mma.”
“It must be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think that you people have good memories. It is your job that helps you to remember. You see things and you remember them.”
Mighty laughed. “Sometimes, Mma, sometimes. Not always.”
“Well, Mma Grant remembered you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You were very kind to her.”