Mma Botumile received him on the verandah of the house, in a spot that looked out directly onto a spreading jacaranda tree and an area of crazy-paving. She did not rise to greet him as he was shown in by the maid, but continued with a telephone call that she was making. He looked up at the ceiling, and then studied the pot plants; averting his eyes from the rudeness of his hostess.
Eventually she finished with her call. “Yes, Rra,” she said, tossing the cordless telephone down on a cushion beside her. “You have some information for me.”
There was no greeting, no enquiry after his health, but he was used to that now, and he did not let it upset him.
“I have carried out enquiries,” he said solemnly. He looked at the chair next to hers. “May I sit down, Mma?”
She made a curt gesture. “If you wish. Yes. Sit down and tell me what you have found out about this husband of mine.”
He lowered himself into the chair and took the photograph out of its envelope. “I have followed your husband, Mma,” he began. “I followed him from his work in the evening and I was able to establish that he has been seeing another woman.”
He watched her reaction to this disclosure. She was controlled, merely closing her eyes briefly for a few moments. Then she looked at him. “Yes?”
“The lady is called Mma Baleseng, I believe, and she lives over at…”
There was a sudden intake of breath by Mma Botumile. “Baleseng?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you look at this photograph you will see her. That is her house. And that person there, whom you cannot see properly because of the tree, that is your husband going up the steps. Those are his legs.”
Mma Botumile peered at the photograph. “That is her,” she hissed. “That is her.”
“Do you know her?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
Mma Botumile looked up from the photograph and addressed him with fury. “Do I know her? You’re asking me—do I know her?” She flung the photograph down on the table. “Of course I know her. Her husband works with my husband. They do not like one another very much, but they are colleagues. And now she is carrying on with my husband. Can you believe that, Rra?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni clasped his hands together. He wished that he had spoken to Mma Ramotswe about the proper way to convey information of this nature; was one expected to sympathise? Should one try to comfort the client? He thought that it would be difficult to comfort somebody like Mma Botumile, but wondered if he should perhaps try.
“I never thought that he would be carrying on with her,” Mma Botumile spat out. “She’s a very ugly woman, that one. Very ugly.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wanted to say, But she can’t help that surely, but he did not.
“Maybe…,” he began, but did not finish. Mma Botumile had risen to her feet and was peering down the driveway.
“Oh yes,” she said. “This is very well timed. This is my husband coming back now.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni began to stand up, but was pushed back into his seat by Mma Botumile. “You stay,” she said. “I might need you.”
“Are you going to…,” he began to ask.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I most certainly am going to. And he is going to have to too. I am going to ask him to explain himself, and I can just see his face! That will be a very amusing moment, Rra. I hope that you have a sense of humour so that you can enjoy it.”
As Mma Botumile left to meet her husband, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sat in miserable isolation on the verandah. It occurred to him that Mma Botumile could hardly detain him against his will, that he could leave if he so desired, but then if he did that Mma Ramotswe would be bound to hear of his abandonment of the case and she would hardly be impressed. No, he would have to stay and he would have to provide Mma Botumile with the support that she expected of him in the confrontation with her husband.
There were voices round the corner—Mma Botumile’s voice and the voice of a man. Then she appeared, and behind her came the man whom he had heard. But it was not her husband; it was not Mr Botumile.
“This is my husband,” said Mma Botumile, pointing, rather rudely, to the man behind her.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked from face to face.
“Well?” said Mma Botumile. “Seen a ghost?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was aware of the fact that Mr Botumile was looking at him in puzzlement and expectation. He decided, though, not to look at him, and concentrated on Mma Botumile instead.
“That is not the man,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Mma Botumile. She turned to her husband, and almost as an aside said, “Your little affair. Finished. As of now.”
No actor could have dissembled more convincingly than Mr Botumile, were he dissembling, which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni rapidly concluded he was not. “Me? Affair?”
“Yes,” snapped Mma Botumile.
“Oh…oh…” Mr Botumile stared at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni for support. “It is not true, Rra. It is not true.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni drew in his breath. Mma Botumile, Mma Potokwane—these powerful women were all the same, and one just had to stand up to them. It was not easy, but it had to be done. “He is not the man, Mma,” he said loudly. “That is not the man I followed.”
“But you said…”
“Yes, I said, but I am wrong. I saw another man leaving the office. He also drove a red car. I followed that man.”
Mr Botumile clapped his hands together. “But that is Baleseng. He works with me. Baleseng is the financial controller. You followed Baleseng, Rra! Baleseng is having an affair!”
Mma Botumile directed a withering look at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You stupid, stupid, useless man,” she said. “And that stupid photograph of yours. That is a picture of Baleseng going back to his wife! You stupid man!”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took the insult in silence. He looked down at the table, at the photograph, now revealed to be so innocent. A faithful man returns to his wife: that could be the title of that picture. He had made a mistake, yes, but it was a genuine mistake, a mistake of the sort that anybody, including this impossibly arrogant woman, might make. “You’re not to call me stupid,” he said quietly. “I will not have that, Mma.”
She glared at him. “Stupid,” she said. “There. I have called you stupid, Rra.”
But Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking. It now dawned on him that he did have some information that might be of use to these people, even if it was something of a long shot.
“I followed this Baleseng twice, you know,” he said. “And on the first occasion I saw something very interesting.”
“Oh yes,” sneered Mma Botumile. “You saw him go shopping perhaps? You saw him buy a pair of socks? Very interesting information, Rra!”
“You must not make fun of me,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, his voice rising, but still just under control. “You must not talk to me like that, Mma. You are very ill-mannered.” He paused. “I saw him have a meeting with Charlie Gotso. And I overheard what they talked about.”
The effect of this information was dramatic. Mr Botumile, who had been quietly smirking ever since he had been cleared of suspicion, now became animated. “Gotso?” he said. “He met Gotso?”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“What about?” asked Mma Botumile. “What did they talk about?”