“Mma Ramotswe!”
She stood where she was, frozen in terror. There was somebody in the yard, watching her. Somebody had whispered her name.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. And it would be dangerous
to speak, anyway. So she backed away, slowly, inch by inch, towards the kitchen
door. Once inside, she slammed the door shut behind her and reached for the
lock. As she turned the key the electricity came on and the kitchen was flooded
with light. The fridge started to purr; a light from the cooker winked on and
off at her: 3:04; 3:04
CHAPTER NINE
THE BOYFRIEND
THERE WERE three quite exceptional houses in the country, and Mma Ramotswe felt some satisfaction that she had been invited to two of them. The best-known of these was Mokolodi, a rambling chateau-like building placed in the middle of the bush to the south of Gaborone. This house, which had a gatehouse with gates on which hornbills had been worked in iron, was probably the grandest establishment in the country, and was certainly rather more impressive than Phakadi House, to the north, which was rather too close to the sewage ponds for Mma Ramotswe’s taste. This had its compensations, though, as the sewage ponds attracted a great variety of bird life, and from the verandah of Phakadi one could watch flights of flamingos landing on the murky green water. But you could not do this if the wind was in the wrong direction, which it often was.
The third house could only be suspected of being a house of distinction, as very few people were invited to enter it, and Gaborone as a whole had to rely on what could be seen of the house from the outside—which was not much, as it was surrounded by a high white wall—or on reports from those who were summoned into the house for some special purpose. These reports were unanimous in their praise for the sheer opulence of the interior.
“Like Buckingham Palace,” said one woman who had been called to arrange flowers for some family occasion. “Only rather better. I think that the Queen lives a bit more simply than those people in there.”
The people in question were the family of Mr Paliwalar Sundigar Patel, the owner of eight stores—five in Gaborone and three in Francistown—a hotel in Orapa, and a large outfitters in Lobatse. He was undoubtedly one of the wealthiest men in the country, if not the wealthiest, but amongst the Batswana this counted for little, as none of the money had gone into cattle, and money which was not invested in cattle, as everybody knew, was but dust in the mouth.
Mr Paliwalar Patel had come to Botswana in 1967, at the age of twenty-five. He had not had a great deal in his pocket then, but his father, a trader in a remote part of Zululand, had advanced him the money to buy his first shop in the African Mall. This had been a great success; Mr Patel bought goods for virtually nothing from traders in distress and then sold them on at minimal profit. Trade blossomed and shop was added to shop, all of them run on the same commercial philosophy. By his fiftieth birthday, he stopped expanding his empire, and concentrated on the improvement and education of his family.
There were four children—a son, Wallace, twin daughters, Sandri and Pali, and the youngest, a daughter called Nandira. Wallace had been sent to an expensive boarding school in Zimbabwe, in order to satisfy Mr Patel’s ambition that he become a gentleman. There he had learned to play cricket, and to be cruel. He had been admitted to dental school, after a large donation by Mr Patel, and had then returned to Durban, where he set up a practice in cosmetic dentistry. At some point he had shortened his name—”for convenience’s sake”—and had become Mr Wallace Pate BDS (Natal).
Mr Patel had protested at the change. “Why are you now this Mr Wallace Pate BDS (Natal) may I ask? Why? You ashamed, or something? You think I’m just a Mr Paliwalar Patel BA (Failed) or something?”
The son had tried to placate his father.
“Short names are easier, father. Pate, Patel—it’s the same thing. So why have an extra letter at the end? The modern idea is to be brief. We must be modern these days. Everything is modern, even names.”
There had been no such pretensions from the twins. They had both been sent back to the Natal to meet husbands, which they had done in the manner expected by their father. Both sons-in-law had now been taken into the business and were proving to have good heads for figures and a sound understanding of the importance of tight profit margins.
Then there was Nandira, who was sixteen at the time and a pupil at Maru-a-Pula School in Gaborone, the best and most expensive school in the country. She was bright academically, was consistently given glowing reports from the school, and was expected to make a good marriage in the fullness of time—probably on her twentieth birthday, which Mr Patel had felt was precisely the right time for a girl to marry.
The entire family, including the sons-in-law, the grandparents, and several distant cousins, lived in the Patel mansion near the old Botswana Defence Force Club. There had been several houses on the plot, old colonial-style houses with wide verandahs and fly screens, but Mr Patel had knocked them down and built his new house from scratch. In fact, it was several houses linked together, all forming the family compound.
“We Indians like to live in a compound,” Mr Patel had explained to the architect. “We like to be able to see what’s going on in the family, you know.”
The architect, who was given a free rein, designed a house in which he indulged every architectural whimsy which more demanding and less well-funded clients had suppressed over the years. To his astonishment, Mr Patel accepted everything, and the resulting building proved to be much to his taste. It was furnished in what could only be called Delhi Rococo, with a great deal of gilt in furniture and curtains, and on the walls expensive pictures of Hindu saints and mountain deer with eyes that followed one about the room.
When the twins married, at an expensive ceremony in Durban to which over fifteen hundred guests were invited, they were each given their own quarters, the house having been considerably expanded for the purpose. The sons-in-law were also each given a red Mercedes-Benz, with their initials on the driver’s door. This required the Patel garage to be expanded as well, as there were now four Mercedes-Benz cars to be housed there; Mr Patel’s, Mrs Patel’s car (driven by a driver), and the two belonging to the sons-in law.
An elderly cousin had said to him at the wedding in Durban: “Look, man, we Indians have got to be careful. You shouldn’t go flashing your money around the place. The Africans don’t like that, you know, and when they get the chance they’ll take it all away from us. Look at what happened in Uganda. Listen to what some of the hotheads are saying in Zimbabwe. Imagine what the Zulus would do to us if they had half a chance. We’ve got to be discreet.”
Mr Patel had shaken his head. “None of that applies in Botswana. There’s no danger there, I’m telling you. They’re stable people. You should see them; with all their diamonds. Diamonds bring stability to a place, believe me.”
The cousin appeared to ignore him. “Africa’s like that, you see,” he continued. “Everything’s going fine one day, just fine, and then the next morning you wake up and discover your throat’s been cut. Just watch out.”
Mr Patel had taken the warning to heart, to an extent, and had added to the height of the wall surrounding his house so that people could not look in the windows and see the luxury. And if they continued to drive around in their big cars, well, there were plenty of those in town and there was no reason why they should be singled out for special attention.
MMA RAMOTSWE was delighted when she received the telephone call from Mr Patel asking her whether she could possibly call on him, in his house, some evening in the near future. They agreed upon that very evening, and she went home to change into a more formal dress before presenting herself at the gates of the Patel mansion. Before she went out, she telephoned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“You said I should get a rich client,” she said. “And now I have. Mr Patel.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni drew in his breath. “He is a very rich man,” he said. “He has four Mercedes-Benzes. Four. Three of them are all right, but one has had bad problems with its transmission. There was a coupling problem, one of the worst I’ve seen, and I had to spend days trying to get a new casing …”
YOU COULD not just push open the gate at the Patel house; nor could you park outside and hoot your horn, as everybody did with other houses. At the Patel house you pressed a bell in the wall, and a high-pitched voice issued from a small speaker above your head.
“Yes. Patel place here. What do you want?”
“Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Private …”
A crackling noise came from the speaker.
“Private? Private what?”
She was about to answer, when there was another crackling sound and the gate began to swing open. Mma Ramotswe had left her tiny white van round the corner, to keep up appearances, and so she entered the compound by foot. Inside, she found herself in a courtyard which had been transformed by shade netting into a grove of lush vegetation. At the far end of the courtyard was the entrance to the house itself, a large doorway flanked by tall white pillars and tubs of plants. Mr Patel appeared before the open door and waved to her with his walking stick.
She had seen Mr Patel before, of course, and knew that he had an artificial leg, but she had never seen him at really close quarters and had not expected him to be so small. Mma Ramotswe was not tall—being blessed with generous girth, rather than height—but Mr Patel still found himself looking up at her when he shook her hand and gestured for her to come inside.
“Have you been in my house before?” he asked, knowing, of course, that she had not. “Have you been at one of my parties?”
This was a lie as well, she knew. Mr Patel never gave parties, and she wondered why he should pretend to do so.
“No,” she said simply. “You have never asked me.”
“Oh dear,” he said, chuckling as he spoke. “I have made a big mistake.”
