Mr Gotso's look was steely.
'Oh yes? Some little charm for the superstitious?'
Mma Ramotswe shook her head.
'No, I don't think so. I think that is powerful stuff. I think that was probably rather expensive.'
'Powerful?' His head stayed absolutely still as he spoke, she noticed. Only the lips moved as the unfinished words slid out.
'Yes. That is good. I would like to be able to get something like that myself. But I do not know where I can find it.'
Mr Gotso moved slightly now, and the eyes slid down Mma Ramotswe's figure.
'Maybe I could help you, Mma.'
She thought quickly, and then gave her answer. 'I would like you to help me. Then maybe I could help you in some way.'
He had reached for a cigarette from a small box on his table and was now lighting it. Again the head did not move.
'In what way could you help me, Mma? Do you think I'm a lonely man?'
'You are not lonely. I have heard that you are a man with many women friends. You don't need another.'
'Surely I'm the best judge of that.'
'No, I think you are a man who likes information. You need that to keep powerful. You need muti too, don't you?'
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and laid it on a large glass ashtray.
'You should be careful about saying things like that,' he said. The words were well articulated now; he could speak clearly when he wanted to. 'People who accuse others of witchcraft can regret it. Really regret it.'
'But I am not accusing you of anything. I told you myself that I used it, didn't I? No, what I was saying was that you are a man who needs to know what's going on in this town. You can easily miss things if your ears are blocked with wax.'
He picked up the cigarette again and drew on it.
'You can tell me things?'
Mma Ramotswe nodded. 'I hear some very interesting things in my business. For example, I can tell you about that man who is trying to build a shop next to your shop in the Mall. You know him? Would you like to hear about what he did before he came to Gaborone? He wouldn't like people to know that, I think.'
Mr Gotso opened his mouth and picked a fragment of tobacco from his teeth.
'You are a very interesting woman, Mma Ramotswe. I think I understand you very well. I will give you the name of the witch doctor if you give me this useful information. Would that suit you?'
Mma Ramotswe clicked her tongue in agreement. 'That is very good. I shall be able to get something from this man which will help me get even better information. And if I hear anything else, well I shall be happy to let you know.'
'You are a very good woman,' said Mr Gotso, picking up a small pad of paper. 'I'm going to draw you a sketch-map. This man lives out in the bush not far from Molepolole. It is difficult to find his place, but this will show you just where to go. I warn you, by the way-he's not cheap. But if you say that you are a friend of Mr Charlie Gotso, then you will find that he takes off twenty percent. Which isn't at all bad, is it?'
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHE HAD the information now. She had a map to find a murderer, and she would find him. But there was still the detective agency to run, and cases which needed to be dealt with-including a case which involved a very different sort of doctor, and a hospital.
Mma Ramotswe had no stomach for hospitals; she disliked the smell of them; she shuddered at the sight of the patients sitting on benches in the sun, silenced by their suffering; she was frankly depressed by the pink day- pyjamas they gave to those who had come with TB. Hospitals were to her amemento mori in bricks and mortar; an awful reminder of the inevitable end that was coming to all of us but which she felt was best ignored while one got on with the business of life.
Doctors were another matter altogether, and Mma Ramotswe had always been impressed by them. She admired, in particular, their sense of the confidential and she took comfort in the fact that you could tell a doctor something and, like a priest, he would carry your secret to the grave. You never found this amongst lawyers, who were boastful people, on the whole, always prepared to tell a story at the expense of a client, and, when one came to think of it, some accountants were just as indiscreet in discussing who earned what. As far as doctors were concerned, though, you might try as hard as you might to get information out of them, but they were inevitably tight-lipped.
Which was as it should be, thought Mma Ramotswe. I should not like anybody else to know about my… What had she to be embarrassed about? She thought hard. Her weight was hardly a confidential matter, and anyway, she was proud of being a traditionally built African lady, unlike these terrible, stick-like creatures one saw in the advertisements. Then there were her corns-well, those were more or less on public display when she wore her sandals. Really, there was nothing that she felt she had to hide.
Now constipation was quite a different matter. It would be dreadful for the whole world to know about troubles of that nature. She felt terribly sorry for people who suffered from constipation, and she knew that there were many who did. There were probably enough of them to form a political party-with a chance of government perhaps-but what would such a party do if it was in power? Nothing, she imagined. It would try to pass legislation, but would fail.
She stopped her reverie, and turned to the business in hand. Her old friend, Dr Maketsi, had telephoned her from the hospital and asked if he could call in at her office on his way home that evening. She readily agreed; she and Dr Maketsi were both from Mochudi, and although he was ten years her senior she felt extremely close to him. So she cancelled her hair-braiding appointment in town and stayed at her desk, catching up on some tedious paperwork until Dr Maketsi's familiar voice called out: Ko! Ko! and he came into the office.
They exchanged family gossip for a while, drinking bush tea and reflecting on how Mochudi had changed since their day. She asked after Dr Maketsi's aunt, a retired teacher to whom half the village still turned for advice. She had not run out of steam, he said, and was now being pressed to stand for Parliament, which she might yet do.
'We need more women in public life,' said Dr Maketsi. 'They are very practical people, women. Unlike us men.'
Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. 'If more women were in power, they wouldn't let wars break out,' she said. 'Women can't be bothered with all this fighting. We see war for what it is-a matter of broken bodies and crying mothers.'
Dr Maketsi thought for a moment. He was thinking of Mrs Ghandi, who had a war, and Mrs Golda Meir, who also had a war, and then there was…
'Most of the time,' he conceded. 'Women are gentle most of the time, but they can be tough when they need to be.'
Dr Maketsi was eager to change the subject now, as he feared that Mma Ramotswe might go on to ask him whether he could cook, and he did not want a repetition of the conversation he had had with a young woman who had returned from a year in the United States. She had said to him, challengingly, as if the difference in their ages were of no consequence: 'If you eat, you should cook. It's as simple as that.' These ideas came from America and may be all very well in theory, but had they made the Americans any happier? Surely there had to be some limits to all this progress, all this unsettling change. He had heard recently of men who were obliged by their wives to change the nappies of their babies. He shuddered at the thought; Africa was not ready for that, he reflected. There were some aspects of the old arrangements in Africa which were very appropriate and comfortable-if you were a man, which of course Dr Maketsi was.
