“Because I don’t want him to know that he’s being watched. I don’t think he’d like that.”

  This was true, Mma Ramotswe said. People did not like to be watched—in general, that is: she had once come across a client who had become aware that he was being observed and who appeared to enjoy the process. He had been insecure, she decided, and had taken pleasure in the thought that somebody thought him important enough to be observed. She did not think Mr. Excellence Modise was at all insecure, although…She remembered his confiding in her his belief that his wife did not love him. That could be a sign of insecurity—or realism, perhaps.

  “I shall be careful,” Mma Ramotswe reassured Mma Modise. “I do not think he will see me. You must not worry.”

  Mma Modise looked relieved. “Good,” she said. “So what will you do? How will you find out where he is meeting this flashy girlfriend of his?”

  She spoke as if she was already sure about the existence of a lover. How did she know that the other woman, if she existed at all, was flashy?

  Mma Modise appeared to pick up on Mma Ramotswe’s doubts.

  “She will be flashy, of course, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “I am sure of it. Remember the earring? It was a big one, Mma. It was the sort of earring that a very flashy woman wears. She will be one of those ladies who wear short skirts—very short, Mma, almost just a belt, no more—and lots of jewellery. Lots and lots of it. Everywhere. She will be the sort of woman who says, ‘Come on, men,’ even without actually saying anything. That is the sort of woman he’s seeing.” She gave Mma Ramotswe a challenging look, as if she was expecting contradiction. “And she’ll be after his money, too, you know. That sort of woman knows that if a man is a big termite exterminator there’ll be money in the bank. They know that sort of thing. Then they flatter him and say that they find termite exterminators very romantic people, and the foolish man believes them.”

  Mma Ramotswe made an effort not to laugh. Termite exterminators did an important job, because without them the termites would eat their way through the whole country, but there was a difference between being important and being romantic. Indeed, romantic people were often distinguished by the fact that they were of no use to people—or no other use, one might say.

  “Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If this lady exists—”

  “Oh, she’ll exist all right, Mma,” interjected Mma Modise.

  Mma Ramotswe held her ground. “That’s something I shall need to find out for myself, Mma,” she said. “If this lady exists, I shall find out more about her. Then we’ll know whether she’s a sort of Violet Sephotho…”

  The reference to Violet Sephotho slipped out, as for a moment she had imagined that she was talking to Mma Makutsi, who would have appreciated the reference. She had no idea whether Mma Modise would know about Violet—there was no reason to suspect that she would.

  But Mma Modise did. “Violet Sephotho?” she exclaimed. And then, more quietly, as heads at neighbouring tables had turned, “Have you had dealings with that woman, Mma? Do you know her?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I do not know her all that well, but my assistant—I mean, my colleague—Mma Makutsi, goes back a long way with Violet. They were at the Botswana Secretarial College together.”

  “She’s a shocker, that woman,” Mma Modise continued. “I’ve heard so many things about her—” She broke off, and frowned. “Do you think she’s involved with Excellence, Mma? Is that what you think?”

  Mma Ramotswe was quick to assure her that she had no reason to suspect that Violet was carrying on with Mr. Modise. “I was just using her as an example,” she said. “She’s a sort of gold standard of bad behaviour. That’s all.”

  It was almost as if Mma Modise was disappointed to hear that Violet was not involved. “It would have been good to have a name,” she said ruefully. “Know your enemy, Mma. That way, one can be aware of what one’s up against.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not like to hear talk of enemies. It was only too easy to label everyone a friend or enemy, but that only perpetuated division. There were friends, and then there were people who were not friends but who could conceivably become friends if one made the effort. “Well, I don’t think we should spend any more time on Violet,” she said. “If you start looking in one direction, you may miss more important things happening in another. You have to keep an open mind.”

  Even as she said this, an idea came to her. It came with all the suddenness with which obvious ideas may occur, unheralded and without elaboration. If she wanted to avoid a lot of fruitless watching and waiting, this was clearly what she needed to do.

  She looked up from the menu. “Do you remember any of the stories our grandmothers used to tell us?” she asked.

  Mma Modise looked puzzled. “Yes, I do, Mma. I remember some of them—not all of them, of course.” She smiled at a memory. “My favourite was about a young woman who marries a lion. Her new husband looks like a man, but there’s something about him that says lion. Do you remember that one?”

  Mma Ramotswe had heard it, but it had been a long time ago. “She then discovers that he goes out every night…”

  “Yes, and her brothers say to her, ‘This man you’ve married—we think he has the smell of a lion about him.’ ”

  It was coming back to her. “And they tether a goat in a place where they know he likes to walk,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And they hide nearby and—”

  “And catch him when he goes after the goat.”

  “The goat knows that he is a lion,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Goats know these things.”

  Mma Modise nodded her agreement. “Yes, they do. And they put him in a cage. Yes. And then he starts to roar, and this is more proof.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “It could happen to anyone.”

  Mma Modise laughed. “Only in one of these grandmother tales, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe became serious. “I’ve just been reminded of another story,” she said. “There was a woman who had some very fine chickens that were being taken by a jackal.”

  “I see.”

  Mma Ramotswe told the story she had just heard from Beauty. At the end, she said, “In that story, Mma, a woman pretends to go away, and that brings the jackal out. That was how she caught him.”

  Mma Modise was silent. She looked up at the ceiling. Then she lowered her gaze, back to the table and to Mma Ramotswe sitting opposite her; and she did this with the air of one who has found something out by looking up at the ceiling. “Are you suggesting, Mma…”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I am, Mma. I think you need to go away for three days. Find an excuse—any excuse will do.”

  “I have a sister in Mahalapye,” said Mma Modise.

  “Then you should visit her,” Mma Ramotswe encouraged her. “Sisters need to be visited regularly, I think.”

  Mma Modise looked thoughtful. “Do you think it will work, Mma?”

  “It did in that story,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I think the whole point of those old stories is to show us what to do. Well, let’s see if they really work.”

  Mma Modise looked thoughtful. “You are very clever, Mma. I can see why you are a famous lady.”

  “I am not at all famous,” protested Mma Ramotswe. “I am just Precious Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency—that is all.”

  “But that is a lot,” said Mma Modise, adding, “At least, if you ask me.”

  They looked at one another. Mma Modise was pleased with the outcome of this lunch—even before they had made their choice from the menu. Mma Ramotswe was less content; she still had niggling doubts about how this whole affair was developing. And yet this plan, hastily conceived, was probably the best way of determining, one way or another, whether Mma Modise’s suspicions had any foundation. Now she made a decision: if it failed to produce any result, then she would withdraw from the matter altogether. She would inform both Excellence Modise and Mma Modise that they should patch up their marriage themselves and, if they were unable to do that, they should go to a marriage counsellor or a lawyer and discuss with such a person what could be done. She rather suspected that these two would eventually drift apart: that was better, perhaps, than staying together and being consumed with mutual suspicion.

  A waiter appeared and took their order. Mma Ramotswe was determined that they would now talk about something different, as the business part of the lunch had been rapidly dealt with and needed no further discussion. So, she raised the subject of rain. Did Mma Modise think that there would be good rains this year—or at least a bit better than last year’s? Mma Modise did. “I am an optimist,” she said. “I believe that things will work out for the best—although I know that this often does not happen.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about this. “But can you really be an optimist if you think that way, Mma?”

  Mma Modise sighed. “I suppose not, Mma, but then…”

  Mma Ramotswe reached out and patted her forearm. “No, you are right, Mma. It is still worth hoping for the best. That’s the only way, because if you stop hoping for the best, what do you do? You don’t bother to get out of bed in the morning.”

  “And that,” said Mma Modise, “is something we all have to do. We all have to get out of bed in the morning.”

  With that fundamental question disposed of, there was no shortage of other subjects waiting for their attention. There was a new clothing shop that had opened near the supermarket on the Tlokweng Road. Had Mma Modise visited that? She had. And what did she think? She thought that there were some nice clothes there and she was thinking of returning to buy a dress that she had spotted on display. It was red, and she thought that it was probably her size.

  “We are both traditionally built,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It can be difficult to get the right size sometimes.”

  That was another subject for discussion, and it easily lasted until the time that the waiter delivered the lunch they had ordered. Then they went on to something else, and another topic after that, and talked about these things until two o’clock, which was the time beyond which Mma Ramotswe had always felt lunch should never be prolonged. Mma Modise agreed about that. In fact, they agreed about everything, as far as Mma Ramotswe could ascertain, which made her feel that she was doing the right thing in helping this woman. Mma Modise was in the right here—in so far as there were rights and wrongs in these matrimonial cases. Mr. Excellence Modise had something to hide—and she was confident that once his wife went off to visit her sister in Mahalapye, what he had to conceal would be revealed. She had felt doubtful earlier on, but now she felt much more confident about the likely outcome. Lunch could do that sort of thing: you might sit down to lunch in a state of indecision, and get up from it with a renewed sense of certainty, particularly if you took your lunch at the President Hotel, and if the chicken and rice that you ordered was perfectly cooked and quite delicious—particularly then.

  They parted amicably. Mma Modise was pleased that Mma Ramotswe would be helping her, and Mma Ramotswe, for her part, was satisfied that she could respond positively to what was clearly a sincere cry for help. And yet, there was something niggling at the back of her mind: Why had the gardener been so dismissive of Mma Modise? Why did he have such a negative view of her—so much so that he’d confessed that he would have been happy to see her gate knocked completely over? That was, admittedly, strange, but there was probably a rational explanation. Many men disliked taking orders from a woman. It was an old-fashioned view, certainly, but you still encountered it. Perhaps the gardener was one of those men, and his reservations could be ignored as ill-concealed spleen. That was possible—indeed, probable, she thought—and she decided now to assume that to be so. The gardener could simply be ignored.

  Chapter Eleven

  Government Crocodiles

  The Gaborone Dam was an innocent body of water, not sinuous or mysterious, as were some stretches of the nearby Limpopo River. And yet, on the quiet surface of that dam, in broad daylight, and in slow motion, the life of Mr. Freddie Mogorosi, prominent and prosperous figure in the Botswana motor trade, was now in imminent peril from the approach of a large crocodile. Mogorosi was initially unaware of the imminent danger, and was even laughing at the fact that he had fallen out of the small boat onto which he and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had embarked. He thought that all he had to do was tread water for the short time it would take for his companion to start the outboard engine and come back to haul him up into the boat. The outboard, though, was temperamental—as such things can be—and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was having difficulty starting it. He had seen the crocodile slipping off the sand bank, while Mogorosi had not. And now he had to decide what to do.

  As Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni struggled with the outboard pull-cord, he shouted out a warning, as loudly as he could, but still, as a result of the circumstances, in a wavering voice.

  Mr. Freddie Mogorosi was splashing about and did not hear what was said.

  “A crocodile,” repeated Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It’s coming, Rra. A crocodile!”

  Mogorosi suddenly stopped moving. Then his head disappeared under water, and for an awful moment Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought that his companion had been taken. That is exactly how it happened—when crocodiles were involved. The prey, animal or human, would have its head above water, and the next moment it would disappear. Sometimes there would be a desperate commotion just beneath the surface; on other occasions it would be as if there had never been anything there: a scene of undisturbed peace. Had this happened now? His heart gave a lurch. It was all so sudden, so inconceivable. Mogorosi gone…

  But it was only momentary fright that had caused Mogorosi to submerge. Now, as he broke the surface, he struck out for the drifting boat with all the speed he could muster. At the same time, as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tugged at the outboard pull-cord with renewed and desperate vigour, the engine sprang into life.

  “I’m coming now!” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shouted. “Don’t worry!”

  It took only a few seconds for the boat to reach the stricken swimmer. Now a bit more used to the engine and its contrary behaviour, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni throttled back and slipped the gear lever into neutral, allowing the boat to drift the last few yards to Mogorosi’s side. “You are safe now,” he said, as he reached down to get hold of the swimmer’s arms.

  With a frightened backwards glance at the surface of the water behind him, Mogorosi tried to pull himself up over the side of the boat. This caused the boat to tip violently, almost spilling Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni into the water. There were shouts and splashing. Not far away, breaking the surface of the water, the head of the crocodile could now be seen. It was moving slowly, biding its time out of ancient habit: crocodiles can wait until exhaustion makes their target weary.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made a quick decision. “Hold on to the side,” he shouted. “But don’t try to climb in.”

  Mogorosi was not in any mood to argue. As he gripped the side of the boat, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni engaged the engine, turning the boat back towards the shore. Then, satisfied that Mogorosi had a good grip, he opened the throttle. The boat’s prow rose as it made way under the burden of its bedraggled hitchhiker. But the engine, for all its faults, was powerful enough for the task.

  Seeing its prey disappearing, the crocodile slid through the water behind them, its great tail providing powerful propulsion. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, glancing over his shoulder, saw the creature gaining on them, and coaxed an extra burst of power from the outboard. Now they were just a few yards from the shore and they felt the hull bump against rock. Able at last to stand up, Mogorosi let go of the side of the boat and began to stagger ashore.

  Only to stumble. Down he went, and the crocodile, sensing its chance, shot forward through the shallow water.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gasped. If the crocodile reached Mogorosi in the shallows, it would have no difficulty in dragging him back into the depths. And it would have done that, had Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni not seized the first object that came to hand inside the boat—a large, empty fuel can. Although this was heavy, the urgency of the situation lent him strength, as he hurled the can towards the approaching danger. Luck was on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s side: his throw was accurate enough for the can to land squarely on the half-exposed, half-submerged head of the crocodile. This was sufficient to confuse and frighten the creature, perhaps even momentarily to stun it, and it ended the attack. In a churning of muddy water, the crocodile returned to the deeper water, leaving Mogorosi to complete his brief journey in safety.

  “Oh my goodness, Rra,” said the dripping figure. “That was very close.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni found that he was shaking. He was a mild man, and rescuing others from crocodiles was not something that he had ever envisaged having to do.

  Mogorosi came up to him and put his wet arms about him in a grateful hug. “You saved my life, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” he said.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked bashful. “Not really,” he said.

  “But you did,” insisted Mogorosi.

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was silent. This had been altogether too frightening for him, and he wanted nothing more than to be back home, sitting on the verandah of the house on Zebra Drive, drinking tea with Mma Ramotswe and reflecting on the fact that between an exciting life and a dull but safe existence, he would, on balance, choose the latter.

  From a distance, Baagisi had seen what was happening and now came running. “That crocodile is a big skellum,” he said, panting from exertion. “That was why I warned you.”

  That was the warning they had not heard.

  “Well,” said Mogorosi, “thanks to this brave man here—” He pointed to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Thanks to this brave man, that croc has been sent away to think again.”

  “Yes,” said the boatman, shaking his head at the effrontery of the attack. “I have written to the government about this crocodile. They wrote back and said it was none of their business. But I say that crocodiles are the government’s business. If it can’t protect people from crocodiles, why bother to have a government? No, this is definitely a government crocodile.”