Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. It was so obvious. So obvious. But then the solutions to complex problems were often such simple things. If you wore uncomfortable boots, then how could you play good football? Of course you cannot-everybody, even a woman who owned a detective agency and who came from Mochudi and who had a fine mechanic for a husband, and two children who loved her although she was not their real mother, and who was the daughter of a man called Obed Ramotswe-even such a woman, with absolutely no knowledge of football, and no interest in it-even she would know that.
Then she remembered something, and the remembering of it struck her so forcefully that she found herself holding her breath, almost afraid to breathe. Of course. Of course. Mr. Molofololo had made that strange remark, right at the beginning: I am the one. It is me. He knew! He knew-on one level-that he was the problem, and it had slipped out. He knew but did not know, as was often the case with a person's own faults. We know what is wrong, but we cannot bring ourselves to admit it. She had helped clients like that before-people who really knew the answer to their problems but wanted somebody else to help them admit it. She breathed out. Yes. Yes.
She turned round and suddenly picked Puso up and hugged him. It was exactly the sort of gesture that a small boy would find acutely embarrassing-that they would run away from to avoid- but he suffered it. “You clever, clever boy!”
The boy's embarrassment turned to puzzlement. “Why, Mma?”
“Oh, Puso, it is a very big case that you have just solved. What… what treat would you like? Tell me.”
He looked up at her. “Ice cream,” he said. “Lots of it.”
“There will be ice cream,” she said. “We shall go right now. In the van. Ice cream-lots and lots of ice cream. More than you can eat-I promise you.”
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, at eleven o'clock, Mma Ramotswe drove out to the orphan farm to have tea with Mma Potokwane. She had received no specific invitation, and when she left the office of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency she had no idea even that the matron would be in. But in the event she received her usual warm greeting from her friend, who was standing in front of her office in an apparently idle moment.
“Nothing to do, Mma Ramotswe?” Mma Potokwane called out. “Time for a cup of tea?”
“You do not look very busy yourself,” replied Mma Ramotswe, as she walked up to greet her.
“I am standing here planning,” said Mma Potokwane. “I do my best thinking when I am on my feet watching the children playing.”
Mma Ramotswe looked round. A group of very small children were playing under a tree-some strange game of childhood that involved tagging and running. There had been so many of those games, thought Mma Ramotswe-all with complicated rules and a history behind them; just like the affairs of the adult world- complicated rules and a history.
“They look happy,” Mma Ramotswe said.
Mma Potokwane smiled. “They are very happy. No matter what they have had in their lives before, they are very happy.” She gestured for Mma Ramotswe to follow her into the office.
“I see you are driving a new van,” she said, as they sat down. “It is very smart.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing.
“And your old van? The white one?” asked Mma Potokwane.
“My old van has been retired. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni decided that he could not fix it any more.”
“He did that with our water pump,” said Mma Potokwane. “I thought that it could go on a bit longer, but he said that it could not. They are like that sometimes-mechanics. They decide that the end has come and then nothing you say can make them think otherwise.” She paused. “Are you sad, Mma? Sad about your van?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am. But I think that I am going to get it back. I know where it has gone and I am going to go up there one day soon and find it. There is a man who has bought it to fix it up. I shall go up there-it's in Machaneng-and buy it back.”
She had not told anybody of this plan, had hardly determined it in her own mind, but now, rehearsed in this way before Mma Potokwane, it was the obvious thing to do. Yes, that was what would happen. She would go and find the tiny white van and bring it back. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could hardly complain if she brought it back restored-it was not as if she would have to ask him to fix it.
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Mma Potokwane. “Well done, Mma. It is a good thing to fight for the things you love.” She looked at her guest. “And that blue van out there,” she ventured. “If you get your tiny white van back, then will you need that blue van? Because we're always looking for transport for the children, you see…”
Mma Ramotswe smiled ruefully. Mma Potokwane was incorrigible. But that would be too much. She could hardly give away a valuable van just because Mma Potokwane wanted it for the children.
“I'm sorry, Mma,” she said. “I would love to give you that van, but it is worth quite a lot of money and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni…”
“Of course, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “I understand. Now, let us talk about other things. We cannot sit here and talk about vans, like men do. We must talk about more important things.”
Mma Ramotswe took the initiative. “Yes, we can leave that sort of talk to our husbands. That and football.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “Football! Yes, my husband is always going on about that with his friends. It is very dull for me.”
“Mind you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Some bits of football are quite interesting.” She looked down at the floor in modesty. “As it happens, Mma, I have just solved a very major football case. Would you like to hear about it?”
It was why she had really come out to see Mma Potokwane, to tell her of the extraordinary resolution of the case of the Kalahari Swoopers. And it was an odd case, really-a very odd case. So she told her about her excursion into the world of football players and of the sudden, blinding insight that Puso had triggered.
“And was it the problem?” asked Mma Potokwane.
“I think so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Of course I had a bit of difficulty persuading Mr. Molofololo when I saw him earlier this morning. I told him that the reason he was losing was that the players all felt uncomfortable in the boots he was making them wear. He shouted at me, actually, and said that he had never heard such nonsense and that it was typical of the sort of idea that a woman would come up with. He was quite rude, actually, and I told him that I would not be spoken to like that and that he had better watch what he said. And do you know, Mma, that deflated him like a balloon. And he stopped shouting.”
“I would always listen to you, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane.
“Thank you, Mma. Well, he seemed to be thinking and after a while he telephoned the captain and started to talk to him about boots. The captain said much the same thing that I had said. And the captain also said, Why don't you listen to anybody Rra? Why don't you hear us when we try to talk to you? Mr. Molofololo started to shout about that, but I stopped him and said, There you are, Rra-you are not listening, are you? And he stopped. Just like that. He had heard something at last. After that he started to apologise to me. He said that he had learned a lesson and that he was very grateful for it.”
Mma Potokwane nodded approvingly. “So what did you say then, Mma?”
“I said, Here is my bill, Rra. It is ready for payment now.”
“And?”
“And he paid. He paid very well, Mma. That is why I have come out to see you, to tell you all about this and… and to tell you about another case. A very shocking one.”
Mma Potokwane listened open-mouthed as Mma Ramotswe told her the story of Violet Sephotho and her shocking attempt to ingratiate herself with Phuti Radiphuti. And when she came to tell her of the way in which Charlie had exposed the plan, the matron hooted with laughter. “That boy really is quite a star,” she said. “I have always said that. And yet he's still an apprentice.”