MMA MAKUTSI opened the door to their visitors.
“Mr. and Mrs.…,” she announced, looking at them expectantly.
The man shook his head. “Not Mr. and Mrs.,” he corrected. “Mr. and Miss.”
Mma Makutsi was unembarrassed. “Then Mr. and Miss …?”
The man shook his head again. “No, Mma. I am Mr. and this lady with me is my sister only. We do not have the same name because—”
Mma Makutsi cut him short. “Because your sister is married? Of course, Rra. That must be the reason.”
The man looked at Mma Ramotswe, who had now risen from her desk to greet them. A look of understanding passed between them—a look that said: we have both had over-zealous assistants—they mean well, of course, but have a lot to learn.
Mma Ramotswe stepped forward. “I’m Mma Ramotswe,” she said, extending her hand. “And this lady is my assis—” She remembered barely in time. “My co-director.”
The words slipped out. Technically, Mma Makutsi had become a partner in the business; had it been a company, she might have been a director, but it had never been incorporated—“hardly worth doing when the shares would be worth nothing,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s accountant, who, as a favour, did the accounts of the agency. Partner, though, had come to mean something else—as Mma Ramotswe had read in a magazine—and she felt a different word was needed. She knew that she could have called her a business partner, but that was cumbersome, almost pernickety, and Mma Makutsi was so much more than a business partner. She was the person who made the tea, who commented on the state of the world as they drank the tea she made, who answered the phone, did the filing, and kept the young mechanics in their place. It was a large role, one for which the term business partner simply seemed inadequate, but which seemed fully worthy of the label co-director.
The compliment might well have slipped out unnoticed, but it did not. Mma Makutsi heard it and its effect was electric. She seemed to grow in stature, become a bit taller, and smile a bit more broadly.
The man nodded at the introductions. “And my name is Sengupta,” he said. “And my sister …” He gestured to the woman beside him. “My sister’s good name is Chattopadhyay, which was the name of her late husband, my brother-in-law. It is a long name and so people call her Miss Rose, which is easier. That is not her real first name, but it is the one that people use. Just remember: red flower with thorns, and you will not forget her name.”
There was something earnest about his manner that endeared him to Mma Ramotswe. She smiled encouragingly. “It is a fine name to have.” She had been discreetly studying their visitors and the memory she had been trying to locate had now surfaced. Sengupta Office Supplies—she had seen their advertisements in the newspaper. Paper clips, staples, copier paper …
“Exactly,” said Mr. Sengupta.
Mma Ramotswe looked surprised.
“You mentioned paper clips,” he said.
She had muttered the words without realising, as unintentionally as she had said co-director. It was a worrying prospect: if one started to say what one was thinking, the results could be very embarrassing. She might think, Oh, there goes Mma Makutsi again—sounding off about the usual things, and were she to say that, the consequences would be awkward. There would be all sorts of misunderstandings … or would they be misunderstandings at all? Truth would break out, rather like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and we would all understand one another perfectly well, because we would know what we thought of each other.
“Paper clips?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh yes, paper clips. You’re the office supplies man, aren’t you, Rra?”
Mr. Sengupta seemed proud that his business had been recognised. “That is exactly who I am, Mma.” He looked about the office. “Perhaps you use some of our items?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “We do not,” she said. “We go to a company out near Broadhurst. They are—”
Mma Ramotswe shot a glance in her assistant’s direction. “I have seen your catalogue, Rra,” she said quickly. “They are very fine products, I think.”
“There is room for more than one company,” said Mr. Sengupta generously. “Competition in business is a good thing, I believe.”
“It is very important,” said Mma Makutsi.
“But you are the only detective agency in town,” went on Mr. Sengupta. “Unless there is some other outfit that I am unaware of. Perhaps it is in disguise.” He laughed at his own joke.
“That is very funny, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. “They would be very good at disguises, but nobody would know they were there.”
Mr. Sengupta’s response was touched with annoyance. “That is what I meant,” he said.
Mma Ramotswe judged it was time to take control of the situation. “Please sit down, Mr. Sengupta … and Miss Rose.” She gestured to the two client chairs before her desk. The chairs had always been in that position—ever since they had moved into the office—although recently Mma Makutsi had shifted them so that they were at least half facing her desk as well. Mma Ramotswe had not approved of this, as she found it awkward talking to people side-on, and had returned them to their original position, facing her directly. But now, as the man and the woman sat down, she realised that there would be further chair issues: one could not have clients sitting with their backs to a co-director.
Mma Makutsi was hovering behind them, and now offered the visitors tea. This offer was gratefully accepted by Miss Rose, who spoke for the first time. “I am very fond of tea,” she said. “I drink it all the time.”
“It is very good for the digestion,” said Mr. Sengupta.
“And for many other organs,” said Miss Rose. “It clears the head and the nasal passages.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tea does all of those things. And more, I believe. And yet people still drink coffee …”
Mr. Sengupta started to shake his head. First it went from side to side, over one shoulder and then over the other, but then it started to move backwards and forwards. The signals confused Mma Ramotswe; she knew the Indian habit of moving the head from side to side meant the opposite of what it meant elsewhere and signified approval rather than disagreement, but she was not sure what a combination of movements meant. Perhaps there was something wrong with Mr. Sengupta; perhaps his head was loose.
“I am in complete agreement with you, Mma,” he said. “There is too much coffee being drunk. It is a serious situation.” He paused. “But that is not the problem that I wanted to talk to you about. I am happy to talk about coffee some other time, but there is another thing that is preying on my mind.”
“Then please tell me, Rra.”
“I shall. But firstly, may I tell you about myself, Mma Ramotswe?”
“And me too,” said Miss Rose.
“Yes, yes, I’ll tell them about you, Rosie. But I shall be first because I am the one who is speaking, you see.”
In the background, the kettle, supervised by Mma Makutsi, began to make sounds of readiness—a faint whistling, like the first stirrings of the wind.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Rra. There are many places in this world that I would like to see one day, and India is certainly one of them. It is high on my list.” As she spoke, Mma Ramotswe reflected on the fact that she had never really been anywhere much, apart from a couple of trips over the border into South Africa, and on another occasion north to Bulawayo. That made a total of two foreign countries, but she did not think of Botswana’s neighbours as being really very foreign. And as for the list, it was hardly an active one, as she suspected that she would never be able to get away, even if she could afford the fare, and somebody would have to take care of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and the children. And if Mma Makutsi were left in charge of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency there was always a risk that she would do something that would require sorting out later, co-director or not. Then there was another thing: even if India was on her list, there were other places that were higher up. There was Muncie, Indiana, to which Clovis Andersen, author of her vade mecum, The Principles of Private Detection, had given her an open invitation before he left Botswana; and then there was London, which she would like to visit in order to see Prince Charles if at all possible, although she was realistic about that and realised that he could well be busy when she was there and unable to fit her in to talk about the things that she had read he liked to talk about. She would like it if they could exchange notes on gardening, and she could tell him about her success with runner beans and her mopipi tree, and the difficulties of growing things when the rains were achingly slow to arrive. He would understand all that, she thought, because he had been to Botswana and had gone out into the Kalahari and she could tell that he knew; and she could see that he was a good man.
Mr. Sengupta was saying something about Calcutta. “My family is from Bengal, you see, Mma. Perhaps you know of Kolkata, which they used to call Calcutta. I still call it that because I cannot keep up with all the changes in the world. Change this, change that—who are these people who tell us we must always be changing, Mma Ramotswe?”
Both he and Miss Rose looked at Mma Ramotswe enquiringly, as if the question were not rhetorical but demanded an answer. Mma Ramotswe was not sure what to say; she agreed with the general sentiment, though. “They are tiresome people, Rra,” she said. “You are right about that.”
“But who are they?” repeated Mr. Sengupta.
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “They are people who write in the newspapers or talk on the radio. They are the people who keep telling us what to think and to say.”
Mr. Sengupta leaned forward in his enthusiasm. “Exactly, Mma! Exactly! I do not ever remember any election in which I was asked to vote for people for the job—the job of telling others what they can say and what they can’t say. Do you remember that election?”
Mma Makutsi had now made the tea and was passing a cup to Miss Rose. “There was no election like that,” she contributed. “These are people with very long noses, that is all.”
Mr. Sengupta turned to look at her. “Long noses, Mma?”
“Yes, they have long noses because they poke them into other people’s business. That is why they think they can tell us what to say.”
“I tell them to go away,” said Miss Rose. “I say: go away, you people, just go away.”
This remark was greeted with silence. Then Mr. Sengupta continued, “We should be more prepared to tell people to go away, you know. If more of us stood up and said ‘go away,’ we would have less trouble with government people and busybodies of every sort.”
“That would teach them,” said Miss Rose.
“But I must get back to what I was saying,” said Mr. Sengupta. “As I was telling you, my family is from Bengal. My grandfather was a well-known man in Calcutta. He had a street named after him, you know, and he was very well off before he lost all his money in some political dealings with some very rotten fellows. That was a big tragedy for our family, but my father picked himself up and treated it as a challenge. He became a successful man and was able to give each of his four sons enough money to go and start a business somewhere. That is when I came to Botswana—that was thirty years ago. I was twenty-five then, Mma. I was young, but I came and started my office supplies business. It was not easy leaving India and starting up in the middle of Africa, but I did it, Mma. And the moment I arrived in this country I thought: this is a good place. This is a good place because people treat one another well and there is much work to be done. That is what I thought, Mma, and I have not changed my view.”
Mma Makutsi passed Mr. Sengupta his cup of tea and he thanked her with one of his difficult-to-interpret movements of the head. “Then my sister came and joined us with her husband. He worked with me in the business, and started our branch up in Francistown. That did very well until he became ill and subsequently he passed over.” He looked at his sister, who lowered her eyes.
“I am glad that everything went well for you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I am sorry about your husband, Mma. I am sorry that he is late.”
Miss Rose raised her eyes and acknowledged the expression of sympathy.
“We lead a quiet life,” said Mr. Sengupta. “We are both citizens now—I took citizenship fifteen years ago, and I am very proud of it. My sister took it a bit later, but she is also proud to be a citizen.”
“I am happy to hear that,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was not sure where the story was going. Mr. Sengupta had said that he was leading a quiet life, but not so quiet, it seemed, that he had no need to consult the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
Mr. Sengupta suddenly looked grave. “Then something happened,” he said. “Something very unexpected.”
They waited. For a full minute he sat in silence before continuing. “A woman came to our house,” he said. “She was an Indian person, like us. She walked up to the house. We have a man at the gate. These days people like us have a man at the gate to watch out for people who think they can steal our possessions. They think that just because we are Indian we will have a lot of money and they can come and help themselves to it.”
Mma Ramotswe knew that what he said was true. There were people who preyed on others: many of them came from outside the country, she believed, but it was not only foreigners who were to blame.
“This woman told the man at the gate that she needed to see me and that she was a friend. He let her in—it was not his fault. These men think that if one Indian person comes asking for another Indian person, then she must be a relative or friend. It is natural—I am not blaming him. So this woman came to the door, and my sister was the first to speak to her. You tell her, Rosie.”
Miss Rose leaned forward in her chair. “I had never seen her before in my life, Mma Ramotswe. She was a stranger—a complete stranger.”
“We know most members of the Indian community here in Gaborone,” explained Mr. Sengupta. “You see people at weddings. The big festivals too—Diwali and so forth. My sister will have met just about every Indian lady in the town—but not this lady, you see, Mma. Not her.”
“So she was a visitor?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Or somebody who was working for some firm? South African, maybe?”
Mr. Sengupta raised a hand. “No, unfortunately not, Mma. It would have been simple if that had been the case, but it was not. This lady was completely without any connection in Gaborone, or the rest of Botswana, for that matter.”
“It was as if she came from nowhere,” said Miss Rose.
Mr. Sengupta laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly it. She is the lady from nowhere, Mma.”
From behind them, Mma Makutsi joined in the conversation. “She has to come from somewhere. Nobody comes from nowhere. We all come from somewhere.”
Mr. Sengupta half turned in his chair to address her. “Yes, Mma, that is correct. So perhaps I should say of this lady that she appeared to come from nowhere.”
“Yes,” said Miss Rose. “She appeared to come from nowhere. But perhaps that is just where she is from. Nowhere.” She made an airy gesture to demonstrate the curious state of coming from nowhere.
Mr. Sengupta’s head started to bob about once more. “We must not get confused. This lady obviously comes from somewhere, but it is not clear where that place is. And what makes this a rather unusual case is that she doesn’t seem to know where she comes from.”
“Or her name,” said Miss Rose. “Can you believe that, Mma? She doesn’t know what her name is.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. Clovis Andersen had said something in his book about a case of his in which somebody suffered from amnesia. This person could not remember what had happened to him when he was found lying by the side of a road. He had been hit by a car, it transpired, and it was only much later he began to remember the sequence of events. “Was she involved in an accident?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Sometimes people cannot remember what happened to them if they have an injury to their head. It is not unknown.”
“No, it is not,” said Mr. Sengupta. “And that was the first thing that I suspected. Obviously I could not send her back out onto the street, could I, Mma?”
“Of course not.” She knew, though, that there were people who would do exactly that in similar circumstances.
“So I got my friend, Dr. Moffat, to take a look at her,” Mr. Sengupta continued. “You know him, Mma?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“He said that there was no sign of any head injury and that she seemed to be quite healthy in other respects.”
“Very strange,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Stranger than strange,” agreed Mr. Sengupta. “So we told her she could stay with us. We couldn’t let an Indian lady wander around not knowing who she was—or where she was.”
“Did she really not know where she was?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Not even that she was in Gaborone?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You read about these things, but I’m sure they can’t be true. How can you forget everything?”
“I assure you, Mma, she had no idea,” said Mr. Sengupta. “I am not a person who is easily fooled, you know. I asked her if she knew that she was in Botswana, and she simply looked at me blankly. Like this.” He affected what he thought would be the look of somebody who had no idea of being in Botswana.
Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. “What did Dr. Moffat say about her story?” she asked.
“He said that he thought she was telling the truth. He said that sometimes people claim not to remember things in order to get themselves out of trouble. This lady did not appear to be lying. He said that he thought it was genuine amnesia.”
Mma Ramotswe looked pensive. “I assume that you want me to find out who this lady is?”
Mr. Sengupta sat back in his chair. “That is why we are here, Mma.”
“But why do you want to find this out, Rra? Is it for you to do that?”
Mr. Sengupta sighed. “There are two reasons for that, Mma Ramotswe. One is that I have taken this lady into my house. And once you have done that, then you cannot walk away, can you?”
“You cannot,” said Mma Makutsi from behind him. “You cannot walk away.”
“And the second reason,” Mr. Sengupta continued. “The second reason has to do with the immigration people. This lady has no papers—no passport, no driving licence, nothing. I went to see them about getting her permission to stay in the country, and they kicked up a very big fuss. They said they cannot receive an application from a person with no name and no address. They said that the most likely thing is that she is from Zimbabwe and that they will have to push her back over the border.”
Mma Makutsi knew what that entailed. “She will be in trouble,” she said. “Things are not easy there, and she would have to find somebody to look after her.”
“That’s quite right,” said Mr. Sengupta. “So I asked them if we could buy some time. I asked, if I engaged somebody to find out who she is, would they delay expelling her? They said that they would—provided the person I got to look into it is suitable.”
“We are very suitable,” said Mma Makutsi. “We are the only detective agency in Botswana.”
“That is what I said to them,” said Mr. Sengupta. “And you’ll be happy to hear, Mma, that they said the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency would be perfectly acceptable for this enquiry.” He paused. “They have given us six months. That is very good, as it gives us a lot of time to sort things out.”
Miss Rose now spoke. “Will you take on this case, Mma Ramotswe? Will you find out who this poor lady is?”
Mma Ramotswe did not need any time to consider. She could imagine how uncomfortable the woman’s situation would be, how confusing and frightening it must be not to know why you are where you are. Of course she would help.
“We shall do this for you,” she said, glancing across the room at Mma Makutsi, who nodded enthusiastically. “We shall do our best.”
“We cannot guarantee results,” chimed in Mma Makutsi, “but my co-director and I will do our best, Mr. Sengupta.”
Co-director! It was as Mma Ramotswe had imagined it would be. There should be a new saying, she thought—after all, somebody had to be the first to coin a saying, no matter how well known and widely used it later became. This one, she thought, could become popular: Give a secretary a new title, and it sticks. She smiled at the thought. Life was like that: it revealed just how true all the sayings were. In that respect, at least, there were never any real surprises, no matter how surprising things seemed to be on the surface.