The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) by Alexander McCall Smith
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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Rra. You hit the nail on the head.”
“That’s for a builder to do,” said Phuti.
Again Mr. Putumelo did not appear to grasp the reference. “But,” he said, raising a hand to emphasise his point, “I have a way round this problem. If you have a contract with the client that says
I will erect the building for cost plus twenty per cent
, then you can’t go wrong. You get a good building; you don’t get rubbish. I know that I’m going to make a profit, and so I don’t try to cut any corners. What’s the point of doing that?”
Phuti thought about this. He did not want his builder to cut corners; he wanted a solid house that would last them a lifetime. It seemed to him a very good idea, but he was a businessman and an opening percentage was always just that: the point at which negotiations could begin. “It seems a good approach,” he said, “but the percentage …”
“Oh, that,” said Mr. Putumelo. “That nineteen per cent margin …”
“Seventeen,” said Phuti.
Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “Nineteen.”
“Eighteen?”
“Done,” said Mr. Putumelo, extending a hand. “You will not regret this, Rra. I can assure you of that.”
Phuti took the builder’s hand and shook it. “This is very good,” he said.
The builder laughed. “Very good? It’s excellent. First class.” He reached for a piece of paper that had been lying face down on the desk. “Now all that we have to do is write in the relevant percentage here.” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his shirt for a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. The effect of these glasses was to make him look erudite; like a teacher, thought Phuti, remembering, with a sudden pang, the teacher whom he had idolised at Gaborone Senior School and who had been killed one weekend by a drunken driver on the Lobatse Road, the young Radiphuti’s first real encounter with death and with the realisation, so hard at that age, that immortals, too, can die.
A few scribbles of the pen and the contract was duly executed “according to the laws of Botswana,” as its final clause attested. Phuti was pleased, and sealed the bargain again with a handshake, while continuing to fold and tuck the piece of paper with his free hand. That done, Mr. Putumelo reached for a brochure from ashelf behind his head and leafed through it to find an illustration to show his client.
“In my opinion,” he said, “we should go for brick rather than for these concrete blocks that everybody is using these days. You can’t go wrong with brick.”
Phuti looked momentarily confused. “I thought that most houses were built with brick, except for low-cost housing.” He pointed out of the window in the direction of the fields of neat, two-room, flat-roofed houses that the Government had built.
Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “No, Rra, you are wrong. Well, you are wrong and right, both at the same time. You see, you are right about that low-cost housing: it is very good for people who do not have much money, and they are happy with the concrete-block construction. And those houses are strong, too! They will not fall down for many years, I can tell you. But when it comes to big houses—the sort of house that a man like you wants to build, then you would think that good materials would be used. You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
He waited for Phuti to answer.
“Yes, Rra. You would think that they would use—”
“Good-quality brick,” interjected Mr. Putumelo. “Or even stone. You’ve seen those houses out at Mokolodi? You’ve seen those good stone walls? Those houses will last forever, my friend. One hundred years—easy. Maybe two hundred years. Who knows how long? How long is a piece of string? That is what I always say.”
Phuti began to say something, but was again silenced by Mr. Putumelo.
“Now you’d think that a good-quality house would be built of brick or stone, but is that what is happening today? I can tell you, Rra Radiphuti, that there are builders in
“That’s for a builder to do,” said Phuti.
Again Mr. Putumelo did not appear to grasp the reference. “But,” he said, raising a hand to emphasise his point, “I have a way round this problem. If you have a contract with the client that says
I will erect the building for cost plus twenty per cent
, then you can’t go wrong. You get a good building; you don’t get rubbish. I know that I’m going to make a profit, and so I don’t try to cut any corners. What’s the point of doing that?”
Phuti thought about this. He did not want his builder to cut corners; he wanted a solid house that would last them a lifetime. It seemed to him a very good idea, but he was a businessman and an opening percentage was always just that: the point at which negotiations could begin. “It seems a good approach,” he said, “but the percentage …”
“Oh, that,” said Mr. Putumelo. “That nineteen per cent margin …”
“Seventeen,” said Phuti.
Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “Nineteen.”
“Eighteen?”
“Done,” said Mr. Putumelo, extending a hand. “You will not regret this, Rra. I can assure you of that.”
Phuti took the builder’s hand and shook it. “This is very good,” he said.
The builder laughed. “Very good? It’s excellent. First class.” He reached for a piece of paper that had been lying face down on the desk. “Now all that we have to do is write in the relevant percentage here.” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his shirt for a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. The effect of these glasses was to make him look erudite; like a teacher, thought Phuti, remembering, with a sudden pang, the teacher whom he had idolised at Gaborone Senior School and who had been killed one weekend by a drunken driver on the Lobatse Road, the young Radiphuti’s first real encounter with death and with the realisation, so hard at that age, that immortals, too, can die.
A few scribbles of the pen and the contract was duly executed “according to the laws of Botswana,” as its final clause attested. Phuti was pleased, and sealed the bargain again with a handshake, while continuing to fold and tuck the piece of paper with his free hand. That done, Mr. Putumelo reached for a brochure from ashelf behind his head and leafed through it to find an illustration to show his client.
“In my opinion,” he said, “we should go for brick rather than for these concrete blocks that everybody is using these days. You can’t go wrong with brick.”
Phuti looked momentarily confused. “I thought that most houses were built with brick, except for low-cost housing.” He pointed out of the window in the direction of the fields of neat, two-room, flat-roofed houses that the Government had built.
Mr. Putumelo shook his head. “No, Rra, you are wrong. Well, you are wrong and right, both at the same time. You see, you are right about that low-cost housing: it is very good for people who do not have much money, and they are happy with the concrete-block construction. And those houses are strong, too! They will not fall down for many years, I can tell you. But when it comes to big houses—the sort of house that a man like you wants to build, then you would think that good materials would be used. You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
He waited for Phuti to answer.
“Yes, Rra. You would think that they would use—”
“Good-quality brick,” interjected Mr. Putumelo. “Or even stone. You’ve seen those houses out at Mokolodi? You’ve seen those good stone walls? Those houses will last forever, my friend. One hundred years—easy. Maybe two hundred years. Who knows how long? How long is a piece of string? That is what I always say.”
Phuti began to say something, but was again silenced by Mr. Putumelo.
“Now you’d think that a good-quality house would be built of brick or stone, but is that what is happening today? I can tell you, Rra Radiphuti, that there are builders in
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