Mma Makutsi put down her fork and wiped her mouth carefully on a corner of her paper table napkin. "You are a very handsome man," she said.

Phuti looked surprised. "I am just an ordinary man..."

"No," said Mma Makutsi. "You are one of the most handsome men in Botswana. That is what people say, you know."

Phuti smiled nervously. "I think that there are many more handsome men than me. There definitely are."

Mma Makutsi edged her chair towards his, a curious manoeuvre that involved her folding the seat of the chair as she pushed it closer to Phuti. "I'd like to kiss you, Phuti," she said.

He dropped his knife onto his plate; there was a loud clatter.

"Do not be shy," said Mma Makutsi.

"I...I..." He had not stammered for a long time, but now it came back.

Mma Makutsi inclined herself forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"There," she said. "I am happy now that I have kissed you."

Phuti's lower jaw seemed to quiver. "Oh," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I am very happy."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "With reference to that previous kiss..."

"Yes?"

"Would it be possible to have another one?"

Mma Makutsi reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Of course," she said. "There are lots and lots of kisses."

There was no further discussion of shoes.

AFTER THEY HAD FINISHED DINNER and Puso and Motholeli had been put to bed, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat together out on the verandah of their house on Zebra Drive. They often did this after a meal, savouring the slightly cooler breeze that sometimes moved between the trees, listening to the sounds of the night, so different from those of the day. Insects who were silent from dawn to dusk had their say once the sun went down, knowing, perhaps, that the birds were elsewhere. Those who lived in the Kalahari, or on its fringes, were told as children that these chirruping noises at night, these sounds that were like high-pitched clicks, were the stars in the sky calling their hunting dogs. And it sounded just like that, thought Mma Ramotswe, although all those things that sound so right were often just poetry, really-the gravy we put on reality to make it taste a bit better. and Puso and Motholeli had been put to bed, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat together out on the verandah of their house on Zebra Drive. They often did this after a meal, savouring the slightly cooler breeze that sometimes moved between the trees, listening to the sounds of the night, so different from those of the day. Insects who were silent from dawn to dusk had their say once the sun went down, knowing, perhaps, that the birds were elsewhere. Those who lived in the Kalahari, or on its fringes, were told as children that these chirruping noises at night, these sounds that were like high-pitched clicks, were the stars in the sky calling their hunting dogs. And it sounded just like that, thought Mma Ramotswe, although all those things that sound so right were often just poetry, really-the gravy we put on reality to make it taste a bit better.

It was a good time for sitting together, Mma Ramotswe felt, and it was not necessary to say anything. That evening, the sky was all but white with stars, filled with acres and acres of constellations , right down to the horizon. She had learned the names of some of these cl.u.s.ters when she was younger, but had forgotten most of them now, apart from the Southern Cross, which could be seen hanging over the sky towards Lobatse, a pointer to the distant Cape and its cold waters. And the Milky Way was there too-she had always been able to identify that, like a swirl of milk in an ocean of dark tea. As a girl she had imagined the Milky Way was the curtain of heaven, a notion she had been sorry to abandon as she had grown up. But she would not abandon a belief in heaven itself, wherever that might be, because she felt that if she gave that up then there would be very little left. Heaven may not turn out to be the place of her imagining, she conceded-the place envisaged in the old Botswana stories, a place inhabited by gentle white cattle, with sweet breath-but it would surely be something not too unlike that, at least in the way it felt; a place where late people would be given all that they had lacked on this earth-a place of love for those who had not been loved, a place where those who had had nothing would find they had everything the human heart could desire.

She looked at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, sitting beside her, a mug of tea in his hands.

"Thinking of?" she asked. "What do they say? I'll give you a thebe if you tell me your thoughts."

He laughed. "Some of my thoughts are not worth a thebe."

"I can be the judge of that."

"Charlie," he said. "I was thinking of Charlie. And you?"

He turned to her, and for a moment there was light in his eyes, a reflection of the half-lit doorway behind them.

"Me? I was thinking of the next thing I should be thinking of. I have a case that I need to deal with."

He nodded. "That Moeti business?"

"Yes."

"I do not know that man. I could ask around, though, if you want me to. There is a man at the automotive trades school whose brother lives down there, I think. Or cousin. Or somebody."

She smiled at the thought. It was like that in Botswana-people knew one another, or if they did not, they thought they did. And that was how she wanted it. There were places, she realised, where everybody was a stranger and where, when you saw somebody, you knew that you might never see them again in this life. She could not imagine Botswana being like that. Here there were no real strangers-even if you did not know a person, he was still the brother or cousin of somebody whom you might know, or whom somebody else would know. And people did not come from nowhere, as seemed to be the case in those distant big cities; everyone had a place to which they were anch.o.r.ed by ties of blood, by ties of land.

"Thank you," she said. "But don't bother to speak to your friend. I have had an idea." She told him about the boy, Mpho, who surely went to the local school. Teachers, she said, were helpful as long as you treated them with sufficient respect; she would have a word with the village teacher and see what came of that.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought for a moment. "I have a cousin who is a teacher in those parts," he said. "He is not the one you want to speak to, I'm afraid, but he will know that one. His school is on the other side of the Lobatse road, but roads are-"

"Nothing," said Mma Ramotswe. "Roads go through the land, not through people."

"Exactly," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. I am a mechanic, he thought, and I cannot put it as well as Mma Ramotswe can. But what she said about roads was quite true, he decided, even if he felt that the matter would require further reflection. "Shall I ask him, then?"

Mma Ramotswe nodded. "Just an introduction, Rra. Just ask him to tell the teacher that there will be a lady coming down from Gaborone who wants to talk to him. Or her, if the teacher is a lady. Say that this lady will not want to talk for long and will be no bother at all."

He could not imagine Mma Ramotswe ever being a bother to anybody at all, and he told her so. She thanked him, and then they went on to finish their tea.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE TEACHER WAS A SMALL MAN.

MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI was proved right. His cousin knew the teacher at the village school close to the Moeti farm. He would send a boy, he said, to let the other teacher know that Mma Ramotswe was coming; it was only ten miles there and back-nothing for a young boy who probably walked five miles to school every day anyway. He would do so immediately, first thing that morning. was proved right. His cousin knew the teacher at the village school close to the Moeti farm. He would send a boy, he said, to let the other teacher know that Mma Ramotswe was coming; it was only ten miles there and back-nothing for a young boy who probably walked five miles to school every day anyway. He would do so immediately, first thing that morning.

"In that case," said Mma Ramotswe to Mma Makutsi, "I shall go down there straightaway, Mma. You will be in charge here. The office is in your hands."

"I am ready for that," said Mma Makutsi, adding, "I have often thought of what would happen if you had an accident, Mma."

Mma Ramotswe, who was retrieving the key for her van from its drawer, looked up in surprise. "An accident?"

Mma Makutsi was momentarily fl.u.s.tered. "Heaven forbid that it should happen, Mma. I was just thinking of what would happen to the business if you were to have an accident and..."

"Die?"

"No, no, Mma Ramotswe. Not die. Just be in hospital for a while. I wondered what would happen here in the agency. Would I need to get an a.s.sistant? Would I be able to handle all the important cases? Those are the things that I was thinking about." She paused. "But it is like thinking of what would happen if Botswana suddenly became a very wet country, or if cattle learned Setswana, or something equally unlikely. Just dreaming, really."

Mma Ramotswe straightened up. "Well, I'm sure that you would handle everything very well," she said. "Just as I hope I would, if you were ever to have an accident, which I very much hope never happens, Mma."

Mma Makutsi changed the subject, and talked about some correspondence that had been dictated by Mma Ramotswe but still had to be sent off. She would do that, she said, and do some filing, too, if she had the time. Mma Ramotswe thanked her, and left.

Sh.e.l.l: the sh.e.l.l of an ostrich egg. Somebody had broken it and left the fragments by the side of the path that led to the school. It was a neatly kept path, one of those Mma Ramotswe would describe as a the sh.e.l.l of an ostrich egg. Somebody had broken it and left the fragments by the side of the path that led to the school. It was a neatly kept path, one of those Mma Ramotswe would describe as a government path, government path, marked on each side by a line of whitewashed stones. In the old days of the Protectorate, when the British still had their district commissioners, there were many such paths throughout Africa, and whitewashed tree trunks too. This habit of whitewashing had lingered in some places, where people thought of it as a way of holding disorder at bay: lines of white stones represented structure, a bulwark against the encroachment of the bush. marked on each side by a line of whitewashed stones. In the old days of the Protectorate, when the British still had their district commissioners, there were many such paths throughout Africa, and whitewashed tree trunks too. This habit of whitewashing had lingered in some places, where people thought of it as a way of holding disorder at bay: lines of white stones represented structure, a bulwark against the encroachment of the bush.

The ostrich sh.e.l.l was out of place; perhaps one of the children had brought it in to show the others and had dropped it, or there had been some childish fight that had led to its destruction. Mma Ramotswe reached down and pocketed a piece, feeling the thickness of the sh.e.l.l as she did so. Then, she continued on her way to the small cl.u.s.ter of buildings-no more than two or three-that made up the local primary school.

"Yes, Mma?"

A woman had emerged from the smaller of the two buildings and was staring at Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Ramotswe began the traditional greeting. Was this woman well? Had she slept well? And the woman asked the same questions of her, and then again said, "Yes, Mma?"

"I have come to speak to the teacher," said Mma Ramotswe. "My husband knows the teacher at the other school-the one over on that side. He is his cousin, and he said-"

The woman raised a hand to stop her. "Yes, you are that lady, Mma. We have heard that you would be coming. There was a message. You are welcome."

"Thank you. I will not take much of the teacher's time."

The woman indicated that this did not matter. "I am the school secretary. There is just me and the teacher. We are the staff, and we get very few visitors, Mma. We are very happy that you've come to see us."

Mma Ramotswe followed the woman into what she saw was a small office. The walls were plastered, but unpainted. There were no ceiling boards, just a criss-cross of wooden beams and the underside of a corrugated-iron roof above. In the centre of the room there stood a rectangular, three-drawered desk of the sort found in a thousand government offices up and down the country. Behind it there was a revolving chair covered in threadbare, greasy brown fabric. At the side of the room, pushed up against the wall, was another, smaller desk on which an unstable tower of box files had been built.

"This is the teacher's desk," said the secretary, pointing to the desk in the middle of the room. "And that one over there is mine. This is also the staff room." She smiled at her own joke. "When teachers come from bigger schools, they say, 'Where is your staff room?' And I say, 'You are in it right now!'"

She gestured to a spare chair that had been placed in front of the teacher's desk and invited Mma Ramotswe to sit down. "You sit there and I shall fetch the teacher."

While the secretary was out of the room, Mma Ramotswe looked about her. The walls were almost bare, apart from a small cl.u.s.ter of notices pinned to a square of discoloured soft board. There was a timetable of the hours from eight in the morning until one in the afternoon, with a subject noted after each: eight-roll-call and arithmetic; nine-Setswana and geography of Botswana; and so on through the day. Reading it brought a smile to Mma Ramotswe's face, as did a small notice addressed to "All Staff," setting out the dates of the school terms. It would be like putting up notices to herself and Mma Makutsi, she thought, although she could include notices about tea and the washing of teacups addressed to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and the apprentices.

A voice came from behind her: "Mma?"

She spun round. The teacher was standing in the doorway, the secretary behind him. She drew in her breath sharply; she had not expected this. The teacher was very short-a dwarf, in fact-and the secretary, who was a woman of barely average height, towered over him.

She recovered her poise quickly. "Dumela, Rra. I was just looking at the timetable. You must be very busy." Rra. I was just looking at the timetable. You must be very busy."

The teacher inclined his head. "There is just me," he said. "Me and this lady here, who you have already met."

He crossed the floor and extended a hand in greeting. Mma Ramotswe reached down; it seemed so strange to be bending to shake hands with a man. His handshake felt firm, almost too firm, as he gripped her.

"Please sit in that chair, Mma," he said. "I will go to my desk."

He walked round the desk, his head barely showing above its surface. "My name is Oreeditse Modise. And you, Mma, are...?"

She gave her name, and he wrote it down solemnly on a pad of paper on his desk. That done, he looked up at her and smiled. There was something about the smile that touched her; it was as if he were reaching out to her.

"I am married to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni," she said. "He is the cousin of your colleague at the other school."

Mr. Modise made a further note. "Cousin," he said. "That is very good."

"I am a detective," said Mma Ramotswe.

She expected him to note this down too, but he did not. This information had clearly surprised him, and he threw a glance in the direction of his secretary, who opened her mouth slightly in a silent oh. oh.

"Not a police detective," said Mma Ramotswe quickly. "I am a person who works for people who have private problems. That sort of detective."

She saw him relax.

"Oh," he said. "I see."

"There has been a very unpleasant incident at a farm near here," she said. "There was-"

"I know all about that, Mma." Mr. Modise put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. "There was a dastardly attack on some innocent cows over at Mr. Moeti's place. Very bad."

The secretary let out a wail. "Very bad! Cows! Cows!"

"So you're working on that, are you, Mma? Then I am very happy to a.s.sist in any way. We cannot have people attacking cattle in this country. We cannot."

"No, no!" shrieked the secretary.

Mma Ramotswe felt that the temperature in the room was rising rather higher than perhaps it should. "We must remain calm," she said quietly. "It is the sort of thing that makes anybody angry. But we must remain calm if we are to deal with this."

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Modise, glancing at the secretary. "I am calm now. You need not worry, Mma. We are all calm."

Mma Ramotswe realised that her fears as to their cooperation were misplaced: these two, at least, were allies-the entire staff. She told them why she had come to see them. There was a boy called Mpho, whose mother worked in the Moeti house...

"Mpho?" said the teacher. "That boy is one of ours. He is in the cla.s.sroom. He is there right now." He picked up his pencil and wrote the name on his pad of paper: MPHO, in capital letters.

Mma Ramotswe clasped her hands together involuntarily. It had worked.

"Does that boy know something?" asked Mr. Modise.

She explained about her meeting with the child on the Moeti farm. "I am sure that he knows what happened," she said. "But I am equally sure that he was frightened. So I need to speak to him."

"Yes, yes," said the teacher, making a signal to his secretary. "Fetch him straightaway. Then we can ask him about this thing. We shall get the truth out of him and he will tell us, or we shall give him a beating."

Mma Ramotswe gasped. "Please! Let's not beat anybody. And..." She paused. It would be impossible to speak to the boy in the teacher's presence, and yet she would need to be tactful. "If you wouldn't mind too much, I think it might be better for me to speak to him privately, Rra."

"Why? I am his teacher."

"Yes, and I'm sure that he respects you very much. But in my experience, Rra-and I have been a detective for a few years now-I find that some witnesses, and particularly children, do not speak freely if there is somebody they like and respect in the room. They say what they think that person will want them to say, Rra. It is very curious, but human nature is strange, and that is what I think."

He looked at her doubtfully for a moment, and then nodded his agreement. "You're the expert, Mma."

She thanked him for his understanding, and noticed how he beamed at the compliment. What compliments were paid to a teacher out in the bush, she wondered; and to a teacher like this, a small man who must be accustomed to the stares of others?

"It is nothing, Mma," he said. "Nothing at all. Would you like to speak to him in here, or outside?"

"Outside," she said quickly.

THE BOY MPHO, part-time herd boy, son of a domestic servant, a rather puny little boy who probably did not know who his father was-a boy with a running nose discharging mucus onto his upper lip-stood before her, shaking with fear. part-time herd boy, son of a domestic servant, a rather puny little boy who probably did not know who his father was-a boy with a running nose discharging mucus onto his upper lip-stood before her, shaking with fear.

They were under a tree a short distance from the schoolroom itself. It was hot, and the shade was welcome. From inside, through the open windows of the schoolroom, came the sound of the children reciting their tables. Two fours make eight; three fours make twelve; four fours... Two fours make eight; three fours make twelve; four fours...