The Good Husband of Zebra Drive Read Free Page A

dashes and wiggles that covered the pages of her own notebook.
    â€œIt will be a first,” she remarked, as she squinted at a note which Mma Ramotswe had left her. “It will be the first time that anybody has started to write shorthand without learning it. It may even be in the papers.”
    Mma Ramotswe had wondered whether she should feel offended by this, but had decided to laugh instead. “Would I get ninety-seven per cent for it?” she asked.
    Mma Makutsi became serious. She did not like her result at the Botswana Secretarial College to be taken lightly. “No,” she said. “I was only joking about shorthand. You would have to work very hard at the Botswana Secretarial College to get a result like that. Very hard.” She gave Mma Ramotswe a look which implied that such a result would be well beyond her.
    Now, on the paper before her, were Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s notes. “Time,” he had written, “3:20 p.m. Client: woman. Name: Faith Botumile. Complaint: husband having an affair. Request: find out who the husband’s girlfriend is. Action proposed: get rid of girlfriend. Get husband back.”
    Mma Ramotswe read the note and looked at her husband. She was trying to imagine the encounter between Faith Botumile and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Had the interview taken place in the garage, while his head was buried in some car’s engine compartment? Or had he taken her into the office and interviewed her from the desk, wiping his hands free of grease as she told her story? And what was Mma Botumile like? What age? Dress? There were so many things that a woman would notice which would provide vital background to the handling of the case which a man simply would not see.
    â€œThis woman,” she asked, holding up the note. “Tell me about her?”
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shrugged. “Just an ordinary woman,” he said. “Nothing special about her.”
    Mma Ramotswe smiled. It was as she had imagined, and Mma Botumile would have to be interviewed again from scratch.
    â€œJust a woman?” she mused.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said.
    â€œAnd you can’t tell me anything more about her?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Nothing about her age? Nothing about her appearance?”
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni seemed surprised. “Do you want me to?”
    â€œIt could be useful.”
    â€œThirty-eight,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.
    Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “She told you that?”
    â€œNot directly. No. But I was able to work that out. She said that she was the sister of the man who runs that shoe shop near the supermarket. She said that she was the joint owner, with him. She said that he was her older brother—by two years. I know that man. I know that he had a fortieth birthday recently because one of the people who brings in his car for servicing said that he was going to his party. So I knew…”
    Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “And what else do you know about her?”
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at the ceiling again. “Nothing, really,” he said. “Except maybe that she is a diabetic.”
    Mma Ramotswe was silent.
    â€œI offered her a biscuit,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “You know those iced ones you have on your desk. In that tin marked
Pencils.
I offered her one of those and she looked at her watch and then shook her head. I have seen diabetics do that. They sometimes look at their watch because they have to know how long it is before their next meal.” He paused. “I am not sure, of course. I just thought that.”
    Mma Ramotswe nodded, and glanced at her own watch. It was almost time to go to the office. It was, she felt, going to be an unusual day. Any day on which one’s suppositions are so rudely shattered before eight o’clock is bound to be an unusual day, a day for discovering things about the world which are quite different from what you thought they