The Good Husband of Zebra Drive Read Free Page B

were.
    She drove into work slowly, not even trying to keep up with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s green truck ahead of her. At the top of Zebra Drive she nosed her van out across the road that led north, narrowly avoiding a large car which swerved and sounded its horn; such rudeness, she thought, and so unnecessary. She drove on, past the entrance to the Sun Hotel and beyond it, against the hotel fence, the place where the women sat with their crocheted bedspreads and table-cloths hung out for passers-by to see and, they hoped, to buy. The work was intricate and skilfully done; stitch after stitch, loop after loop, worked slowly and painstakingly out from the core in wide circles of white thread, like spider-webs; the work of women who sat there so patiently under the sun, women of the sort whose work was often forgotten or ignored in its anonymity, but artists really, and providers. Mma Ramotswe needed a new bedspread and would stop to buy one before too long; but not today, when she had things on her mind. Mma Botumile. Mma Botumile. The name had been tantalising her, because she thought that she had encountered it before and could not recall where. Now she remembered. Somebody had once said to her:
Mma Botumile: rudest woman in the whole of Botswana. True!

CHAPTER TWO

    THE RULE OF THREE
    S O, MMA,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “Another day.”
    It was not an observation that called for an immediate reply; certainly one could hardly contradict it. So Mma Ramotswe merely nodded, glancing at Mma Makutsi and taking in the bright red dress—a dress which she had not seen before. It was very fetching, she thought, even if a bit too formal for their modest office; after all, new clothes, grand clothes, can show just how shabby one’s filing cabinets are. When she had first come to work for Mma Ramotswe, Mma Makutsi had possessed only a few dresses, two of which were blue and the others of a faded colour between green and yellow. With the success of her part-time typing school for men, she had been able to afford rather more, and now, following her engagement to Phuti Radiphuti, her wardrobe had expanded even further.
    â€œYour dress, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s very smart. That colour suits you well. You are a person who can wear red. I have always thought that.”
    Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. She was not used to compliments on her appearance; that difficult skin, those too-large glasses—these made such remarks only too rare. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I am very pleased with it.” She paused. “You could wear red too, you know.”
    Mma Ramotswe thought:
Of course I can wear red.
But she did not say this, and simply said instead, “Thank you, Mma.”
    There was a silence. Mma Ramotswe was wondering where the money for the dress came from, and whether it had been bought during that unauthorised absence from work. She thought that she might know the answer to the first question: Phuti Radiphuti was obviously giving Mma Makutsi money, which was quite proper, as he was her fiancé, and that was part of the point of having a fiancé. And as for the second question, well, she would be able to find that out readily enough. Mma Ramotswe strongly believed that the simplest way to obtain information was to ask directly. This technique had stood her in good stead in the course of countless enquiries. People were usually willing to tell you things if asked, and many people moreover were prepared to do so even if unasked.
    â€œI always find it so hard to make up my mind when I’m choosing clothes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That’s why Saturday is such a good time for clothes-shopping. You have the time then, don’t you? Unlike a working day. There’s never time for much shopping on a work day, don’t you find, Mma Makutsi?”
    If Mma Makutsi hesitated, it was only for a moment. Then she said, “No, there