MMA HOLONGA sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. From the other side of the desk, Mma Ramotswe watched her client. She had observed that some people found it easier to tell a story if they shut their eyes, or if they looked down, or focused on something in the distance-something that was there but not there. It did not matter to her; the important thing was that clients should feel comfortable and that they should be able to talk without embarrassment. It might not be easy for Mma Holonga to talk about this, as these were intimate matters of the heart, and if closing her eyes would help, then Mma Ramotswe thought that a good idea. One of her clients, ashamed of what he had to say, had talked from behind cupped hands; that had been difficult, as what he had said had been far from clear. At least Mma Holonga, addressing her from her private darkness, could be understood perfectly well.

“I’ll start with the man I like best,” she said. “Or at least I think he is the one I like the best.”

Then why not marry him? thought Mma Ramotswe. If you liked a man, then surely you could trust your judgment? But no, there were men who were likeable-charming in fact-but who were dangerous to women: Note Makoti, thought Mma Ramotswe. Her own first husband, Note Makoti, was immensely attractive to women, and only later would they discover what sort of man he really was. So Mma Holonga was right: the man you liked might not be the right man.

“Tell me about this man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What does he do?”

Mma Holonga smiled. “He is a teacher.”

Mma Ramotswe noted this information on a piece of paper.First man, she wrote.Teacher. It was important information, because everybody in Botswana had their place, and one simple word could describe a world. Teachers were respected in Botswana, even if so many attitudes were changing. In the past, of course, it had been an even more important thing to be a schoolteacher, and the moral authority of the teacher was recognised by all. Today, more people had studied for diplomas and certificates and these people considered themselves to be every bit as good as teachers. But often they were not, because teachers had wisdom, while many of these people with paper qualifications had not. The wisest man Mma Ramotswe had ever known-her own father, Obed Ramotswe, had no Cambridge Certificate, not even his Standard Six, but that had made no difference. He had wisdom, and that counted for very much more.

She looked out of the window while Mma Holonga began to explain who the teacher was. She tried to concentrate, but the thought of her father had taken her back to Mochudi, and to the memories that the village had for her; of afternoons in the hot season when nothing happened but the heat and when it seemed that nothing could ever have happened; when there was time to sit in front of one’s house in the evening and watch the birds flying back to the trees and the sky to the West fill with swathes of red as the sun went down over the Kalahari; when it seemed that you would be fifteen years old for ever and would always be here in Mochudi. And you were not to know then what the world would bring; that the life you imagined for yourself elsewhere might not be as good as the life you already had. Not that this was the case with Mma Ramotswe’s life, which had on the whole been a happy one; but for many it was true-those quiet days in their village would prove to be the best time for them.

Mma Ramotswe’s thoughts were interrupted by Mma Holonga. “A teacher, Mma,” the other woman said. “I said that he was a teacher.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I was dreaming there for a moment. A teacher. Yes, Mma, that is a good job to have, in spite of the cheekiness of young people these days. It is still a good thing to be a teacher.”

Mma Holonga nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. “His name is Bobologo,” she went on. “Mopedi Bobologo. He is a teacher at the school over there near the University gate. You know that one.”

“I have driven past it many times,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who is the man who runs this garage behind us; he has a house nearby and he says that he can hear the children singing sometimes if the wind is coming from that school.”

Mma Holonga listened to this, but was not interested. She did not know Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and could not picture him, as Mma Ramotswe now did, standing on his verandah, listening to the singing of the children.

“This man is called Mr Mopedi Bobologo, although he is not like the famous Bobologo. This one is tall and thin, because he comes from the North, and they are often tall up there. Like the trees. They are just like the trees up in the North.

“He is a very clever man, this Bobologo. He knows everything about everything. He has read many books, and can tell you what is in all of them. This books says that. This book says this. He knows the contents of many books.”

“Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are many, many books. And all the time, more books are coming. It is difficult to read them all.”

“It is impossible to read them all,” said Mma Holonga. “Even those very clever people at the University of Botswana-people like Professor Tlou-they have not read everything.”

“It must be sad for them,” observed Mma Ramotswe reflectively. “If it is your job to read books and you can never get to the end of them. You think that you have read all the books and suddenly you see that there are some new ones that have arrived. Then what do you do? You have to start over again.”

Mma Holonga shrugged. “I don’t know what you do. It is the same with every job, I suppose. Look at hairdressing. You braid one head of hair and then another head of unbraided hair comes along. And so it goes on. You cannot finish your work.” She paused. “Even you, Mma. Look at you. You deal with one case and then somebody knocks at the door and there is another case. Your work is never finished.”

They were both silent for a moment, thinking of the endless nature of work. It was true, thought Mma Ramotswe, but it was not something to worry too much about. If it were not true, one might have real cause to be concerned.

“Tell me more about this Mr Bobologo,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Is he a kind man?”

Mma Holonga thought for a moment. “He is kind, I think. I have seen him smiling at the schoolchildren and he has never spoken roughly to me. I think he is kind.”

“Then why has he not been married?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Or is his wife late?”

“There was a wife,” said Mma Holonga. “But she died. He did not have time to get married again, as he was so busy reading. Now he thinks that it is time.”

Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window. There was something wrong with this Mr Bobologo; she could sense it. So she wrote on her piece of paper:No wife. Reads books. Tall and thin. She looked up. It would not take long to deal with Mr Bobologo, she thought; then they could move on to the second, third, and fourth man. There would be something to worry about with each of them, she thought pessimistically, but then she corrected herself, reminding herself that it was no use giving up on a case before one even started. Clovis Andersen, author ofThe Principles of Private Detection, would never have countenanced that.Be confident, he wrote-and Mma Ramotswe remembered the very passage-Everything can be found out in time. There are very few circumstances in which the true facts are waiting to be tripped over. And never, ever reach a decision before you start.

That was very wise advice, and Mma Ramotswe was determined to follow it. So while Mma Holonga continued to talk about Mr Bobologo, she deliberately thought of the positive aspects of this man who was being described to her. And there were many. He was very neat, she heard, and he did not drink too much. On one occasion, when they had a meal together, he had made sure that she had the bigger piece of meat and he had taken the smaller. That was a very good sign, was it not? A man who did that must have very fine qualities. And of course he was educated, which would mean that he could teach Mma Holonga things, and improve her outlook on life. All of this was positive, and yet there was still something wrong, and she could not drive the suspicion from her mind. Mr Bobologo would have an ulterior motive. Money? That was the obvious one, but was there something more to it than that?