“You look worried,” said the apprentice. “Is there something troubling you, Boss?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “I have an unpleasant duty to do,” he said. “I have to go and speak to some bad mechanics about their work. That is what is troubling me.”

“Who are these bad mechanics?” asked the apprentice.

“Those people at First Class Motors,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “The man who owns it and the men who work for him. They are all bad, every one of them.”

The apprentice whistled. “Yes, they are bad all right. I have seen those people. They know nothing about cars. They are not like you, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who knows everything about all sorts of cars.”

The compliment from the apprentice was unexpected, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, in spite of his modesty, was touched by the young man’s tribute.

“I am not a great mechanic,” he said softly. “I am just careful, that is all, and that is what I have always wanted you to be. I would want you to be careful mechanics. It would make me very happy if you would be that.”

“We will be,” said the apprentice. “We will try to be like you. We hope that people will always look at our work and think: they learned that from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Someof your work, maybe…” he began, but the apprentice interrupted him.

“You see,” he said, “my father is late. He became late when I was a small boy-just that high-very small. And I did not have uncles who were any good, and so I think of you as my father, Rra. That is what I think. You are my father.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was silent. He had always had difficulty in expressing his emotions-as mechanics often do, he thought-and it was hard for him now. He wanted to say to this young man: What you have said makes me very proud, and very sad, all at the same time-but he could not find these words. He could, however, place a hand on the young man’s shoulder and leave it there for a moment, to show that he understood what had been said.

“I have never said thank you, Rra,” went on the apprentice. “And I would not want you to die without being thanked by me.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni gave a start. “Am I going to die?” he asked. “I am not all that old surely. I am still here.”

The apprentice smiled. “I did not mean that you were going to die soon, Rra. But you will die one of these days, like everybody else. And I wanted to say thank you before that day came.”

“Well,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, “what you say is probably true, but we have spent too much time standing here talking about these things. There is work to be done in the garage. We have to get rid of that dirty oil over there. You can take it over to the special dump for burning. You can take the spare truck.”

“I will do that now,” said the apprentice.

“And don’t pick up any girls in the truck,” warned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You remember what I told you about the insurance.”

The apprentice, who had been already walking away, suddenly stopped in his tracks, guiltily, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew immediately that this was precisely what he had been planning to do. The young man had made a moving statement, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been touched by what he had said, but some things obviously never changed.

A few hours later, as the sun climbed up the sky and made shadows short and even the birds were lethargic, when the screeching of the cicadas from the bush behind Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had reached a high insistent pitch, the butcher drew up in his handsome old Rover. He had had the time to reflect on what Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had told him, and he now spoke angrily of First Class Motors, with whom he intended to have no further dealings. Only shame, the shame of being a victim, prevented him from returning there to ask for his money back.

“I shall do that for you, Rra,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I feel responsible for what my brother mechanics have done to you.”

The butcher took Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s hand and shook it firmly. “You have been very good to me, Rra. I am glad that there are still some honest men left in Botswana.”

“There are many honest men in Botswana,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I am no better than anybody else.”

“Oh yes you are,” said the butcher. “I see many men in my work and I can tell…”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cut him short. This was clearly a day for excessive compliments, and he was beginning to feel embarrassed. “You are very kind, Rra, but I must get on with my work. The flies will be settling on the cars if I don’t look out.”

He had spoken the words without thinking that a butcher might take such a remark as a slight, as a suggestion that his own meat was much beset by flies. But the butcher did not appear to mind, and he smiled at the metaphor. “There are flies everywhere,” he said. “We butchers know all about that. I would like to find a country without flies. Is there such a place, do you think, Rra?”

“I have not heard of such a country,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I think that in very cold places there are no flies. Or in some very big towns, where there are no cattle to bring the flies. Perhaps in such places. Places like New York.”

“Are there no cattle in New York?” asked the butcher.

“I do not think so,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

The butcher thought for a moment. “But there is a big green part of the town. I have seen a photograph. This part, this bit of bush, is in the middle. Perhaps they keep the cattle there. Do you think that is the place for cattle, Rra?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, glancing at his watch. It was time for him to go home for his lunch, which he always ate at noon. Then, after lunch, fortified by a plate of meat and beans, he would drive round to First Class Motors and speak to the Manager.

MMA MAKUTSI ate her own lunch in the office. Now that she had a bit more money from the Kalahari Typing School for Men, she was able to treat herself to a doughnut at lunchtime, and this she ate with relish, a magazine open on the desk before her, a cup of bush tea at her side. It was best, of course, if Mma Ramotswe was there too, as they could exchange news and opinions, but it was still enjoyable to be by oneself, turning the pages of the magazine with one hand and licking the sugar off the fingers of the other.

The magazine was a glossy one, published in Johannesburg, and sold in great numbers at the Botswana Book Centre. It contained articles about musicians and actors and the like, and about the parties which these people liked to attend in places like Cape Town and Durban. Mma Ramotswe had once said that she would not care to go to that sort of party, even if she were to be invited to one-which she never had been, as Mma Makutsi helpfully pointed out-but she was still sufficiently interested to peer over Mma Makutsi’s shoulder and comment on the people in the pictures.

“That woman in the red dress,” Mma Ramotswe had said. “Look at her. She is a lady who is only good for going to parties. That is very clear.”

“She is a very famous lady, that one,” Mma Makutsi had replied. “I have seen her picture many times. She knows where there are cameras and she stands in front of them, like a pig trying to get to the food. She is a very fashionable lady over in Johannesburg.”

“And what is she famous for?”

“The magazine has never explained that,” Mma Makutsi had said. “Maybe they do not know either.”

This had made Mma Ramotswe laugh. “And then that woman there, that one in the middle, standing next to…” She had stopped, suddenly, as she recognised the face in the photograph. Mma Makutsi, engrossed in the contemplation of another photograph, had not noticed anything untoward. So she did not see the expression on Mma Ramotswe’s face as she recognised, in the middle of the group of smiling friends, the face of Note Mokoti, trumpet player, and, for a brief and unhappy time, husband of Precious Ramotswe and father-not that it had meant anything to him-of her tiny child, the one who had left her after only those few, cherished hours.