The hippo had lain in a drawer of her desk for several days. Each time she opened it, he had looked out at her through the tiny indentations that were his eyes, as if to reproach her for his waterless exile, and she had wondered what to do with him. She had shown it to Mma Makutsi one morning, and her assistant had looked at her in puzzlement.

“That is a hippo, Mma Ramotswe. You have a hippo.”

It had been difficult to contradict. “Yes, it is a small hippo.”

Mma Makutsi waited expectantly, but said nothing. Mma Ramotswe had hoped that an admiring remark would have been made; then she would have presented it to her. But no such remark was forthcoming.

“It’s very skilfully carved,” she said at last. “You can even see his eyes. See? Those little marks there-they are the hippo’s eyes.”

“They are made by machines,” said Mma Makutsi.

“I do not think so, Mma. This is a work of art. There is a sculptor somewhere who makes these animals.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. It was a shake that she gave when she knew that she was on firm ground. “I do not think so, Mma. There is a machine with different buttons. If you press one, then you get a hippo like that. And then there is another button for an elephant, and a giraffe too. They are very clever, these machines.”

Mma Ramotswe felt a growing irritation. Mma Makutsi could be very dogmatic, and had been known to defend an indefensible position long after she had been shown to be wrong. These were hand-carvings-they were not the product of some ridiculous machine. No machine could make these curves in wood; no machine could put the eyes in exactly the right place. It was impossible. “You’ve seen a picture of such a machine, Mma?” she asked.

“You do not need to see pictures of things to know about them,” Mma Makutsi answered blandly.

It had been a pointless discussion, and she had replaced the hippo in the drawer. It was not her fault if Mma Makutsi could not appreciate art, and could not tell the difference between handmade and machine-made objects. Yet as she replaced the hippo, she sneaked a look under its belly. Made in China would have settled the argument in favour of Mma Makutsi, but there was no such label, and she was reassured.

Later that day she gave the hippo to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have bought you a present,” she said. “I spotted it at that market at Riverwalk.”

He took the hippo in his hands and examined it carefully. “It is very beautiful,” he said. “I am very happy with it. It will be a… a treasure.”

“You’ll see that even the eyes are just right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Look at how they have made the eyes.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni peered at the hippo. “Very accurate,” he said. “I wonder if they have a machine to help them do that, Mma? Do you think so?”

Now, sitting at her table in the Riverwalk Café, waiting for her meeting with Mma Mateleke, she let her gaze wander over the nearest stall. There were no carved hippos-fortunately-but clothes: shirts, dresses, and aprons. A breeze caught one of the shirts and filled it with air for a few moments, and she watched it moving, writhing, as if it were worn by a ghost, now a sedately dancing ghost, now the ghost of an agitated contortionist.

She was watching the shirt when Mma Mateleke arrived. She was late, she explained, because of a baby who had been unwilling to be born. “Sometimes,” she said, “I think that there are some babies who know something about the world. They say, I don’t think I want to go out there!”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Sometimes it is not easy to be born into this world.”

“But would we prefer it to be otherwise?” asked Mma Mateleke, settling herself into her chair.

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We are very lucky to be alive.”

For a moment Mma Mateleke, who had been smiling, hesitated, her smile fading.

Mma Ramotswe noticed. “You don’t feel lucky to be alive just now?”

Mma Mateleke sighed. “It’s better than not being alive, I suppose. But there are times when… well, there are times when…” She did not finish her sentence. The waitress had appeared and they gave their orders, Mma Mateleke having coffee and Mma Ramotswe red bush tea. The waitress scribbled down the order and went off. Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend.

“You’re unhappy, Mma?”

Mma Mateleke did not answer immediately. She was seated directly opposite Mma Ramotswe, on the other side of the table, but her eyes were focused elsewhere, looking out into the distance, to the tops of the gum trees lining the road beyond the car park.

“I am happy sometimes, Mma. Then, at other times, I am not happy.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, as if searching for confirmation. “I think that is probably how it is for most people.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “there are times when I am unhappy and times when I am happy. There are more happy times than unhappy ones, I think.”

“Perhaps,” said Mma Mateleke.

Mma Ramotswe waited for her to say something more, but the other woman was now looking down at the ground, and did not seem to be ready to add to what she had said. “I think that you are unhappy now,” she said, adding, “even if at other times you are happy.”

It was not a remark to take the discussion much further-Mma Ramotswe was aware of that-but it seemed to move something within Mma Mateleke. “Oh, Mma Ramotswe,” she said, “I am very unhappy. I am very unhappy with my husband.”

Mma Ramotswe reached out and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “So, Mma, that’s what it is. It is the same thing that makes so many women unhappy.” And it was; she knew that only too well in her profession. How many women had made their way into her office and started off the consultation with, It is my husband, Mma? How many? She had made no attempt to count them, although the answer could be obtained easily enough by looking through the file that Mma Makutsi kept entitled Unfaithful Husbands. In this file her assistant entered the details of every consultation, every investigation, of such a matter. “It is a very thick file,” Mma Makutsi had once observed. “This is a file that any man should be ashamed to see.”

Mma Ramotswe spoke gently. “He is not behaving well?”

Mma Mateleke shut her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She bit her lip.

“So,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is being unkind?”

This brought a shaking of the head. “No, Mma. He is a generous man. He always gives me as much money as I ask for. It is not that.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. An accusation of adultery was a serious matter, even if made in the context of a private consultation, which this effectively was. “He is… He’s involved with another woman?”

Mma Mateleke looked up. “You’ve heard that too, Mma?”

“No. I was asking you a question.”

Mma Mateleke looked disappointed, or so Mma Ramotswe thought, although she quickly realised that she must have misread her friend’s expression; a wife does not wish to hear news of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

“I think he’s having an affair,” said Mma Mateleke. “I think there is another woman somewhere. Some younger woman. Some younger, glamorous woman.”

“Do you know who she is?” asked Mma Ramotswe. Violet Sephotho? She had briefly entertained such a possibility in the cathedral, but no, surely not-that would be too much of a coincidence-but it would be somebody like Violet Sephotho, no doubt. Gaborone was full of aspiring Violet Sephothos.

Mma Mateleke shook her head. “No. I have not heard her name.”

“What do you know about her? Do you know where she lives?”

Mma Mateleke shrugged. “I have not seen her. In fact, Mma, I have no actual proof. All I’m saying to you is that I think that he’s having an affair. You’re the one who can find the proof for me.”

The waitress arrived and placed a tray down on the table. She was a young woman, barely into her twenties, and she seemed keen to please. Mma Mateleke seemed indifferent to her, but Mma Ramotswe thanked her, and told her that the tea smelled very good. The waitress smiled wordlessly and went back inside.