The Good Husband of Zebra Drive by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

that made them particularly amusing. That testimonial, for example, that she had been asked to check a few months ago where the writing was almost illegible and where the final sentence said,
I have never heard this person use strong language, even to himself.
Did anybody seriously imagine that real testimonials said things like that? Obviously somebody did think that. What might she write—in that style—of Mma Makutsi, if she had to write her a testimonial?
She divides the office doughnuts with complete impartiality.
That would be a good recommendation, she thought; how a person divided a shared doughnut was a real test of integrity. A good person would cut the doughnut into two equal pieces. A shifty, selfish person would divide it into two pieces, but one would be bigger than the other and he would take that one himself. She had seen that happen.
    No, every job had its repetitive side and most people, surely, recognised that. She glanced again at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. She knew that many men of his age started to feel trapped and began to wonder if this was all that life offered. It was understandable; anyone might feel that, not just men, although they might feel it particularly acutely, as they felt themselves weaken and began to realise that they were no longer young. Women were better at coming to terms with that, thought Mma Ramotswe, as long as they were not the worrying sort. If one was of traditional build and not given to fretting…If one drank plenty of bush tea…
    â€œYou know,” she said to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, “all of us have things that are the same in our jobs. Even in the sort of work I do, the same sort of thing happens quite a lot. I don’t think there is anything much that you can do.”
    It was not like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to argue, but now, if there was a stubborn streak in his character, it showed. “No,” he said. “I think there is something that you can do. You can try something different.”
    Mma Ramotswe was silent. She reached for her teacup. It was cold. She looked at him. It was inconceivable that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could be anything but a mechanic; he was a truly great mechanic, a man who understood engines, who knew their every mood. She tried to picture him in the garb of some other profession—in a banker’s suit, for example, or in the white coat of a doctor, but neither of these seemed right, and she saw him again in his mechanic’s overalls, in his old suede boots so covered in grease, and that somehow rang true, that was just what he should wear.
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni broke the silence. “I’m not thinking of stopping being a mechanic, of course. Certainly not. I know that I must do that to put bread on our table.”
    Mma Ramotswe’s relief showed, and this caused him to smile reassuringly. “It’s just that I would like to do a little bit of detective work. Not much. Just a little.”
    That, she thought, was reasonable enough. She had no desire to fix engines, but there was no harm in his wanting to see her side of the business. “Just to find out what it’s like? Just to get it out of your system?” she asked, smiling. Most men, she thought, fantasised about doing something exciting, about being a soldier, or a secret agent, or even a great lover; that was how men were. That was normal.
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “Please don’t laugh at me, Mma Ramotswe.”
    She leaned forward and rested her hand on his forearm. “I would never laugh at you, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. I would never do that. And of course you can look after a case. How about this Mma Botumile matter? Would that do?”
    â€œThat is the one that I want to investigate,” he said. “That is the one.”
    â€œThen you shall investigate,” she said.
    Even as she spoke, she had her misgivings, unexpressed. The thought of Mma Botumile’s reputation disturbed her, and she was not sure whether