The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party Read Online Free PDF Page A

her own attack there and then: she could be impetuous, and might not judge her moment too well. Holding her assistant’s eye, she mouthed the word “No.”
    Returning to her chair, Mma Makutsi took a sip of tea. “Well, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she said brightly, “any well-known cars in trouble?”
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni nursed his mug in cupped hands. “Nothing,” he said. “We fixed Bishop Mwamba’s car last week, and that tall government minister’s car the week before that. This week it is just ordinary cars—no well-known ones.”
    “All cars are important, Boss,” ventured Fanwell. “You said that yourself.”
    “Of course they are,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “We treat all cars the same.”
    Mma Makutsi was watching Charlie, who was leaning against a filing cabinet. Becoming aware of her scrutiny, the young man gave her a deliberately nonchalant stare.
    “What about those vans?” she asked.
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “What vans?”
    Mma Makutsi spoke slowly and deliberately. “The painters’vans. The ones that belong to that nice man—what is his name?—Leonard something-or-other.”
    There was a sudden silence, at least in that small office; outside, the cicadas, indifferent to human drama, continued their screech. Charlie stood quite still, his mug of tea suspended in mid-air, unsipped.
    Mma Makutsi continued regardless. “I thought you were hoping that he would bring all those vans in here. That would be very good business, wouldn’t it?”
    Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked anxiously in Mma Ramotswe’s direction. “Yes,” he muttered, “that would be good. But I’m sure that he has an arrangement in place for his vans. They do not seem to be breaking down—somebody must be looking after them.”
    “I thought he was a very nice man,” continued Mma Makutsi. “But I don’t know him, really.” She paused. “Phuti does, though. He knows that whole family. The husband, the wife, the daughter—”
    “Mma Makutsi,” blurted out Mma Ramotswe, “look at the time! Here we are drinking tea, and I have to get ready to go to meet a client. We must get ourselves organised. Come on, everybody, drink up. Tea-time over. Right now. Over.”
    SHE WAS EARLY for her appointment and decided to spend a few minutes window-shopping at one of the clothes shops inside the rambling Riverwalk complex. She had no intention of buying anything—money was tight, with several clients being slow to pay their bills that month—but she felt that it never did any harm just to look. In fact, Mma Ramotswe found as much pleasure in looking as in an actual purchase; more perhaps, because looking involved no guilt, whereas purchasing often did.
    This was something that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, in common withmost men, simply did not understand. “The whole point about shopping,” he had remarked, “is that you go somewhere and you buy something you need. Then you take it home and use it. That is what shopping is about.”
    Mma Ramotswe had shaken her head. “No, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. You are right about many things, Rra, but you are not right about that. That is not what shopping is about.”
    He had been perplexed. “Then perhaps I’m missing something.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “Tell me, then, Mma Ramotswe, what is shopping for? It seems that I have misunderstood the whole thing.”
    She smiled. There was much that men simply did not understand, but she had never been much concerned about this lack of understanding. Indeed, in her view it was one of the things that made men so appealing. There were men’s things and then there were women’s things. The list of which was not written in stone, and it was quite possible for a woman to enter the world of men—and the other way round—but she saw no point in denying that women liked to do certain things and men liked to do other things. Nor did she doubt that these preferences were one of the reasons why women liked men and men liked women. So it was perfectly