Tea Time for the Traditionally Built by Alexander McCall Smith

Author:Alexander McCall Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective - General, Detective, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Women private investigators - Botswana, Botswana - Social life and customs, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, Precious (Fictitious character), Women private investigators, General, Ramotswe, Mystery fiction, Women Sleuths, No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (Imaginary organization), Suspense, Fiction, Botswana
ISBN: 9780375424496
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2009-04-21T07:00:00+00:00

BUT IT WAS—or so it increasingly seemed to Mma Ramotswe as the day wore on. She ate her lunch alone at her desk—Mma Makutsi had shopping to do—and when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni popped his head round the door to say that he was going off on some errand, she barely heard him, hardly acknowledged him. She was not to know that his errand was to a colleague in the motor trade, whom he had telephoned that morning to arrange for the purchase of a van, a small blue one, that had done a relatively low mileage and that was described, in the language of the trade, as “very clean.”

This van he brought back to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors less than an hour later. He parked it outside the entrance to the garage and went inside to fetch Mma Ramotswe.

“You just come outside and see something,” he said, taking her hand.

For a moment she thought that he might be leading her to see her triumphantly restored van; but then she thought, no, that cannot be—he has bought a new one. He seemed pleased and excited, and she made an effort to smile. He may not understand how I feel about my old van, she thought, but he is trying to do his best for me and I must make him think I am pleased.

The two apprentices, who were standing conspiratorially at the entrance to the garage, watched as Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni led her round the side of the building. Charlie made a thumbs-up sign, a sign of encouragement. Fanwell did nothing; he caught Mma Ramotswe's eye and then looked away.

“There,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “There it is!”

The blue van was parked under the acacia tree, in the precise spot that the old van used to occupy. It was slightly bigger than the tiny white van—a medium-sized blue van, one might say—and it had been lovingly washed and polished, its chrome fittings glinting even in the shade of the tree.

Mma Ramotswe stopped in her tracks. “It is a very beautiful van,” she said. She made a supreme effort to sound enthusiastic, but it was hard. She swallowed. “Very beautiful.” She turned to face her husband. “And you have bought it for me?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni inclined his head graciously. “I have bought it for you, Mma Ramotswe. It is yours. Your new van.”

She reached out to take his hand, and squeezed it. “You are a good husband,” she whispered. “You are a kind man.”

He looked proud. “It is no more than you deserve.”

He led her by the hand to stand beside the new van. She saw herself reflected in its gleaming surface; a white van would reflect nothing—the world vanished beside it—but in the blue of this van there was a traditionally built woman standing beside a man in khaki. Both were distorted, as in a mischievous hall of mirrors; the man had become squat, mostly trunk, with stunted limbs; the woman had become more traditionally built than ever—a wide expanse of woman, bulging like the continent of Africa itself.

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