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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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under investigation, and consequently had been closed down by the authorities. That would never do, so she reopened the office and carefully typed out a new sign. The wording this time was far better, and, she hoped, quite unambiguous:
Temporarily closed while detective personnel are engaged elsewhere.
That was much better … or was it? Could it be read as suggesting that the entire staff of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was, in fact, working for some other concern? That was certainly not the message shewished to convey, so she inserted a third sheet of paper into the typewriter and typed:
Back soon.
There was no room for misunderstanding there, although there might be some people who demanded, “And what does ‘soon’ mean, may we ask? How soon is that?” Such people, however, would never be satisfied with whatever one said, and would always be picking holes in even the simplest notice. No, you did not need to worry about people like that.
Satisfied with the sign, she set off. As she reached the road that ran past Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a struggling minibus, laden to the gunnels with passengers, and tilting dramatically to one side, started to swerve off the tarmac towards her. The driver had scented the prospect of yet another fare and was gesturing from behind the wheel. Mma Makutsi waved him on, and he resumed his journey in a belch of exhaust smoke. As the minibus went past, she saw people staring at her through the windows: a woman with a purple hat pulled down over her ears; a young girl on her mother’s lap, hair festooned with tiny ribbons worked carefully into the tight curls; an elderly man, his eyes closed, snatching a few moments of sleep on the journey.
My people,
she thought.
My people.
And she recalled that when she married Phuti Radiphuti she would never again have to travel by minibus, if that was what she wished. She would have a car, and she would be able to go where she wanted, when she wanted, and would not have others squashed in with her, would not have to put up with the discomfort of the elbows of complete strangers digging into one’s ribs, nor, even more disconcertingly, their breath hot on the back of one’s neck. That would all be a thing of the past—if that was what she wanted. And she was not sure that it was.
She continued her walk. It was not too hot a day, and a breeze had stirred up from the west, from the direction of the Kalahari, the warm heart of the country. There were people who knew what such things meant, who could read the wind, but for Mma Makutsi itwas just a breeze that had sprung up to make her walk to the shops that much more comfortable. She looked up. The sky was without cloud, a dome of lightest blue filled with air, great swirls and eddies of it, which you could see—just about—if you stared long enough. She breathed in deeply, and felt the fine dry air fill her with a buoyant optimism. Life was very good: she had behind her a career that was a success by anybody’s standards—ninety-seven per cent, associate detective with several significant and challenging cases solved, a new filing system worked out—a comfortable, if rather small, rented house, and now, to top all these achievements, a well-to-do fiancé who loved her and was kind to her in so many little ways. And here she was with three or four hours of time off—and she would not wish to hurry these things—on a mission to purchase shoes for her wedding.
Nice one, Boss!
Pretending not to notice at first, she began to walk a little bit more purposefully.
Yes,
said the insistent, rather chirpy voice.
Put your best foot forward!
She glanced down at her shoes. She had a few more shoes these days, and this was a workaday pair that she had never paid much attention to. But now they were making their presence felt.
It’s smart wedding shoes—with diamonds, we hear. So you’ll be forgetting about us, we suppose. Well, we won’t be forgetting about you, Boss! Know what we
Temporarily closed while detective personnel are engaged elsewhere.
That was much better … or was it? Could it be read as suggesting that the entire staff of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was, in fact, working for some other concern? That was certainly not the message shewished to convey, so she inserted a third sheet of paper into the typewriter and typed:
Back soon.
There was no room for misunderstanding there, although there might be some people who demanded, “And what does ‘soon’ mean, may we ask? How soon is that?” Such people, however, would never be satisfied with whatever one said, and would always be picking holes in even the simplest notice. No, you did not need to worry about people like that.
Satisfied with the sign, she set off. As she reached the road that ran past Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a struggling minibus, laden to the gunnels with passengers, and tilting dramatically to one side, started to swerve off the tarmac towards her. The driver had scented the prospect of yet another fare and was gesturing from behind the wheel. Mma Makutsi waved him on, and he resumed his journey in a belch of exhaust smoke. As the minibus went past, she saw people staring at her through the windows: a woman with a purple hat pulled down over her ears; a young girl on her mother’s lap, hair festooned with tiny ribbons worked carefully into the tight curls; an elderly man, his eyes closed, snatching a few moments of sleep on the journey.
My people,
she thought.
My people.
And she recalled that when she married Phuti Radiphuti she would never again have to travel by minibus, if that was what she wished. She would have a car, and she would be able to go where she wanted, when she wanted, and would not have others squashed in with her, would not have to put up with the discomfort of the elbows of complete strangers digging into one’s ribs, nor, even more disconcertingly, their breath hot on the back of one’s neck. That would all be a thing of the past—if that was what she wanted. And she was not sure that it was.
She continued her walk. It was not too hot a day, and a breeze had stirred up from the west, from the direction of the Kalahari, the warm heart of the country. There were people who knew what such things meant, who could read the wind, but for Mma Makutsi itwas just a breeze that had sprung up to make her walk to the shops that much more comfortable. She looked up. The sky was without cloud, a dome of lightest blue filled with air, great swirls and eddies of it, which you could see—just about—if you stared long enough. She breathed in deeply, and felt the fine dry air fill her with a buoyant optimism. Life was very good: she had behind her a career that was a success by anybody’s standards—ninety-seven per cent, associate detective with several significant and challenging cases solved, a new filing system worked out—a comfortable, if rather small, rented house, and now, to top all these achievements, a well-to-do fiancé who loved her and was kind to her in so many little ways. And here she was with three or four hours of time off—and she would not wish to hurry these things—on a mission to purchase shoes for her wedding.
Nice one, Boss!
Pretending not to notice at first, she began to walk a little bit more purposefully.
Yes,
said the insistent, rather chirpy voice.
Put your best foot forward!
She glanced down at her shoes. She had a few more shoes these days, and this was a workaday pair that she had never paid much attention to. But now they were making their presence felt.
It’s smart wedding shoes—with diamonds, we hear. So you’ll be forgetting about us, we suppose. Well, we won’t be forgetting about you, Boss! Know what we
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