Free Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

were—and she was never happier than when she was out in the bush, with the air of the country, dry and scented with the tang of acacia, in her lungs. On the drive to Mokolodi she would travel with the windows down, and the sun and air would flood the cabin of her tiny white van; and she would see, opening up before her, the vista of hills around Otse and beyond, green in the foreground and blue beyond. She would take the turning off to the right, and a few minutes later she would be at the stone gates of the camp and explaining to the attendant the nature of her business. Perhaps she would have a cup of tea on the verandah of the circular main building, with its thatch and its surrounding trees, and its outlook of hills. She tried to remember whether they served bush tea there; she thought they did, but just in case, she would take a sachet of her own tea which she could ask them to boil up for her.
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at her anxiously. “That’s all,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
    Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s fine. I was just thinking.”
    â€œWhat were you thinking?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
    â€œAbout the hills down there,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And about tea. That sort of thing.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni laughed. “You often think about tea, don’t you? I don’t. I think about cars and engines and things like that. Grease. Oil. Suspension. Those are my thoughts.”
    Mma Ramotswe put down the piece of paper she had been folding. “Is it not strange, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?” she said. “Is it not strange that men and women think about such very different things? There you are thinking about mechanical matters, and I am sitting here thinking about tea.”
    â€œYes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is strange.” He paused. There was a car needing attention outside and he had to see to it. The owner wanted it back that afternoon or he would be obliged to walk home. “I must get on, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. Nodding to Mma Makutsi, he left the office and returned to the garage.
    Mma Ramotswe pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Would you care to come with me, Mma Makutsi?” she asked. “It’s a nice day for a run.”
    Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “But who will look after the business?” she asked. “Who will answer the telephone?”
    Mma Ramotswe looked at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the filing cabinet. The mirror was intended for the use of Mma Makutsi and herself, but was used most frequently by the apprentices, who liked to preen themselves in front of it. “Should I braid my hair?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think, Mma Makutsi?”
    â€œYour hair is very nice as it is, Mma,” said her assistant, but added, “Of course, it would be even nicer if you were to braid it.”
    Mma Ramotswe looked round. “And you?” she asked. “Would you braid your hair too, if I had mine done?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti Radiphuti is an old-fashioned man. I’m not sure what his views on braiding would be.”
    â€œAn old-fashioned man?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “That’s interesting. Does he know that you’re a modern lady?”
    Mma Makutsi considered the question for a moment. “I think he does,” she said. “The other night he asked me if I was a feminist.”
    Mma Ramotswe stiffened. “He asked you that, did he? And what did you reply, Mma?”
    â€œI said that most ladies were feminists these days,” said Mma Makutsi. “So I told him, yes, I am.”
    Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m not sure that that’s the best answer to give in such circumstances. Men are very frightened of feminists.”
    â€œBut I cannot lie,” protested