Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

khaki trousers and khaki shirt, arms flailing, being picked up by the wind and cartwheeled through the sky, off towards Namibia somewhere, and dropped down suddenly on the ground, confused, in another land. And then she saw Herero horsemen galloping towards him and shouting and Mr Polopetsi, dusting himself off, trying hard to explain, pointing to the sky and gesturing.
    â€œWhy are you smiling, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr Polopetsi.
    She corrected herself quickly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of something else.”
    Mr Polopetsi shifted in his chair. “It must have been funny,” he muttered.
    Mma Ramotswe looked away. “Funny things come to mind,” she said. “You can be thinking of something serious, and then something very funny comes to mind. But look, Rra, what about a car? Would it not be possible now to buy a car—now that you’re earning here; and your wife has a job, doesn’t she? Could you not afford a cheap car, an old one, which is still going? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to find something for you.”
    Mr Polopetsi shook his head vehemently. “I cannot afford a car,” he said. “I would love one, and it would solve all my troubles. I could give people a ride in with me and pay for the petrol that way. My neighbour works not far away—he could come in with me, and he has a friend too. They would love to come by car. My brother has a car. He is lucky.”
    The tea was now ready, and Mma Makutsi brought over Mr Polopetsi’s mug and placed it on the edge of Mma Ramotswe’s desk in front of him.
    â€œYou are very kind, Mma Makutsi,” said Mr Polopetsi. “There are not many ladies as kind as you and Mma Ramotswe. That’s the truth.”
    Mma Ramotswe lowered her head briefly to acknowledge the compliment. “This brother of yours, Mr Polopetsi,” she said. “Is he a wealthy man?”
    Mr Polopetsi took a sip of his tea. “No,” he answered. “He is not a rich man. He has a good job, though. He works in a bank. But that is not how he managed to get the car. He was given a loan by my uncle. It was one of those loans that you can pay off in such small installments that you never notice the cost. My uncle is a generous man. He has a lot of money in the bank.”
    â€œA rich uncle?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could this rich uncle not lend you money too? Why should he prefer your brother? Surely an uncle …” She tailed off. It occurred to her that there was a very obvious reason why this uncle would prefer one brother to another, and she saw, from the embarrassment in his demeanour, that she was right.
    â€œHe has not forgiven me,” said Mr Polopetsi simply. “He has not forgiven me for … for being sent to prison. He said that it brought shame on the whole family when I was sent to that place.”
    Mma Makutsi, who had poured her own tea now and had taken it to her desk, looked up indignantly. “He should not think that,” she expostulated. “What happened was not your fault. It was an accident.”
    â€œI tried to tell him that,” said Mr Polopetsi, turning to address Mma Makutsi, “but he would not listen to me. He refused. He just shouted.” He hesitated. “He is an old man, you know. Old men sometimes do not want to listen.”
    There was silence as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi digested this information. Mma Ramotswe understood. There were some older people in Botswana—men in particular—who had very strong ideas of what was what and who were notoriously stubborn in their attitudes. Her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had not been like that at all—he had always had an open mind—but she remembered some of his friends being very difficult to persuade. He had even spoken of one of them who had been hostile to independence, who had wanted the Protectorate to continue. This man had said that it would be