Precious and Grace by Alexander McCall Smith

him and almost knocked him over. He really loved that small man, and nothing would keep him away from him. The dog moved in and ate most of the small man’s food. He also took over the bedroom, and made the small man sleep outside on some sacking. I’m not making this up, Mma—it all happened.”
    Mma Ramotswe watched as Mma Makutsi poured the tea. She hoped that the story would have a proper ending; often Mma Makutsi’s stories ended in doubt: she would say, “And I don’t know what happened after that, Mma, but it can’t have been good.” Or she might conclude, “Nobody knows what became of these people but I think they are late, or maybe not late yet—who knows?”
    “So what happened to the dog?” she asked.
    “That small man died,” said Mma Makutsi. “Somebody reversed a tractor over him. They didn’t see him, because he was so small; it was nobody’s fault.”
    “And the dog?”
    “Oh, that dog was very sad after his owner became late. He sat there and howled and howled, Mma—looking up at the sky and howling. Dogs think that their people will last forever, Mma—they do not understand about becoming late.”
    “No, I suppose they do not.” And that made it easier for them—or, perhaps, harder. Mma Ramotswe felt that she would have to think more about that.
    “One of the small man’s relatives came,” Mma Makutsi continued. “He was also very small—they all were, those people. Same nose too—these things run in families, you know, Mma. We saw that up in Bobonong; we saw that a lot. There was a family there that had only four toes: grandmother, mother, children—four toes. On each foot, of course: eight toes altogether. It was as if God had said, ‘You people are going to get four toes only. No argument. Four toes, so shut up.’ ” She paused. “Anyway, this relative of the small man took the dog off somewhere and he was never seen again. It is not a very happy story, Mma, but Fanwell’s dog has brought it all back to me.”
    Mma Ramotswe took the teacup Mma Makutsi passed her. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “Tea always helps clear the mind. And as for your story about that small man—I’m very sorry to hear about the tractor.”
    “These things happen,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I think those small people—that man’s relatives—were used to things like that. That is how their life is, you see. They start off underfoot, so to speak, and they remain there.”
    Mma Ramotswe imagined the small family, with their prominent noses, putting up with the indignities heaped upon them by larger people. Mma Makutsi could sometimes simplify things, but she was often very good at seeing the world from another perspective. Tall people could forget that the world might look quite different if you were short; and of course well-off people had a marked tendency to forget how things might look if you were poor. We have to remind ourselves, she thought. We have to remind ourselves how the world looked when viewed from elsewhere.
    Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles. She began to polish the lenses, thoughtfully, as one might do when contemplating some great truth. “We would like the world to be different,” she said gravely. “We would like things like that not to happen—but they can’t be avoided, Mma—particularly if you’re very small.”
    “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You’re right. They can’t be avoided.”
    Yes, she thought, no amount of wishful thinking could obliterate the hard facts of existence. There were those who prospered, and those who did not. There were those for whom life was easy, not a struggle at all, and those to whom daily existence was painful and humiliating. That was the pain of the world, and it was all around us, washing at the shores of whatever refuges we created for ourselves. She thought of Fanwell, a young man who had very little in this life, and of his dog, who had even less. She could turn away and say that they had nothing to do with her, or