The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

who was a wife but who also was not. If she knew of the other woman, the resident mistress, then might she not try to get even with her husband? Wronged women did not always take it out on the other woman, Mma Ramotswe knew; often they reserved their venom for the man who had let them down. If there was resentment on the part of the real Mma Moeti—the Mma Moeti who was but was not—then she might well take it out on her errant husband’s cattle. After all, a man’s cattle were his
representatives
in a sense, and any insult offered to them was an insult to the owner; or so her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had always maintained, though partly, she thought, with tongue in cheek. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, she saw him raise his battered old hat to some cattle beside the road; she had asked himwhy, and he had explained that they were cattle of a respected man, of chiefly family, and he was merely according him the respect that such beasts deserved. But then he had smiled, and winked at her, and she realised that the remarks of adults might not always mean what they appeared to mean.
    There was a silence as Mma Ramotswe digested Botsalo Moeti’s disclosures about his wife. She did not approve of such arrangements, but she did not show her disapproval: he was her client and it was not for her to speak to him about fidelity and those other things that the government advertisements spelled out so carefully. If people like him—well-placed men of experience and status—behaved in a cavalier way towards women, then what hope was there for getting people like Charlie to conduct themselves more responsibly?
    Charlie: there was another problem, adding to the list of problems she already had. Moeti, Charlie, the sighting of the white van: these were issues enough to interfere with anybody’s sleep.
    Moeti’s stomach now broke the silence with a loud gurgling sound. “Juices,” he explained. “I have too many juices in my stomach.”
    Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Juices are a big problem for some,” she said.
    There was a note of criticism in her voice—just a touch—but Mr. Moeti did not pick it up, or if he did, gave no indication of having done so.
    “I’d like to show you the place where the last attack happened,” he said. “Are you ready to come with me, Mma, or would you like some water first?”
    She asked for water, and he called out to the woman in the house. “Water for this lady, Mma. A big glass. Very big.”
    She did not blink. Why did he imagine that she would want avery big glass? Was it because she was traditionally built? If so, then he had no right to assume that a traditionally built person would drink more than a moderate amount of water. Traditionally built people did not necessarily eat or drink more than those of less substantial construction. It just did not follow.
    The woman in the apron brought out a glass on a tray. On the surface of the glass were her greasy fingerprints, each swirl and whorl perfectly outlined, as if etched by an engraver. These prints were about the rim too, which, for some inexplicable reason, the woman had contrived to touch. Although Mma Ramotswe was not unduly fastidious, believing that a reasonable degree of exposure to the germs of others helped maintain healthy resistance, she did not think there was a need to handle a glass quite so thoroughly before offering it to another.
    “Look at these wonderful fingerprints,” she said, as the woman offered her the tray. “How useful for a detective!”
    The woman looked at her blankly.
    “Mma Ramotswe is making a joke,” said Mr. Moeti to the woman, in a tone of condescension. “It is a joke for Gaborone people, not for rural people like you.”
    Mma Ramotswe turned to look at him in astonishment. This, she decided, was a man who could well have more enemies than she had imagined.
    THEY WALKED FROM THE HOUSE, following a path that took them past the servants’ quarters and a shed housing a