The piece of paper in Mma Ramotswe’s right hand had been folded in two and then folded again at an angle. As she held it up and looked past it, it seemed to her that it was now a bird, a stout bird with a large beak. She narrowed her eyes and squinted at it, so that the paper became blurred against the background of the office walls. She thought of the customer with a broken half-shaft—she understood exactly what Mr J.L.B. Matekoni meant, but she smiled at his way of expressing it. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni regarded cars and their owners as interchangeable, or as being virtually one and the same, with the result that he would talk of people who were losing oil or who were in need of bodywork. It had always amused Mma Ramotswe, and in her mind’s eye she had seen people walking with a dribble of oil stretching out behind them or with dents in their bodies or limbs. So, too, did she picture this client with the broken half-shaft; poor man, perhaps limping, perhaps patched up in some way.

“So,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “So, could you go and fetch this for me, Mma Ramotswe? You won’t have to lift anything—he’ll get one of his men to do that. All you have to do is to drive down there and drive back. That’s all.”

Mma Ramotswe rather liked the idea of a run down to Mokolodi. Although she lived in Gaborone, she was not a town person at heart—very few Batswana 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.”

“What were you thinking?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

“About 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.”