“Good,” said the instructor. “We shall see you both then, next Friday. That is very good.” He gestured at the other dancers. “Some of these people over there don’t really need lessons. But you do.”

Outside, they walked in silence to the car park behind the hardware store. Phuti Radiphuti’s car was at the far end, a modest white car with a twisted aerial. Yet it was a car, which told Mma Makutsi something about him. As Mma Ramotswe would have pointed out to her, the mere fact that he has a car tells us something, Mma. It means that he has a good job. Now look at his hands, Mma, and his shoes, and see what they say about him. As he started the car, Mma Makutsi looked at his hands, but they told her nothing. Or at least they told her one thing, she thought, with an inward smile. He has all his fingers. He is not a butcher.

She directed him back to her house, where he dropped her, keeping the engine running. She was relieved that he had no expectations beyond that, and she thanked him politely as she alighted.

“I will see you next week,” she said, although she had not planned to say this. She had not planned to give any commitment, but she had done it, more out of pity for him than anything else. And she noticed that he appeared to appreciate the gesture, as he smiled and started to say something. But he did not finish. The words were stuck, and he became mute. So she closed the door, and waved to him, and he drew away in his white car, and she watched the red lights of the car disappear down the road, into the darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

MR POLOPETSI STARTS AT THE GARAGE

THE REPAIR of the bicycle had been effected by the younger apprentice. He had managed to straighten the handlebars and attend to a buckle in the wheel, with the result that even if the bicycle was not as good as new, it was possible to ride it safely. Mma Ramotswe had her misgivings about this; she would have liked to be able to say to its owner that it was perfect, indeed that it had been improved upon, but she felt that she could not claim this. Instead she would have to say that they had done their best, and that she hoped that he might be satisfied with the repair. Of course, in view of the offer she was about to make him, he would be unlikely to protest very much.

She had asked him to come to the garage to fetch the bicycle and now he was here, knocking at the door of her office, his hat in his hand. She had bade him enter and he had done so, not boldly as men usually entered, but almost apologetically. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and thought how this must be the effect of prison, at least its effect on an honest man who had been sent there unjustly. What greater wrong can there be than that, what greater hurt? To know that you were reviled for something that you had not done, or for something for which you did not deserve to be punished; that must be very painful, she thought.