“You’re very kind, Mma Makutsi,” she said, opening her eyes again. “But perhaps we should have a cup of tea now, because tea is always very welcome after one has been thinking very hard, as we have been doing.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “You’re right about that, Mma,” she said.

Even if you think I’m wrong about other things, thought Mma Ramotswe. But she could not say that, and did not—possibly because Mma Makutsi had succeeded in making her think that she might be wrong after all.

—

MMA MAKUTSI LEFT THE OFFICE that afternoon an hour early, giving Mma Ramotswe the opportunity to phone Susan and arrange to see her the next day. Could they meet, she asked, at the coffee place at Riverwalk? It was a good place to talk, and she had something important to tell her.

Had she found the house? Yes, she had. And Rosie? Had she found Rosie? There was a moment of hesitation, but then she said, “Probably. Yes, probably.” They would talk about it the following morning.

“I’m so happy,” said Mma Susan.

Mma Ramotswe thought about that. People who said they were happy were often unhappy—not at the moment when they said they were happy—they might be happy right then, but before that. Happiness was like sunlight; we only really noticed it when there were clouds about.

She put down the telephone. There was a noise directly outside the door—a scratching, and then a bump. She stood up and walked across the room. Something told her to be careful; it was broad daylight, even if it was the late afternoon; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was still in the garage, as was Fanwell. But there was an unexplained noise…

Fanwell’s dog, Zebra, looked up at her. He was sitting directly outside the doorway, his tongue protruding from his mouth, a moist pink band. He was panting.

“So it’s you,” she said.

Zebra looked at her, with complete trust.

“Do you have a soul, Zebra?” she asked.

There was movement. She looked up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had emerged from the garage and was staring at her in a puzzled way.

“Why do you ask that dog if he has a soul?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “It’s very complicated, Rra. You see…Well, you see: Mma Makutsi said dogs were just meat inside. Those were her actual words.”

“She’s wrong,” he said.

“I think so. I think dogs might have a soul.”

He wiped the grease off his hands. “Same thing with cars,” he said. “They have souls—or some of them do. Old cars have souls. Modern cars…well, I think the Japanese don’t put souls into them. They save money, perhaps, by not putting in a soul.”

She laughed. And then she thought of something. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni,” she asked, “do you think that our souls grow as we get older?”