He did not answer immediately, but when he did, she thought his answer quite perfect. “Yes,” he said. “Our souls get wider. They grow like the branches of a tree—growing outwards. And more birds come and make their homes in these branches. And sing a bit more.” He stopped, and looked a little awkward. “I’m talking nonsense, Mma.”

“You’re not,” she said.

She looked down at Zebra. The protruding tongue was even further out of his mouth now and his eyes, for some reason, seemed to have widened. She could not help but smile, and she thought for a moment that he was grinning back at her; but that was just the way some dogs looked, she reminded herself—they were satisfied with the slightest scraps of human interest, and their grin was no more than a reflection of that.

Zebra had found his way back to the garage, presumably in search of Fanwell. He could be taken back to Zebra Drive, but she wondered whether that was more than a temporary solution to his problems. He was, in a sense, an orphan dog, and there was often no place for such dogs unless…The idea struck her suddenly, but with great clarity. Of course there was a place for him—it was so obvious.

CHAPTER TWELVE

REMEMBER TO FORGET

SUSAN WAS ALREADY THERE when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the café in Riverwalk. She saw her sitting at an outside table, under the shade of one of the large standing umbrellas, looking out over the market traders’ stalls.

“I wish I needed more scarves,” said Susan. “These ladies make such fine scarves, Mma Ramotswe.”

“And wooden hippos, Mma? Do you wish you needed more wooden hippos and elephants?”

Susan laughed. “Yes. But people do buy them, don’t they? I saw somebody buy one a few moments ago—a big wooden hippo with tusks carved out of bone.”

Mma Ramotswe sat down opposite Susan. It was not a comfortable chair; too small, as so many chairs were. The trouble with café furniture was that it was not made for traditionally built people. What were they meant to do? Remain standing while all the modern-shaped people perched on these small stools and chairs?

She surveyed the row of wooden carvings that a hopeful trader had lined up at the foot of one of the stalls: lion after lion, giraffe after giraffe, all caught in the same pose as their neighbour. “There are some people who like such things, Mma Susan,” she said. “It reminds them of Africa, I think.”

Susan nodded. “Perhaps.” She paused. “I prefer the memory of things you can’t carve in wood.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for her to expand on this.

“The sky,” she said, and looked up. “That. And the air…That special air you have. The air in the morning, before the heat of the day. The smell of rain—when it eventually comes. That special smell, Mma.”