She heard her heart thumping within her, her mouth dry from shock and fear. She stared at the place where only seconds ago the lion had been; she would not have been surprised had she seen his shadow in the moonlight, imprinted on the ground, as a shadow will register on a photographic plate, caught, as now, in silver.

She let the curtain fall back into place. She made her way back to her sleeping mat. She would not wake Mma Makutsi, nor, she thought, would she tell her about this the following morning. There were some things it was better that people—and Mma Makutsi in particular—did not know.

THEY STARTED their journey home the next day. The boatman did not engage them in unsettling conversation, but kept up his tuneless whistle for much of the way back. Then, picking up the van from the cousin’s house, they started the long drive home. They talked about all sorts of things on the way back: about weddings and children and money. About cattle. About jealousy and envy and love. About cakes. About friends and enemies and people they remembered who had gone away, or changed, or even died. About everything, really.

They stayed overnight in Francistown, as they had started late from Maun and needed the break. Their hotel was cheap and noisy, and there were mosquitoes to keep them from sleeping. In the morning they left without breakfasting, eager to get away from the smell of the place, and stopped at a small village on the main road, where they bought doughnuts and large mugs of tea. By noon they were back in Gaborone.

Mma Ramotswe dropped Mma Makutsi off at her house and made her way to the office to attend to the mail, which Charlie would have picked up from the postbox for them. She was going through the small number of letters she had received when Mma Mateleke arrived.

“I do not have an appointment, Mma,” her visitor said. “But you do not need an appointment to see an old friend, do you?”

Mma Ramotswe felt tired. She was not in the mood to see anybody, but she could not turn Mma Mateleke away. “I am always happy to see you,” she said.

“Good,” said Mma Mateleke. “Since I saw you last, my husband has been very attentive. He has tried to take me out to dinner, to the Portuguese restaurant—you know the one? But I do not have time for such things, Mma, particularly when the invitation is the result of guilt over an affair. Men are very easy to read, aren’t they?”

Mma Ramotswe did not reply, and so Mma Mateleke continued. “So tell me, Mma, have you found out that my husband is having an affair? Who is the woman?”