IT WAS VERY FORTUNATE that when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the Riverwalk Café the next morning she was able to get the table that she wanted. This was in the middle, but also on the edge. This was the best place to be, she thought, because it afforded a good view of the car park as well as of the small market that sprang up each morning to sell brightly coloured garments, necklaces, and a seemingly endless supply of carved wooden hippos. Mma Ramotswe had wondered who bought these carvings, as the stalls never seemed to do any business when she was there; the occasional visitor, perhaps, who felt the need for a hippo; the traveller buying a last-minute present for those left at home—unnecessary purchases, perhaps, but tokens of love that were never unnecessary, never pointless. She had bought a wooden hippo herself one day, only a small one, on impulse, when she had walked past a stall and seen the look of resignation on the stallholder’s face. It had not been expensive, and she had not attempted to bargain as the seller expected her to do, but had paid the price asked without demur. The stallholder had cheered up, and Mma Ramotswe had remarked that perhaps business might improve. “There is always somebody to buy something,” she said. Yes, she thought, including a somebody who bought a wooden hippo for which she had no real use just because she was soft-hearted.

The hippo had lain in a drawer of her desk for several days. Each time she opened it, he had looked out at her through the tiny indentations that were his eyes, as if to reproach her for his waterless exile, and she had wondered what to do with him. She had shown it to Mma Makutsi one morning, and her assistant had looked at her in puzzlement.

“That is a hippo, Mma Ramotswe. You have a hippo.”

It had been difficult to contradict. “Yes, it is a small hippo.”

Mma Makutsi waited expectantly, but said nothing. Mma Ramotswe had hoped that an admiring remark would have been made; then she would have presented it to her. But no such remark was forthcoming.

“It’s very skilfully carved,” she said at last. “You can even see his eyes. See? Those little marks there—they are the hippo’s eyes.”

“They are made by machines,” said Mma Makutsi.

“I do not think so, Mma. This is a work of art. There is a sculptor somewhere who makes these animals.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. It was a shake that she gave when she knew that she was on firm ground. “I do not think so, Mma. There is a machine with different buttons. If you press one, then you get a hippo like that. And then there is another button for an elephant, and a giraffe too. They are very clever, these machines.”