They stood for a few moments in complete silence, and around them, too, there were no sounds, beyond the faint screech of the insects that provided that wallpaper of whirring that was always there, but one did not notice unless one stopped and listened. There was nothing to say, really; there were no words Mma Makutsi could use to describe the sense of fulfilment that she felt. So nothing was said until they heard the sound of a vehicle making its way up the road and Phuti turned and announced, “That will be Mr. Putumelo now, Grace.”

The vehicle was one of those ubiquitous pick-up trucks favoured by people who had things to do: carpenters, gardening contractors, electricians. It was dark brown and on its side bore the legend This Way Up Building Co. (Pty) Ltd. In the back were a workman’s toolbox, a stepladder, and several rough-hewn planks.

Clarkson Putumelo got out of the van and walked briskly towards Phuti Radiphuti. “Very good land,” he said, even before greetings were exchanged. “Good building land.”

He did not address Mma Makutsi. He did not greet her in the proper, approved way. He did not even appear to see her.

Phuti smiled at the builder. “I chose it carefully,” he said. “Or rather, my wife and I chose it.” He turned to Mma Makutsi and smiled as he spoke. My wife.

Clarkson Putumelo half turned his head towards Mma Makutsi, but did not look at her. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to greet her, but that moment passed and he turned away again. “Good building land,” he repeated. “No problems here. You’ll want to put the house over there, in the middle, right? Then you can make a drive which goes from there to there.” He pointed out the proposed route of the drive. “There will be no problem with that. Simple as one, two, three.”

Mma Makutsi seethed. Nothing was as simple as one, two, three—even one, two, three itself was rarely that straightforward—you could miss something when counting things, even a child understood that. And who was this ill-behaved Putumelo, anyway? Who was he to arrive like this and pay no attention to the wife—the wife—of his client? It was a breathtaking display of arrogance, she thought, and she could just imagine what Mma Ramotswe would say when she told her about it. Or Mma Potokwane … Mma Potokwane might have her faults, but she would know how to deal with a man like this with a few well-chosen words, such that he would be decisively and deftly put in his place.

“I’ll walk around with you, Rra,” said Mr. Putumelo. “We can see how it looks close up.”

“And me,” said Mma Makutsi. “And me too.”

Clarkson Putumelo frowned, as if he had suddenly heard something quite unexpected. He looked at Phuti Radiphuti for confirmation. “Everybody can come,” he said briskly.