The waitress appeared, notebook at the ready, to take their order. Clovis Andersen ordered coffee, which made Mma Ramotswe smile; she had heard about the American weakness for coffee, but again she said nothing; people cannot help liking the things that are liked where they are born. At some point in the future she would introduce him to the pleasures of tea; there would be plenty of time for that.

The waitress moved off, and their conversation continued.

“Your cases must be much bigger ones than mine,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am always dealing with very small things. Is that man cheating on this woman; is that woman cheating on this man? Who is stealing cattle here, or taking money there? Who is using the company truck for private business when the rule is that it must not be used for such things? That sort of thing—very different from the big cases you must have every day. Who has shot this person? Who has shot that person? Who has taken the million-dollar necklace from the neck of this big film star? Big things like that.”

Clovis Andersen looked at the floor. “Not really,” he muttered.

“And one day I can see them making a big film about your life,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “It will be very popular throughout the world, and I will say to Mma Makutsi, ‘That is our friend, Mma—that is all about our friend.’ ”

Clovis Andersen shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mma Ramotswe. I don’t think I’ll be of sufficient interest for that.”

Sensing his reluctance to talk about it—an admirable modesty, she thought—she changed the subject. She asked him about his plans to see the country, and he told her that he had organised a trip to Ghanzi over the next few days. For now, though, he was keen to see the area around Gaborone. “Mochudi, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is the place, Rra.” They should start the drive up to the village immediately after their tea—or tea and coffee—as it would be better to arrive there before the noonday heat made it uncomfortable to sit in the van, in spite of its ancient, if valiant, fan.

“I am looking forward to seeing it, Mma Ramotswe,” said Clovis Andersen. “I come from a similar place, you know—a small town in the Midwest. And my wife too, she comes … came from such a place. She always said …”

He faltered, and she watched him.

“It is good to talk about late people, Rra,” she said quietly. “It is what they want us to do. Late people would be happy if they knew we were talking about them.”

He looked up, as if he had heard some important piece of news.

“Do you think that’s true, Mma Ramotswe? Do you think they can hear us?”