Mma Ramotswe gently nudged the conversation back in the direction that she wanted it to follow. “Your sister, Mma …”

Mma Soleti remembered. “Of course, yes, my sister: she has that nail place near the post office in town. She is very busy with people’s nails, and gets many people coming in to see her. Sometimes it is almost too late to do much for them, as they have neglected their nails.” Her gaze moved to Mma Ramotswe’s nails, and was noticed. Mma Ramotswe glanced down too: she did not use nail varnish, although there was a bottle of it somewhere, unless Motholeli had been playing with it, which was very likely. But there was nothing essentially wrong with her nails, she believed; they did what they were supposed to do, which was … What were nails meant to do?

“So all sorts of people come in,” continued Mma Soleti. “And she says that one of the women who come in to have their nails done is the secret sweetheart of that man, that rich man you mentioned. She is secret because he has a wife, and the wife comes in to have her nails done too! My sister has to make sure that their appointments don’t overlap. Can you imagine that, Mma? That would not be very good, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She wanted to hear more of this story, but she did not want to probe too obviously; in her experience, people could suddenly dry up if you became too insistent in your questioning. “Oh well,” she said. “Men are often doing that, Mma.”

“They are, my sister,” said Mma Soleti. “But I do not always blame men, you know. They are very weak, and there are some women who are prepared to take advantage of that weakness.” She looked knowingly at Mma Ramotswe, as if to imply that should she wish it, she could provide a long list of such women.

“That is very true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have known some bad women in my work.” She paused, and looked out of the tin building’s small window—a patch of sky, cloudless and innocent, blue. There was no glass between her and that sky; the window must be secured by a shutter that had been opened. There had to be a shutter: you could not leave all those potions and creams unguarded, she thought; greasy people, open-pored, walking past, might seize the opportunity to help themselves to skin cleansers … “Who is this woman, Mma? Do you know her?”

Mma Soleti shook her head. “She did not give my sister her name. She just calls herself by some name that my sister thinks she has invented. She actually forgot one time what she had called herself before.”

“I do not think you forget your own name,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Not normally.”

“No.”

“Even if you are very busy …”

“No. Not even then.”