Mma Ramotswe was embarrassed by praise, and so she suggested that they continue with the report, which ended with the conclusion that no further action was required in respect of incidents in which nobody was to blame.
“But is that true?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“Yes, it is true,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “No blame can be laid at that woman’s door. In fact, she deserves praise, not blame, for her work. She is a good worker.”
She looked at Mma Makutsi with a look that she rarely used, but which was unambiguously one which closed a matter entirely.
“Well,” said Mma Makutsi, “I suppose you’re right.”
“I am,” said Mma Ramotswe.
The report was finished, typed by Mma Makutsi—in an error-free performance, as one might expect of such a graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College. Then it was time for tea, as it so often was.
“You told that woman, Teenie, about the key to the supplies?” said Mma Ramotswe. “I wonder how that went. It’s a test of Mma Potokwane’s advice, I suppose.”
Mma Makutsi laughed. “Oh, Mma, I forgot to tell you. She telephoned me. She did as I suggested and put that man in charge of all the supplies. The next day, everything was gone. The whole lot. And he had gone too.”
Mma Ramotswe looked into her cup. She wanted to laugh, but prevented herself from doing so. This result was both a success and a failure. It was a success in that it demonstrated to the client beyond all doubt who the thief was; it was a failure in that it showed that trust does not always work. Perhaps trust had to be accompanied by a measure of common sense, and a hefty dose of realism about human nature. But that would need a lot of thinking about, and the tea break did not go on forever. “Oh well,” she said. “That settles that. Mma Potokwane’s advice sounded good, though.”
Mma Makutsi agreed that it did, and they talked for a few minutes about the various affairs of the office until Mr J.L.B. Matekoni came in for his tea. He was wiping his hands on a cloth and smiling. He had been struggling with a particularly difficult gearbox and at long last he had solved the problem. Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window, at that square of land, at the acacia tree that fingered into the empty sky; a little slice of her country that she loved so much, Botswana, her place.
Mma Ramotswe smiled at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He was such a good man, such a kind man, and he was her husband.
“That engine I’ve been working on will run so sweetly,” he remarked as he poured his tea.
“Like life,” she said.