Alexander McCall Smith: The Colours of all the Cattle

Devetnajsta po vrsti iz serije bocvanskih detektivk, v kateri Mma Ramotswe kandidira za članico občinskega sveta, Rra Matekoni s pomočjo avtomobilske prispodobe poudari ženine kvalitete, Mma Potokwani pa je primerjana s pošteno oblazinjenim naslanjačem. Kratko, a sladko: toplo priporočam.

“Many men are proud of their wives in one way or another, although not all of them are as vocal in their pride as their wives might like them to be. This is a failing of men, and must be added to the list of men’s failings, although all of us have failings and weaknesses – men and women alike – and it is not always helpful to point them out.…


She reached out to touch him on his forearm. ‘Thank you, Rra. It will be easier for me if I know you are with me.’
‘I am,’ he reassured her. ‘You are a heroine, Mma. You are an eighty-four-horse-power, six-cylinder heroine – you really are.’
It was the highest praise a mechanic could ever give, and he meant every word of it, every single word. He said nothing about upholstery, or suspension, or any of those matters pertaining to cars: a metaphor should not be strained, lest praise be diluted and made less glowing.


Mma Makutsi did not press the point. Mma Potokwani’s protestations were all very well, but, now that she came to mention it, she did look remarkably like a chair – a great, accommodating upholstered armchair. You could certainly sit on Mma Potokwani and feel perfectly comfortable: she was the sort of chair into which one might sink after a hard day’s work – sink and possibly not reappear until hours later, emerging from voluminous feather-filled cushions. That was the sort of chair that Mma Potokwani would be, whereas poor Mr Polopetsi, if he were ever to be a chair, would be a wooden kitchen chair, hard and uncomfortable, because he did not carry much spare flesh; unlike Mma Potokwani, who had more padding and spare flesh than the Bank of Botswana had currency reserves – and those reserves, as everybody knew, were considerable.

It must be difficult, she thought, to dream too much about things you would never do, because that suggested, people said, that you really wanted to do those things. So, if you dreamed about cake – and Mma Ramotswe did just that from time to time – then that meant that you secretly wanted to eat more cake – or not so secretly, perhaps. There were some people who very clearly and obviously wanted to eat more cake – it was written all over their faces.

The sun came up, at first a curved slice of golden red, and then a shimmering, glowing ball, lifting itself free of the line of treetops, light, effortless, floating. And then the sky opened up, freed of its veils of darkness, a great pale blue bowl above… me, thought Mma Ramotswe – and all the other people who were getting up now in Botswana; above people for whom this was their first day on this earth – the tiny, fragile babies – and above those for whom it was their last – the aged people who had seen so much and who knew that the world was slipping between their fingers… all – or most of us, at least – trying our best, trying to make something of life, hoping to get through the day without feeling to unhappy, or uncomfortable, or hungry – which was what just about everybody hoped for, whether they were big and important, or small and insignificant. She sighed. If only people could keep that in their minds – if they could remember that the people they met during the day had all the same hopes and fears that they had, then there would be so much less conflict and disagreement in this world. If only people remembered that, then they would be kinder to others – and kindness, Mma Ramotswe believed, was the most important thing there was. She knew that in the depth of her being; she knew it.”

Sorodni članki:

Alexander McCall Smith: The House of Unexpected Sisters
Alexander McCall Smith: Precious and Grace

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