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开 本: 32开纸 张: 胶版纸包 装: 平装是否套装: 否国际标准书号ISBN: 9781400031818
“Utterly enchanting.” — Chicago Sun-Times
“Beguiling. . . . The author’s deceptively simple prose . . . is as
supple as ever. His gift for effortless de*ion of dusty,
sun-baked Africa is undiminished.” —The Seattle Times
“Smith’s big-hearted Botswana stories…[allow] his readers to
escape into a world of simple, picturesque pleasures and upstanding
virtues.” —The New York Times Book Review
“Brims with the same old-fashioned charm as its lovely
predecessors…. An engaging read.” —Entertainment
Weekly
“The Full Cupboard of Life is a treasure of wit and wisdom.
Read it and you will find yourself very much like Botswanans on
happy occasions: ululating with pleasure.” —Dallas Morning
News
“Delightful. . . . The warm humanity . . . is what brings readers
back. . . . There is a simplicity and lyricism in [the] language
that brings out the profound importance of . . . everyday
revelations.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“Enthralling. . . . [Mma Ramotswe] is someone readers can’t help
but love. . . . A well-told story.” —USA Today
“The greatest mystery in this witty and charming book is whether
Mma Ramotswe will succeed in getting her fiance to name a date for
their long-anticipated wedding. It’s hard to conceive of any reader
not being just as eager to find out as she is.” —The Wall
Street Journal
“Soothing. . . . Full of authentic African touches. New readers can
start here . . . and enjoy a plot even more inventive than the
earlier ones.” —People
“[McCall Smith’s] accomplished novels . . . [are] dependent on
small gestures redolent with meaning and main characters blessed
with pleasing personalities. . . . Not so much conventional
mysteries, these novels are gentle probes into the mysteries of
human nature.” —Newsday
“[The] prose is gentle, easing the reader through Ramotswe’s world
of crimes of virtue and social misdemeanors.”
—Time
“Beguiling. . . . The author’s deceptively simple prose . . . is as
supple as ever. His gift for effortless de*ion of dusty,
sun-baked Africa is undiminished.” —The Seattle Times
“Today, when most books about Africa describe hardship, Alexander
McCall Smith brings us further glimpses of Mma Precious Ramotswe
and her friends that refresh our souls. . . . . We become caught up
in the lives of these gentle Botswanans. We share a mug of bush tea
with them, and sit together under the shade of a jacaranda.”
—The Christian Science-Monitor
“Witty, elegant, compassionate and exotic. . . . [McCall Smith is]
a treasure of a writer whose books deserve immediate devouring.”
—The Guardian (London)
“Delightful. . . . Up to the high standard established with the
first book and each succeeding one. . . . The relentless warmth,
generosity, cheerfulness, and simple wisdom of the heroine are
guaranteed to charm you.” —The New York Sun
“The Full Cupboard of Life delivers . . . the perfect
journey to a faraway place. . . . Mma Ramotswe, her able assistant
Mma Makutsi and her fianc?, Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni, are brilliant
creations. . . . McCall Smith’s unique voice, with its African
rhythms, elegant, formal turns of phrase and subtle humor . . . is
remarkable.” —Toronto Globe and Mail
“Warm, witty and filled with cultural aphorisms, a good-hearted
book. . . . It is, all told, a book about the rich stock of
experiences that make a full life, and the human vagaries involved
in living.” —Houston Chronicle
“What makes the stories so charming is their vivid sense of place.”
—W ?magazine
“The Full Cupboard of Life is a treasure of wit and wisdom.
Read it and you will find yourself very much like Botswanans on
happy occasions: ululating with pleasure.” —Dallas Morning
News
“An act of divine ventriloquism. . . . [Smith] give[s] voice to the
life and work, sorrows and joys, of the only lady detective in
Gaborone, Botswana. . . . There is deep wisdom [here].” —The
New Orleans Times-Picayune
“A reassuring book, calm, good-humored . . . strong on winsome
charm. . . . McCall Smith’s writing . . . harks back to a more
tranquil age, where gentle ironies and strict proprieties prevail.
. . . The pleasure of the novel lies in its simplicity.” —The
Independent (London)
“Addictive. . . . Our reviewer was so entertained, she bought the
rest of the series!” —Marie Claire
“The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall
Smith could put the entire self-help shelf out of business. His
sturdy heroine, Precious Ramotswe, exudes a simple wisdom so
engaging that it is difficult to put down the books about her. . .
. After getting to know these characters so well, it would be
difficult not to love them.” —The Harford
Courant
“Wonderful. . . . Richly drawn characters. . . . A vivid portrait
of life in Botswana.” —The Buffalo News
“Breezy and entertaining. . . . [McCall Smith] paints the books’
unlikely setting . . . with rainbow colors, providing a stark
contrast to the continent’s oft-bleak portraits.” —Wisconsin
State Journal
“[Even] more satisfying and uplifting that its predecessors. . . .
The dramas of daily life are described in an elegantly understated
prose that is full of small delights. . . . Gentle humor blends
pleasingly with good African common sense. . . . In the good land
that is Botswana, the cupboard of life is indeed overflowing with
goodness.” —Winston-Salem Journal
In the fifth book in the prodigiously successful series,
traditionally built, eminently sensible Mma Precious Ramotswe
continues her enterprise at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in
Gaborone, Botswana, a country that is indeed fortunate.
Still engaged to the estimable Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, Mma Ramotswe
understands that she should not put too much pressure on him, as he
has other concerns, especially a hair-raising request from the ever
persuasive Mma Potokwane, matron of the orphan farm. Besides Mma
Ramotswe herself has weighty matters on her mind. She has been
approached by a wealthy lady to check up on several suitors. Are
these men interested in the lady or just her money? This may be a
difficult case, but it’s just the kind of problem Mma Ramotswe
likes and she is, as we know, a very intuitive lady.
CHAPTER ONE
A Great Sadness among the Cars of Botswana
Precious Ramotswe was sitting at her desk at the No.
1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in Gaborone. From where she sat she
could gaze out of the window, out beyond the acacia trees, over the
grass and the scrub bush, to the hills in their blue haze of heat.
It was such a noble country, and so wide, stretching for mile upon
mile to brown horizons at the very edge of Africa. It was late
summer, and there had been good rains that year. This was
important, as good rains meant productive fields, and productive
fields meant large, ripened pumpkins of the sort that traditionally
built ladies like Mma Ramotswe so enjoyed eating. The yellow flesh
of a pumpkin or a squash, boiled and then softened with a lump of
butter (if one’s budget stretched to that), was one of God’s
greatest gifts to Botswana. And it tasted so good, too, with a
slice of fine Botswana beef, dripping in gravy.
Oh yes, God had given a great deal to Botswana, as she had been
told all those years ago at Sunday school in Mochudi. “Write a list
of Botswana’s heavenly blessings,” the teacher had said. And the
young Mma Ramotswe, chewing on the end of her indelible pencil, and
feeling the sun bearing down on the tin roof of the Sunday school,
heat so insistent that the tin creaked in protest against its
restraining bolts, had written: (1) the land; (2) the
people who live on the land; (3) the animals, and specially
the fat cattle. She had stopped at that, but, after a pause,
had added: (4) the railway line from Lobatse to Francistown.
This list, once submitted for approval, had come back with a large
blue tick after each item, and the comment written in: Well
done, Precious! You are a sensible girl. You have correctly shown
why Botswana is a fortunate country.
And this was quite true. Mma Ramotswe was indeed a sensible person
and Botswana was a fortunate country. When Botswana had become
independent all those years ago, on that heart-stilling night when
the fireworks failed to be lit on time, and when the dusty wind had
seemed to augur only ill, there had been so little. There were only
three secondary schools for the whole country, a few clinics, and a
measly eight miles of tarred road. That was all. But was it? Surely
there was a great deal more than that. There was a country so large
that the land seemed to have no limits; there was a sky so wide and
so free that the spirit could rise and soar and not feel in the
least constrained; and there were the people, the quiet, patient
people, who had survived in this land, and who loved it. Their
tenacity was rewarded, because underneath the land there were the
diamonds, and the cattle prospered, and brick by brick the people
built a country of which anybody could be proud. That was what
Botswana had, and that is why it was a fortunate country.
Mma Ramotswe had founded the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by
selling the cattle left her by her father, Obed Ramotswe, a good
man whom everybody respected. And for this reason she made sure
that his picture was on the office wall, alongside, but slightly
lower than, the picture of the late President of Botswana, Sir
Seretse Khama, paramount chief of the Bangwato, founding president
of Botswana, and gentleman. The last of these attributes was
perhaps the most important in Mma Ramotswe’s eyes. A man could be a
hereditary ruler, or an elected president, but not be a gentleman,
and that would show in his every deed. But if you had a leader who
was a gentleman, with all that this meant, then you were lucky
indeed. And Botswana had been very lucky in that respect, because
all three of her presidents had been good men, gentlemen, who were
modest in their bearing, as a gentleman should be. One day,
perhaps, a woman might become president, and Mma Ramotswe thought
that this would be even better, provided, of course, that the lady
in question had the right qualities of modesty and caution. Not all
ladies had those qualities, Mma Ramotswe reflected; some of them
being quite conspicuously lacking in that respect.
Take that woman who was always on the radio — a political woman who
was always telling people what to do. She had an irritating voice,
like that of a jackal, and a habit of flirting with men in a
shameless way, provided that the men in question could do something
to advance her career. If they could not, then they were ignored.
Mma Ramotswe had seen this happening; she had seen her ignoring the
Bishop at a public function, in order to talk to an important
government minister who might put in a good word for her in the
right place. It had been transparent. Bishop Theophilus had opened
his mouth to say something about the rain and she had said, “Yes,
Bishop, yes. Rain is very important.” But even as she spoke, she
was looking in the direction of the minister, and smiling at him.
After a few minutes, she had slipped away, leaving the Bishop
behind, and sidled up to the minister to whisper something to him.
Mma Ramotswe, who had watched the whole thing, was in no doubt
about what that something had been, for she knew women of this sort
and there were many of them. So they would have to be careful
before choosing a woman as president. It would have to be the right
sort of woman; a woman who knew what hard work was and what it was
like to bear half the world upon your shoulders.
On that day, sitting at her desk, Mma Ramotswe allowed her thoughts
to wander. There was nothing in particular to do. There were no
outstanding matters to investigate, as she had just completed a
major enquiry on behalf of a large store that suspected, but could
not prove, that one of its senior staff was embezzling money. Its
accountants had looked at the books and had found discrepancies,
but had been unable to find how and where the money had
disappeared. In his frustration at the continuing losses, the
managing director had called in Mma Ramotswe, who had compiled a
list of all the senior staff and had decided to look into their
circumstances. If money was disappearing, then there was every
likelihood that somebody at the other end would be spending it. And
this elementary conclusion — so obvious really — had led her
straight to the culprit. It was not that he had advertised his
ill-gotten wealth; Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to elicit this
information by placing temptation before each suspect. At length,
one had succumbed to the prospect of an expensive bargain and had
been able to offer payment in cash — a sum beyond the means of a
person in such a position. It was not the sort of investigation
which she enjoyed, because it involved recrimination and shame, and
Mma Ramotswe preferred to forgive, if at all possible. “I am a
forgiving lady,” she said, which was true. She did forgive, even to
the extent of bearing no grudge against Note Mokoti, her cruel
former husband, who had caused her such suffering during their
brief, ill-starred marriage. She had forgiven Note, even though she
did not see him any more, and she would tell him that he was
forgiven if he came to her now. Why, she asked herself, why keep a
wound open when forgiveness can close it?
Her unhappiness with Note had convinced her that she would never
marry again. But then, on that extraordinary evening some time ago,
when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had proposed to her after he had spent all
afternoon fixing the dispirited engine of her tiny white van, she
had accepted him. And that was the right decision, for Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni was not only the best mechanic in Botswana, but he was one
of the kindest and most gracious of men. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would
do anything for one who needed help, and, in a world of increasing
dishonesty, he still practised the old Botswana morality. He was a
good man, which, when all is said and done, is the finest thing
that you can say about any man. He was a good man.
It was strange at first to be an engaged lady; a status somewhere
between spinsterhood and marriage; committed to another, but not
yet another’s spouse. Mma Ramotswe had imagined that they would
marry within six months of the engagement, but that time had
passed, and more, and still Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said nothing
about a wedding. Certainly he had bought her a ring and had spoken
freely, and proudly, of her as his fiancée, but nothing had been
said about the date of the wedding. She still kept her house in
Zebra Drive, and he lived in his house in the Village, near the old
Botswana Defence Force Club and the clinic, and not far from the
old graveyard. Some people, of course, did not like to live too
close to a graveyard, but modern people, like Mma Ramotswe, said
that this was nonsense. Indeed, there were many differences of
opinion here. The people who lived around Tlokweng, the Batlokwa,
had a custom of burying their ancestors in a small, mud-walled
round house, a rondavel, in the yard. This meant that those members
of the family who died were always there with you, which was a good
practice, thought Mma Ramotswe. If a mother died, then she might be
buried under the hut of the children, so that her spirit could
watch over them. That must have been comforting for children,
thought Mma Ramotswe, to have the mother under the stamped
cattle-dung floor.
There were many good things about the old ways, and it made Mma
Ramotswe sad to think that some of these ways were dying out.
Botswana had been a special country, and still was, but it had been
more special in the days when everybody — or almost everybody —
observed the old Botswana ways. The modern world was selfish, and
full of cold and rude people. Botswana had never been like that,
and Mma Ramotswe was determined that her small corner of Botswana,
which was the house on Zebra Drive, and the office that the No. 1
Ladies’ Detective Agency and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors shared,
would always remain part of the old Botswana, where people greeted
one another politely and listened to what others had to say, and
did not shout or think just of themselves. That would never happen
in that little part of Botswana, ever…
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