GOOD HUSBAND OF ZEBRA DRIVE(ISBN=9781400075720)pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

编辑推荐

From Publishers Weekly
StarredReview. Smith once again combines a loving depiction ofordinary life in modern Botswana with memorable characters and anengaging mystery in the eighth installment in his beloved No. 1Ladies Detective series (after Blue Shoes and Happiness).Dr. Cronje, who's half Xhosa and half Afrikaner, consults Smith'ssleuth, the gentle and insightful Precious Ramotswe, becausepatients at his hospital who have occupied a particular bed havebeen dying mysteriously at the same time of day. Meanwhile, MmaRamotswe's recently engaged assistant, Grace Makutsi, threatens tobreak their longstanding association. Mma Ramotswe must adjusttheir relationship in order to retain Mma Makutsi's services. Theauthor's subtlety of touch and humane portrayal of figures at alllevels of society will continue to win him new readers even as hisdeepening of the ties binding the main figures will satisfy thosewho have followed the lady detectives from their first recordedcase. (Apr.)
Copyright Reed Business Information, a division of ReedElsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From AudioFile
Lisette Lecat performs her eighth Ladies' Detective Agency novelwith her usual precision and vibrancy. Her portrayal of PreciousRamotswe, the wise and unflappable proprietor of Botswana's leadingdetective business, makes her character even more endearing thanshe is in print. Facing personal and professional difficulties withaplomb, Precious makes room for her husband, J.L.B. Matekoni, totrack a cheating husband, deals with her recently engaged colleagueMma Makutsi's brief resignation, makes time to philosophize aboutthe ills of the world over a few cups of red bush tea, and managesto solve the mystery of why three hospital patients died in thesame bed at the same time. S.W. AudioFile 2007, Portland,Maine-- Copyright AudioFile, Portland, Maine--This text refers to the AudioCD edition.

From Booklist

From Publishers Weekly Starred
Review. Smith once again combines a loving depiction of
ordinary life in modern Botswana with memorable characters and an
engaging mystery in the eighth installment in his beloved No. 1
Ladies Detective series (after Blue Shoes and Happiness).
Dr. Cronje, who's half Xhosa and half Afrikaner, consults Smith's
sleuth, the gentle and insightful Precious Ramotswe, because
patients at his hospital who have occupied a particular bed have
been dying mysteriously at the same time of day. Meanwhile, Mma
Ramotswe's recently engaged assistant, Grace Makutsi, threatens to
break their longstanding association. Mma Ramotswe must adjust
their relationship in order to retain Mma Makutsi's services. The
author's subtlety of touch and humane portrayal of figures at all
levels of society will continue to win him new readers even as his
deepening of the ties binding the main figures will satisfy those
who have followed the lady detectives from their first recorded
case. (Apr.) 
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed
Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. 
 
From <a>AudioFile</a> 
Lisette Lecat performs her eighth Ladies' Detective Agency novel
with her usual precision and vibrancy. Her portrayal of Precious
Ramotswe, the wise and unflappable proprietor of Botswana's leading
detective business, makes her character even more endearing than
she is in print. Facing personal and professional difficulties with
aplomb, Precious makes room for her husband, J.L.B. Matekoni, to
track a cheating husband, deals with her recently engaged colleague
Mma Makutsi's brief resignation, makes time to philosophize about
the ills of the world over a few cups of red bush tea, and manages
to solve the mystery of why three hospital patients died in the
same bed at the same time. S.W. © AudioFile 2007, Portland,
Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine
--This text refers to the <a class=
"product">Audio
CD</a> edition. 
 
From <a>Booklist</a> 
*Starred Review* Scotsman McCall Smith's best-selling novels
featuring "traditionally built" Botswana sleuth Precious Ramotswe
continue to resonate with poignancy, wisdom, and wit. Fans of the
series will appreciate the deeper characterizations in this eighth
entry, particularly that of Mma Ramotswe's bespectacled assistant,
Mma Makutsi, whose professional priorities seem to shift after her
engagement to a wealthy man. McCall Smith (whose vast opus includes
the Isabel Dalhousie, 44 Scotland Street, and Portuguese Irregular
Verb series) serves up a compelling mystery, too, involving a
series of patients who have died at the same time of the week in
the same hospital bed. This time around, Mma Ramotswe's devoted
husband (and first-class mechanic) J. L. B. Matekoni also tries his
hand at the detective business, catering to a rude client who
suspects her husband of infidelity. The case prompts Mr. Matekoni
to wonder whether he's exciting enough for his cherished wife. Of
course, no matter what dramas the day brings, Mma Ramotswe always
has time to enjoy a cup of red bush tea and revel in the beauty of
her native land. Peace and prosperity prevail in Botswana, where
McCall Smith, who was born in Zimbabwe, spent time as a professor
of law. The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series is his love
letter to a country whose salubrious climate is matched by the
warmth and humanity of its people. Allison Block 
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights
reserved 
 
Review 
Praise for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series: 
 “Enchanting . . . An inspiration to us all. . . The
sweet, chuckling voice of Precious Ramotswe falls gentle on the
ear.” 
–The New York Times Book Review 
“Beautiful in spirit . . . Botswana and its way of life are
described in exquisite detail . . . Delightful . . . Positively
uplifting.” 
–Winston-Salem Journal 
“What a treat to discover . . . Brims with good humor and
compassion.” 
–Entertainment Weekly 
“Utterly charming and compulsively readable.” 
–Newsweek 
“Endearing, amusing . . . Sparkles with African sunshine and
wit.” 
–The Dallas Morning News 
“Smart and sassy [with] the power to amuse or shock or touch the
heart, sometimes all at once.” 
–Los Angeles Times 
“McCall Smith’s simple, sweet de*ions of everyday pleasures–a
cup of tea, walking around one’s garden–are enticing.” 
–The Boston Globe

显示全部信息

内容简介

In the eighth installment of Alexander McCall Smith's endlessly enjoyable, bestselling series, the judicious Precious Ramotswe comes to discover what is true, stable, and genuine in an ever-shifting world. There is rarely a dull moment in the life of Precious Ramotswe, and on Zebra Drive and Tlokweng Road many changes are afoot. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni wants be put in charge of a case involving an errant husband, and Mma Makutsi is considering leaving the agency, taking her near perfect score on the Botswana Secretarial College typing exam with her. Meanwhile, Mma Ramotswe has been asked to investigate a series of unexpected deaths at the hospital in Mochudi. Along the way, she encounters other tricky mysteries, and once again displays her undying love for Botswana, a country of which she is justly proud.

作者简介

Alexander McCall Smith lives in Scotland, where he is Professor Emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh. He has a long connection with Botswana, where he once worked and to which he returns each year for a visit of homage to the country of his heroine Mma Ramotswe. He is the author of many other books, including the Isabel Dalhousie series. In his spare time, he plays the contrabassoon in an amateur orchestra called the Really Terrible Orchestra.

媒体评论

Praise for Blue Shoes and Happiness (Book7):

National Bestseller

“It is lovely to be in the presence of the wise Mma Ramotswe. . . .How could you not love a friend like [her]?” —EdmontonJournal

“The greatest pleasure in reading these books is Ramotswe’s view oflife. . . . Anybody who needs some gentle reassurance about lifewould be rewarded by putting on a soft bathrobe and sinking intoBlue Shoes and Happiness.”
—The London Free Press

Praise for Blue Shoes and Happiness (Book
7): 
 
National Bestseller 
 
“It is lovely to be in the presence of the wise Mma Ramotswe. . . .
How could you not love a friend like [her]?” —Edmonton
Journal 
 
“The greatest pleasure in reading these books is Ramotswe’s view of
life. . . . Anybody who needs some gentle reassurance about life
would be rewarded by putting on a soft bathrobe and sinking into
Blue Shoes and Happiness.” 
—The London Free Press 
 
Praise for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
series: 
“Delightful . . . The warm humanity infused throughout [McCall
Smith’s] novels is what brings readers back . . . There is
simplicity and lyricism in [the] language that brings out the
profound importance of everyday revelations.” 
—San Francisco Chronicle 
 
“There is something so soothing about Precious Ramotswe’s
adventures. Reading one is like taking a lazy cruise down a
slow-moving river on a hot day. And as diverse as the mysteries in
each book are, there is always a common thread that draws them
together in their solutions. I often wonder how Alexander McCall
Smith does it, because I never suspect how everything will turn
out, beyond that all will be for the best.” 
—New Brunswick Telegraph-Journal

显示全部信息

在线试读部分章节

Chapter One: A Very Rude Person

It is useful, people generally agree, for a wife towake up before her husband. Mma Ramotswe always rose from her bedan hour or so before Mr J.L.B. Matekoni—a good thing for a wife todo because it affords time to accomplish at least some of the day’stasks. But it is also a good thing for those wives whose husbandsare inclined to be irritable first thing in the morning—and by allaccounts there are many of them, rather too many, in fact. If thewives of such men are up and about first, the husbands can be leftto be ill-tempered by themselves—not that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wasever like that; on the contrary, he was the most good-natured andgracious of men, rarely raising his voice, except occasionally whendealing with his two incorrigible apprentices at Tlokweng RoadSpeedy Motors. And anybody, no matter how even-tempered he mightbe, would have been inclined to raise his voice with such fecklessyoung men. This had been demonstrated by Mma Makutsi, who tended toshout at the apprentices for very little reason, even when one ofthem made a simple request, such as asking the time of day.

“You don’t have to shout at me like that,” complained Charlie, theolder of the two. “All I asked was what time it was. That was all.And you shout four o’clock like that. Do you think I’mdeaf?”

Mma Makutsi stood her ground. “It’s because I know you so well,”she retorted. “When you ask the time, it’s because you can’t waitto stop working. You want me to say five o’clock, don’t you? Andthen you would drop everything and rush off to see some girl orother, wouldn’t you? Don’t look so injured. I know what youdo.”

Chapter One: A Very Rude Person 
 It is useful, people generally agree, for a wife to
wake up before her husband. Mma Ramotswe always rose from her bed
an hour or so before Mr J.L.B. Matekoni—a good thing for a wife to
do because it affords time to accomplish at least some of the day’s
tasks. But it is also a good thing for those wives whose husbands
are inclined to be irritable first thing in the morning—and by all
accounts there are many of them, rather too many, in fact. If the
wives of such men are up and about first, the husbands can be left
to be ill-tempered by themselves—not that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was
ever like that; on the contrary, he was the most good-natured and
gracious of men, rarely raising his voice, except occasionally when
dealing with his two incorrigible apprentices at Tlokweng Road
Speedy Motors. And anybody, no matter how even-tempered he might
be, would have been inclined to raise his voice with such feckless
young men. This had been demonstrated by Mma Makutsi, who tended to
shout at the apprentices for very little reason, even when one of
them made a simple request, such as asking the time of day. 
 
“You don’t have to shout at me like that,” complained Charlie, the
older of the two. “All I asked was what time it was. That was all.
And you shout four o’clock like that. Do you think I’m
deaf?” 
 
Mma Makutsi stood her ground. “It’s because I know you so well,”
she retorted. “When you ask the time, it’s because you can’t wait
to stop working. You want me to say five o’clock, don’t you? And
then you would drop everything and rush off to see some girl or
other, wouldn’t you? Don’t look so injured. I know what you
do.” 
 
Mma Ramotswe thought of this encounter as she hauled herself out of
bed and stretched. Glancing behind her, she saw the inert form of
her husband under the blankets, his head half covered by the
pillow, which was how he liked to sleep, as if to block out the
world and its noise. She smiled. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had a tendency
to talk in his sleep—not complete sentences, as one of Mma
Ramotswe’s cousins had done when she was young, but odd words and
expressions, clues each of them to the dream he was having at the
time. Just after she had woken up and while she was still lying
there watching the light grow behind the curtains, he had muttered
something about brake drums. So that was what he dreamed about, she
thought—such were the dreams of a mechanic; dreams of brakes and
clutches and spark plugs. Most wives fondly hoped that their
husbands dreamed about them, but they did not. Men dreamed about
cars, it would seem. 
 
Mma Ramotswe shivered. There were those who imagined that Botswana
was always warm, but they had never experienced the winter months
there—those months when the sun seemed to have business elsewhere
and shone only weakly on southern Africa. They were just coming to
the end of winter now, and there were signs of the return of
warmth, but the mornings and the evenings could still be bitterly
cold, as this particular morning was. Cold air, great invisible
clouds of it, would sweep up from the south-east, from the distant
Drakensberg Mountains and from the southern oceans beyond; air that
seemed to love rolling over the wide spaces of Botswana, cold air
under a high sun. 
 
Once in the kitchen, with a blanket wrapped about her waist, Mma
Ramotswe switched on Radio Botswana in time for the opening chorus
of the national anthem and the recording of cattle bells with which
the radio started the day. This was a constant in her life,
something that she remembered from her childhood, listening to the
radio from her sleeping mat while the woman who looked after her
started the fire that would cook breakfast for Precious and her
father, Obed Ramotswe. It was one of the cherished things of her
childhood, that memory, as was the mental picture that she had of
Mochudi as it then was, of the view from the National School up on
the hill; of the paths that wound through the bush this way and
that but which had a destination known only to the small, scurrying
animals that used them. These were things that would stay with her
forever, she thought, and which would always be there, no matter
how bustling and thriving Gaborone might become. This was the soul
of her country; somewhere there, in that land of red earth, of
green acacia, of cattle bells, was the soul of her country. 
 
She put a kettle on the stove and looked out of the window. In
mid-winter it would barely be light at seven; now, at the tail end
of the cold season, even if the weather could still conjure up
chilly mornings like this one, at least there was a little more
light. The sky in the east had brightened and the first rays of the
sun were beginning to touch the tops of the trees in her yard. A
small sun bird—Mma Ramotswe was convinced it was the same one who
was always there—darted from a branch of the mopipi tree near the
front gate and descended on the stem of a flowering aloe. A lizard,
torpid from the cold, struggled wearily up the side of a small
rock, searching for the warmth that would enable him to start his
day. Just like us, thought Mma Ramotswe. 
 
Once the kettle boiled, she brewed herself a pot of red bush tea
and mug in hand went out into the garden. She drew the cold air
into her lungs and when she breathed out again her breath hung in
the air for a moment in a thin white cloud, quickly gone. The air
had a touch of wood smoke in it from somebody’s fire, perhaps that
of the elderly watchman at the nearby Government offices. He kept a
brazier fire going, not much more than a few embers, but enough for
him to warm his hands on in the cold watches of the night. Mma
Ramotswe sometimes spoke to him when he came off duty and began to
walk home past her gate. He had a place of sorts over at Old
Naledi, she knew, and she imagined him sleeping through the day
under a hot tin roof. It was not much of a job, and he would have
been paid very little for it, so she had occasionally slipped him a
twenty-pula note as a gift. But at least it was a job, and he had a
place to lay his head, which was more than some people had. 
 
She walked round the side of the house to inspect the strip of
ground where Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be planting his beans later
in the year. She had noticed him working in the garden over the
last few days, scraping the soil into ridges where he would plant,
constructing the ramshackle structure of poles and string up which
the bean stalks would be trained. Everything was dry now, in spite
of one or two unexpected winter showers that had laid the dust, but
it would be very different if the rains were good. If the rains
were good . . . 
 
She sipped at her tea and made her way to the back of the house.
There was nothing to see there, just a couple of empty barrels that
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had brought back from the garage for some
yet-to-be-explained purpose. He was given to clutter, and the
barrels would be tolerated only for a few weeks before Mma Ramotswe
would quietly arrange for their departure. The elderly watchman, Mr
Nthata, was useful for that; he was only too willing to take away
things that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni left lying about in the yard; Mr
J.L.B. Matekoni forgot about these things fairly quickly and rarely
noticed that they had gone. 
 
It was the same with his trousers. Mma Ramotswe kept a general
watch on the generously cut khaki trousers that her husband wore
underneath his work overalls, and eventually, when the trouser legs
became scuffed at the bottom, she would discreetly remove them from
the washing machine after a final wash and pass them on to the
woman at the Anglican Cathedral who would find a good home for
them. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni often did not notice that he was putting
on a new pair of trousers, particularly if Mma Ramotswe distracted
him with some item of news or gossip while he was in the process of
getting dressed. This was necessary, she felt, as he had always
been unwilling to get rid of his old clothes, to which, like many
men, he became excessively attached. If men were left to their own
devices, Mma Ramotswe believed, they would go about in rags. Her
own father had refused to abandon his hat, even when it became so
old that the brim was barely attached to the crown. She remembered
itching to replace it with one of those smart new hats that she had
seen on the top shelf of the Small Upright General Dealer in
Mochudi, but had realised that her father would never give up the
old one, which had become a talisman, a totem. And they had buried
that hat with him, placing it lovingly in the rough board coffin in
which he had been lowered into the ground of the land that he had
loved so much and of which he had always been so proud. That was
long ago, and now she was standing here, a married woman, the owner
of a business, a woman of some status in the community; standing
here at the back of her house with a mug that was now drained of
tea and a day of responsibilities ahead of her. 
 
She went inside. The two foster children, Puso and Motholeli, were
good at getting themselves up and did so without any prompting by
Mma Ramotswe. Motholeli was already in the kitchen, sitting at the
table in her wheelchair, her breakfast of a thick slice of bread
and jam on a plate before her. In the background, she could hear
the sound of Puso slamming the door of the bathroom. 
 
“He cannot shut doors quietly,” said Motholeli, putting her hands
to her ears. 
 
“He is a boy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is how boys behave.” 
 
“Then I am glad that I am not a boy,” said Motholeli. 
 
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Men and boys think that we would like to be
them,” she said. “I don’t think they know how pleased we are to be
women.” 
 
Motholeli thought about this. “Would you like to be somebody else,
Mma? Is there anybody else you would like to be?” 
 
Mma Ramotswe considered this for a ...

显示全部信息

GOOD HUSBAND OF ZEBRA DRIVE(ISBN=9781400075720)下载

GOOD HUSBAND OF ZEBRA DRIVE(ISBN=9781400075720)

发布书评

相关图书推荐