Alexander McCall Smith. Morality for Beautiful Girls.

febrero 13, 2009

Anchor books, 2001. 230 páginas.

Alexander McCall Smith, Morality for Beautiful Girls
Retrato de Botswana

Este libro es un regalo de JJ que además no pude corresponder. Segundo libro que leo en inglés íntegro; me gustaría animarme a seguir, pero ¡que pereza da! Acostumbrado a un ritmo de lectura esto es como caminar por la playa; cuesta.

Precious Ramotswe es la propietaria de la agencia de detectives The Nº 1 Ladie’s detective agency y aunque anda preocupada por la falta de clientes -la crisis ya avisaba por aquel entonces- ella y su ayudante tendrán que atender un par de casos inesperados con clientes de alto standing. Uno relativo a un hombre del gobierno y otro al concurso de belleza, en el que quieren que las concursantes no les dejen en mal lugar metiéndose en líos.

Pero no se despisten; la trama detectivesca ocupa muy poco espacio. Los misterios que aparecen se resuelven casi al final y de manera expeditiva gracias al buen ojo de Ramotswe y su ayudante. El grueso del libro es un buen retrato de Botswana y sus habitantes. Lo que nunca viene mal para saber un poco más de África.

Soy incapaz de juzgar el estilo que, si bien no parece excesivamente elaborado, cumple su misión. Una lectura amable y agradable.


Extracto:[-]

It was a good thing to be an African. There were terrible things that happened in Africa, things that brought shame and despair when one thought about them, but that was not all there was in Africa. However great the suffering of the people of Africa, however harrowing the cruelty and chaos brought about by soldiers—small boys with guns, really—there was still so much in Africa from which one could take real pride. There was the kindness, for example, and the ability to smile, and the art and the music.

She walked round to the workshop entrance. There were two cars inside, one up on the ramp, and the other parked against a wall, its battery connected to a small charger by the front wheel. Several parts had been left lying on the floor—an exhaust pipe and another part which she did not recognise— and there was an open toolbox underneath the car on the ramp. But there was no sign of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

It was only when one of them stood up that Mma Ramotswe realised that the apprentices were there. They had been sitting on the ground, propped up against an empty oil drum, playing the traditional stone game. Now one of them, the taller boy whose name she could never remember, rose and wiped his hands on his dirty overall.
«Hallo, Mma,» he said. «He is not here. The boss. He’s gone home.»

The apprentice grinned at her in a way which she found slightly offensive. It was a familiar grin, of the sort that one might imagine him giving a girl at a dance. She knew these young men. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had told her that all they were interested in was girls, and she could well believe it.

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