To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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Matekoni up to something? Was Phuti Radiphuti? And what about Mr. Polopetsi—the most unassuming and innocent of men, whose demeanour reminded her so much of a frightened rabbit’s—was he up to something? And rabbits—were they up to something too?
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THE HEAD OF STEAM that Mma Ramotswe had built up with her early and productive start lasted all morning, and was still there when the telephone call came from Calviniah. They had exchanged telephone numbers at the wedding, and had agreed to meet at some point, but Mma Ramotswe had not expected her long lost friend to contact her quite so quickly.
“I know that this is not much notice,” Calviniah said. “But I’m going for lunch at that Sanitas place—you know, the garden place—and I wondered if you’d join me.”
Mma Ramotswe accepted immediately. She had earned lunch, she felt, having started at seven, and it was now almost twelve. That was five hours, of which a good four had been spent working, once one deducted tea time and conversations with Mma Makutsi and Charlie.
“That was that old friend,” she explained to Mma Makutsi. “The one I told you about.”
Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “The one you thought was late?”
“Yes, that one.”
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “It must be very strange to be thought to be late, and then not to be late,” she said. “But very interesting, of course. You’d hear what people had to say about you.”
Mma Ramotswe reflected on that. Mma Makutsi was right: it would be extremely interesting, she thought. In fact, for some, it might even be a revelation. And, of course, for those who said things, it could be very embarrassing. Late people don’t talk back, but those who were never properly late might take issue with what was said about them. That could be awkward. You could gladly say, as an excuse, “But I thought you were late,” but that would not be a real justification. No, on the whole it was better to say kind things of late people, even if they did not fully deserve them. Kindness, after all, did not distinguish between those who merited it and those who did not. It was like rain, she thought. It fell everywhere and made everything green and new and alive once more. That is what it did.
CHAPTER FOUR
GOOD ADVICE FROM THE GOVERNMENT
C ALVINIAH HAD ALREADY ARRIVED when Mma Ramotswe drove into the car park at the Sanitas Garden. Sanitas was an oasis of green in the dryness that reached into Gaborone from the Kalahari beyond. The car park benefited from the shade of the trees that had been planted and nurtured through seasons of drought. Now these trees, leafy African hardwoods, provided pools of shade for the cars of those who came to the garden to lunch or buy plants. Cars in Botswana, Mma Ramotswe had often thought, had an inbuilt sense as to where the most sheltered parking spots would be, requiring, it seemed, very little steering to guide them to such places. Her own van, she thought, understood these things, as it did now, turning sharply, almost with no guidance from her, between two larger vehicles into a space protected by a large jacaranda tree. When she came back after lunch, the van would not be an oven, as it would be were no shade to be available. That meant she would be able to grasp the steering wheel without wincing, and position herself to drive without a message of pain from the hot surface of the seat beneath her thighs.
She loved the Sanitas Garden, as anybody would who lived in a dry land. Here was proof that the earth was never too parched to respond to the encouragement of a few drops of carefully husbanded water. This water, sucked up from deep boreholes, would have started its journey in the north of the country, or even beyond, having fallen as rain in the Angola Highlands aeons ago and gradually seeped down through fissures and channels deep below the country’s dry heart. That journey ended here, where the water was claimed, and carefully parcelled out to
----
—
THE HEAD OF STEAM that Mma Ramotswe had built up with her early and productive start lasted all morning, and was still there when the telephone call came from Calviniah. They had exchanged telephone numbers at the wedding, and had agreed to meet at some point, but Mma Ramotswe had not expected her long lost friend to contact her quite so quickly.
“I know that this is not much notice,” Calviniah said. “But I’m going for lunch at that Sanitas place—you know, the garden place—and I wondered if you’d join me.”
Mma Ramotswe accepted immediately. She had earned lunch, she felt, having started at seven, and it was now almost twelve. That was five hours, of which a good four had been spent working, once one deducted tea time and conversations with Mma Makutsi and Charlie.
“That was that old friend,” she explained to Mma Makutsi. “The one I told you about.”
Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “The one you thought was late?”
“Yes, that one.”
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “It must be very strange to be thought to be late, and then not to be late,” she said. “But very interesting, of course. You’d hear what people had to say about you.”
Mma Ramotswe reflected on that. Mma Makutsi was right: it would be extremely interesting, she thought. In fact, for some, it might even be a revelation. And, of course, for those who said things, it could be very embarrassing. Late people don’t talk back, but those who were never properly late might take issue with what was said about them. That could be awkward. You could gladly say, as an excuse, “But I thought you were late,” but that would not be a real justification. No, on the whole it was better to say kind things of late people, even if they did not fully deserve them. Kindness, after all, did not distinguish between those who merited it and those who did not. It was like rain, she thought. It fell everywhere and made everything green and new and alive once more. That is what it did.
CHAPTER FOUR
GOOD ADVICE FROM THE GOVERNMENT
C ALVINIAH HAD ALREADY ARRIVED when Mma Ramotswe drove into the car park at the Sanitas Garden. Sanitas was an oasis of green in the dryness that reached into Gaborone from the Kalahari beyond. The car park benefited from the shade of the trees that had been planted and nurtured through seasons of drought. Now these trees, leafy African hardwoods, provided pools of shade for the cars of those who came to the garden to lunch or buy plants. Cars in Botswana, Mma Ramotswe had often thought, had an inbuilt sense as to where the most sheltered parking spots would be, requiring, it seemed, very little steering to guide them to such places. Her own van, she thought, understood these things, as it did now, turning sharply, almost with no guidance from her, between two larger vehicles into a space protected by a large jacaranda tree. When she came back after lunch, the van would not be an oven, as it would be were no shade to be available. That meant she would be able to grasp the steering wheel without wincing, and position herself to drive without a message of pain from the hot surface of the seat beneath her thighs.
She loved the Sanitas Garden, as anybody would who lived in a dry land. Here was proof that the earth was never too parched to respond to the encouragement of a few drops of carefully husbanded water. This water, sucked up from deep boreholes, would have started its journey in the north of the country, or even beyond, having fallen as rain in the Angola Highlands aeons ago and gradually seeped down through fissures and channels deep below the country’s dry heart. That journey ended here, where the water was claimed, and carefully parcelled out to
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