To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

found it necessary to use the small bathroom off the matron’s office. Mma Potokwane was inordinately proud of this bathroom, which had recently been completely refitted and redecorated, and which now boasted a modern toilet in avocado green. Mma Ramotswe had broken the seat of this, although she could not see how it had happened. She had just sat down when the seat had given a loud report, as of cracking plastic, and she had jumped up, frightened and then appalled to see what damage she had done.
    Mma Potokwane had been as understanding as one would expect of an experienced matron who had, in her job, seen all the indignities to which humanity was subject. “That is nothing, Mma,” she had reassured her. “The important thing is that you are not hurt.” But then she had added, “I thought they made those things stronger than that. If they still used wood, as they used to, then people would be able to sit down in confidence. Even an elephant wouldn’t break some of those old wooden seats, Mma—even an elephant!”
    Mma Ramotswe had taken this well, but had remembered the embarrassment she felt, compounded when, weeks later, on a subsequent visit to her friend, she had seen an Out of Order sign still displayed on the bathroom door.
    Now she was seated on a strong chair and the waitress was showing her the menu of that day’s specials. Three main courses were on offer—the Bombay Curry, listed as such but then with Bombay scored out and Mumbai substituted, only to be scored out again by another hand and restored to Bombay. Then there was a vegetable lasagne, offered with green salad, and battered fish accompanied by French fries. Once again, an anonymous hand had amended the menu, the word French being struck through and Botswana written in neatly above.
    Mma Ramotswe pointed to the fish. “Botswana fries come with that one, Mma?” she said to the waitress.
    The waitress smiled. “All chips are the same, Mma. It does not matter what you call them—they are just potato. Potato, potato, potato—that is all they are.”
    “You are right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.
    “Although I think maybe you’d be better having salad,” said the waitress. “I don’t want to tell you what to eat, but maybe salad would be best, Mma.”
    Mma Ramotswe frowned. “Is there something wrong with the chips, Mma?”
    “No,” said the waitress. “There is nothing wrong with them. They are very fresh. We fry them every day, and then we dry them on paper towels so that there is not too much fat. They are very delicious—but they are not for everybody, Mma. That is all I am saying.”
    Calviniah intervened. She appeared to know the waitress, and told her that she thought Mma Ramotswe would like fish and chips and that should be what was fetched for her. “I do not think we need to discuss it any further,” she said. “And I will have the same thing—to keep my friend company.”
    The two old friends settled down to lunch. There was much ground to cover and they were obliged to compress the years into a few sentences, skating over the details of family events, of work, of home, of parents and siblings and husbands, to give each other a broad picture of what had happened to them since those early years of girlhood in Mochudi. Calviniah had heard about Mma Ramotswe’s marriage to Note Mokoti, although she had never met him. She remembered what people had said about his cruelty. “Men like that, Mma,” she sighed, “are not made for being husbands.”
    Mma Ramotswe agreed. “That is very true, Mma. They are not.”
    “And yet,” Calviniah continued, “we still marry them because we think we are going to be the one who will change them. We think that other women may have failed, but we will succeed because…well, because we do not think straight at such times—we do not think straight, Mma, when it comes to the heart.” She put a hand on her chest, above her heart, and said, “The heart thinks differently, Mma. That is the