To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mma Makutsi had a habit of referring to fruit and vegetables when describing people. She had recently referred to a man as being “banana-shaped,” and indeed, when Mma Ramotswe saw the person in question, she could see what she meant. The man in question did have a curve to his back, with the result that the tip of his nose lined up with his toes; but the front of his stomach was some inches behind both of those points. And then there had been a man she referred to as having a face “a bit like a cauliflower,” a description that, once again, seemed strikingly accurate, even if it was, Mma Ramotswe felt, somewhat unkind. Of course, such terms could not be used publicly, for fear of giving offence: the police, for example, could not issue them in their descriptions of wanted persons— We are looking for a tall, string-bean-shaped man— helpful though such descriptions might be.
    “So, he looked like a pumpkin?” Mma Ramotswe prompted.
    “Yes, he did,” came the reply. But then Mma Makutsi frowned. “I don’t want to sound disrespectful, Mma. I would never be rude about my professors.”
    “Of course not.” And Mma Ramotswe knew that Mma Makutsi meant that. That college, for all she went on about it, and for all Mma Ramotswe was fed up with hearing of it, had given Mma Makutsi everything. It meant the world to her, and there was nothing wrong with that. A good teacher could mean the world.
    Mma Makutsi gazed out of the window. “I’m not saying that he was altogether like a pumpkin, Mma. If you saw him standing next to a pumpkin, you’d be able to tell the difference, of course.”
    “Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You wouldn’t make that mistake easily.”
    “Anyway, that was his general shape, but when it came to his head…” Mma Makutsi brought her gaze back into the room. “Oh, Mma, it was very, very small. You really had to strain to see it at all.”
    “Surely not. Surely…”
    “No, Mma Ramotswe, I am not exaggerating. It was that small—it really was. The ears were quite big, though. You saw those easily enough. But the head…ow, it was tiny. Yet—and this is the amazing thing, Mma—and yet he knew just about everything. That tiny head was full of information about everything you wanted to know. It was all there. And not just book-keeping—there was a lot of book-keeping in his head, but other things too. History of Botswana—it was there. Geography—names of rivers, foreign places, North Pole, height of Kilimanjaro—it was all there. He could tell you.”
    “Kilimanjaro,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “When I was a young girl I saw a picture of Kilimanjaro in a book. I wanted to go there. I said to my auntie who was looking after me at the time, I want to go to a very high hill called Kilimanjaro, and she said, We cannot go today, I am too busy . I remember my disappointment, because when you are a child you want to do everything immediately, don’t you? Now-now. You don’t want to wait because at that age you think that even tomorrow is a very long time away.”
    “That is true, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “So if you asked this professor how high Kilimanjaro was, he’d say…” She trailed off.
    “What would he say, Mma?”
    “He would give you the height,” Mma Makutsi said quickly.
    She doesn’t know, thought Mma Ramotswe. But then she thought, Neither do I.
    Mma Makutsi returned to headaches. “That is why Phuti got a headache.” She paused. “The heat must have made his brain expand until it hit the side of his head. We didn’t have an awning, Mma. We were outside people, you see.”
    She looked reproachfully at Mma Ramotswe, as if the lack of an awning had been her fault. Mma Ramotswe, impervious to this, rose to her feet. “I have made tea, Mma,” she said. “Let me pour you a cup.”
    While they drank their tea, Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi about the meeting with Calviniah, and the shock of recognition that had preceded it. Mma Makutsi listened intently.