The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon (21 page)

‘That is quite all right, Mma,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘I am very happy to be back at work.’

‘And thank you for everything you have done for me – and for the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I don’t know if I have ever thanked you for that – thanked you enough, that is.’

Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe. ‘You don’t have to thank me, Mma. I’m the one who should thank you. You took me – a nothing girl from Bobonong – and gave me a job. You taught me everything. You showed me how to be… myself.’

‘You were always yourself,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Right from the word go, you were yourself.’

Mma Makutsi shook her head. ‘No, Mma, you showed me. So I should be thanking you.’

‘Well, then,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘You’re thanking me and I’m thanking you. We are both thanking one another.’

‘Good,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But now, Mma, I think we should stop putting things off. We need to go to see Mma Manchwe.’

Mma Ramotswe thought, I’m not putting things off. But she did not say that. Instead, she said, ‘Yes. Right now. Let’s go, Mma.’

Mma Manchwe was behind her desk when they entered the premises of Clear Image Copies. She greeted them warmly.

‘You’ve looked at my price list?’ she said. ‘What did I tell you? Nobody beats my prices.’

‘Well, we did…’ began Mma Ramotswe.

She was interrupted by Mma Manchwe. ‘So what did you want me to do? I can have documents designed, you know. I have a young man who designs for me.’

Mma Ramotswe reached into her bag and took out the leaflet headed
Be warned!
‘I suppose he designed this, did he?’ she asked, handing it to her.

Mma Manchwe took a pair of reading glasses out of her pocket and put them on the end of her nose. ‘What have we here?’ she said, beginning to read. ‘Be warned. Warned about what?’

As she read further down the document, her frown deepened. When she had finished, she handed the piece of paper back to Mma Ramotswe. ‘I most certainly did not design that – or give it to anybody to be designed. That is what I call poison, Mma, and I will have nothing to do with it.’

Mma Ramotswe knew immediately that she was telling the truth. She might not have been able to say
why
she thought this; it was one of those things one knew in a way that could not be explained. It was something to do with the voice; or to do with the voice and the face combined; or perhaps to do with the eyes.

Mma Makutsi stepped forward. ‘Then why, Mma,’ she began, ‘was it copied on your machine?’

Mma Manchwe looked indignant. ‘On my machine? I did not do that. And anyway, how can you possibly tell?’

Mma Makutsi was ready. ‘This is the way we tell, Mma,’ she said, producing the price list. ‘I take it that you copied your own price list?’

She put the two pieces of paper on the table and pointed out the telltale mark. While Mma Manchwe studied it sullenly, Mma Ramotswe made a suggestion.

‘I think that it might have been done by somebody else,’ she said. ‘Can you think of who else might have used your machine?’

Mma Manchwe looked up at the ceiling. ‘I have an assistant who covers for me a few times a week. She might have done it for somebody. But then it would be entered in the book. We enter all our copying jobs in the book. I don’t think I’ve seen the names of any new clients – just the usual ones.’

‘Unless your assistant did it for somebody without entering it – for a friend, perhaps.’

‘She is not allowed to do that,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘I would fire her if she used the machine for private purposes.’

‘But everybody does that,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Everybody uses their office photocopier for private copies.’

Mma Ramotswe asked who the assistant was.

‘Most of the time she works in one of the shops at Riverwalk,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘But she has two afternoons off a week, and that is when she works for me – and for a few other people too.’

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and she returned the glance. Riverwalk was the vital clue, she felt.

‘Which shop at Riverwalk, Mma?’ Mma Ramotswe asked.

‘There is a dress shop. I forget what it is called.’

‘Botswana Elegance?’ prompted Mma Makutsi.

‘That’s the one,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘It belongs to that Sephotho woman.’

There was complete silence, which lasted a good two minutes. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke. ‘Violet Sephotho?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Mma Manchwe. ‘I don’t know her, but they say she’s quite something.’

‘There are many words for Violet Sephotho,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Something may be one of them, but there are many others.’ She glared at Mma Manchwe. ‘I shall not tell you what the other words are, Mma – I shall leave it up to your imagination.’

As they left, Mma Ramotswe heard Mma Makutsi muttering under her breath. ‘Something, something. Fifty per cent – if that. Fifty per cent and there she is with her own dress shop. Fifty per cent.’

Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. ‘You don’t like that Violet Sephotho, do you?’ she said.

It was enough to trigger the response. ‘I do
not
like her,’ Mma Makutsi said between clenched teeth. ‘And here, once again, we find her behind a piece of despicable character assassination. It’s typical of her, Mma. Absolutely typical.’ She paused. ‘But why would she do it – other than out of pure malice?’

Mma Ramotswe had been mulling over possibilities in her mind. ‘I wonder if her lease is coming up for renewal,’ she said. ‘That would give her a reason to want that shop – the one that Mma Soleti managed to get hold of.’

‘But how can we find out about it?’

‘We phone one of the big property management agents. They always know what’s happening. We ask them if they know of any suitable shops coming up on the market, preferably in Riverwalk. We tell them that we can pay very competitively.’ She looked at Mma Makutsi and smiled. ‘They, being eager to make a profit – as everybody is – will say, “As it happens, Mma, there is a shop coming up for renewal in Riverwalk and, if you’re prepared to pay a bit of a premium, we might be able to…”’

Which is exactly what they did say when Mma Ramotswe telephoned them later that day.

‘Mma Makutsi,’ she said, as she replaced the telephone in its cradle. ‘We have our culprit. Violet Sephotho. We have her motive. I think that is clear enough.’

Mma Makutsi punched the air in delight. ‘This time we have her!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been waiting for this, Mma Ramotswe. Ever since those days at the Botswana Secretarial College when she laughed at me – mocked me, Mma Ramotswe, and said I would never get anywhere because I had difficult skin and came from Bobonong – ever since those days I have been waiting to expose her for what she is – a fifty per cent, if that, useless person —’

Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. ‘Wait a moment, Mma Makutsi. We have not yet brought Violet Sephotho to justice. All we have done is discovered the person we think is behind the campaign against Mma Soleti.’

‘But she can’t wriggle out of it,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Not even Violet Sephotho can get away with this.’

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, Mma, the world is full of people who have wriggled out of things. It is a very, very wriggly place.’ She paused before adding, ‘That is well known, Mma, I’m sorry to say.’

M
ma Makutsi did not appear in the offices of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency on Monday, as she had to take Itumelang to the baby clinic. ‘There is nothing wrong with him, Mma,’ she reassured Mma Ramotswe over the telephone. ‘They want to check that he is putting on weight. And he is, Mma. He is getting heavier and heavier.’

‘That is good,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘A fat baby is a happy baby.’

There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘I did not say that he is
fat
, Mma. I said that he is putting on weight. That is different.’

Mma Ramotswe was quick to assure her assistant that she did not think of Itumelang as being fat; she had merely pointed out that there were at least
some
fat babies, and these fat babies tended to be happy.

This conversation was overheard by Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, who was in the room at the time. ‘But he is definitely a fat child,’ he said. ‘I saw her pick him up and I saw how fat he is. He’s a very fat baby, Mma.’

Mma Ramotswe put her finger to her lips in the universal gesture of silence, and of tact. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we did not mention that,’ she said. ‘You know how Mma Makutsi is, Rra. I think, though, he seems a bit greedy. And when she says that he’s thinking…’

‘He’s thinking of food?’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni.

They left the matter at that, and Mma Ramotswe, now faced with a clear desk – thanks to Mma Makutsi’s filing blitz of the previous day – contemplated how she would spend that morning. Although they had made great strides in the resolution of Mma Soleti’s problem, she still had the Molapo case to sort out, and she felt that this was going to be rather more challenging. She had, of course, discussed the matter with Mma Makutsi, but that discussion, helpful though it had been in terms of clarifying the issues, had far from solved them.

She looked out of the window. Sometimes it was important simply to get out. It did not matter where you went, as long as you got out of the office, or the kitchen, or any other place where duty required you to be, and went to some place that you did not
have
to be. So she did not
have
to be in Mochudi, or in her garden, or on the veranda of the President Hotel. If she were in any of these places it would be because she had chosen to be standing at the top of the hill in Mochudi looking down over the village and hearing the sound of the cattle bells; or tending a plant that needed moving from one spot to another so as to get the benefit of a patch of shade; or simply drinking tea in the presence of others who were doing the same thing. The thought of tea quite naturally led to the thought of cake, and that in turn led to a mental picture of Mma Potokwani standing on the step of her office, smiling and calling out, ‘Well, Mma Ramotswe, this is a well-timed visit! I have just baked a new cake and I was wondering whether you might like a piece.’ And she would reply, ‘Well, Mma Potokwani, it is funny that you should mention cake when I happened to be thinking of exactly that thing.’

The decision was made. Since she was not making much progress on the Molapo case by sitting in the office, she might as well pay a visit to the orphan farm to see how the matron was doing. This could count as work – just – if she viewed the visit as an opportunity to get from Mma Potokwani those little snippets of news – inconsequential in isolation, but when put together providing a useful overall picture of what was happening in the town. Or, perhaps more honestly, it could count as a purely social pleasure, an hour or two of simple friendship and chat of the sort that we all needed from time to time. And being a detective did not mean that you were above all those simple human needs. Indeed, there were occasions when you needed them more than people in jobs did, where things were somehow simpler. Most jobs, thought Mma Ramotswe.

Before she left, she went into the garage to tell Mr J. L. B. Matekoni where she was going and to ask him what he favoured for his dinner that night. The question about dinner seemed to trouble him, and he took some time to answer.

‘I am always happy with whatever you give me, Mma – you know that.’

She smiled at him. ‘That is very kind, Rra, but it is still possible for you to say I like this thing rather than that thing. Or I like potatoes a bit more than I like rice. That sort of comment does not make a cook feel bad. It is not the same as saying “I do not like your rice”. It is simply saying that you like potatoes a bit more.’

He put down the spanner he was holding. ‘Perhaps I should cook for you, Mma. I could cook something like…’

It was not her visible astonishment that made him falter; it was more the realisation that he had no idea at all as to what he could make for a meal. But then, after a pause, he blurted out, ‘Sausages, Mma. I could cook sausages. And make some beans to go with them. Those red beans that grow in tins…’

She laughed. ‘Baked beans? The ones with tomato sauce?’

‘Yes, those beans.’

She did not want to discourage him. ‘The children would like those,’ she said. ‘Especially Puso. He could live on those beans.’

He looked relieved that his suggestion had met with approval. ‘I could cook for all of us,’ he said.

She said that this would be a very good idea; but did he have time?

‘There is no problem with time,’ he said. And then, rather anxiously, asked, ‘How long does a sausage take to cook, Mma? Half an hour?’

‘No, Rra. A sausage cooks in a shorter time than that. Half an hour would burn most sausages.’

‘You boil them for fifteen minutes? Is that it?’

She was gentle. ‘You do not boil sausages, Rra. That is not how you treat a sausage. You put it in a frying pan and you fry it. Or you can put it under the grill and grill it. These are both very good things to do to a sausage.’ She paused. ‘But why don’t you let me show you, Rra? We can cook sausages together and then you will know next time.’

Charlie, half under a car, had been listening to this. ‘They’ll be offering you a job at the Grand Palm Hotel, boss. Guest chef this week: Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, formerly of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, now cooking full-time. Try his famous signature dish, everybody: sausages and baked beans. They’re talking about this new dish over in Johannesburg, Cape Town, everywhere. Talking about it, maybe, but not eating it.’

Mma Ramotswe peered under the car. ‘And you, Charlie, can you cook anything at all?’

Charlie chuckled. ‘That is women’s work, Mma. I do not want to take work from women. That would not be kind.’

Mma Ramotswe shook her finger at him playfully. ‘I shall tell Mma Makutsi that, Charlie. She will be speaking to you when she comes in tomorrow.’

She turned to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘I shall get the sausages on the way back from Mma Potokwani’s. I am going to visit her now.’

He looked at her with interest. ‘Could you tell her something, Mma?’

‘Of course.’

‘Tell her that I’m going to be learning how to cook sausages. Please tell her that.’

‘And beans, boss,’ Charlie called out from beneath the car. ‘Don’t forget the beans.’

Mma Potokwani had spotted Mma Ramotswe’s arrival and, as her friend got out of her van to stretch her legs, she called out, ‘Well, Mma Ramotswe, this is well timed! I’ve just baked a cake, as it happens, and I wondered…’

‘Whether I would like a piece? I think I would, Mma Potokwani.’

It was an exchange they had had countless times before – one of those rituals between friends that never change very much yet never seem to grow stale. And these words, of course, were a prelude to others that had been uttered many times and yet were equally valued, as much for their familiarity as for anything else: enquiries about health; remarks about the rain, or lack of rain; observations on the state of the roads, of the country, of Africa, of the world. Among old friends the agenda can be a wide one, even if we know what they are likely to say and have heard it all before.

Mma Ramotswe accompanied Mma Potokwani into the office. It was a room that she particularly liked because of its clear association with children. There were children’s drawings on the wall alongside group photographs; there were boxes of battered toys donated by schools for more fortunate children; there were recipe books and accounts and bottles of those curious iron tonics that Mma Potokwani thought of as a panacea for all the ills of childhood.

Cake was produced. ‘A new recipe,’ Mma Potokwani announced. ‘More sultanas.’

Mma Ramotswe loved sultanas and was urged to take two large pieces so that the tin need not be opened again. ‘I like to keep air out,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘Air can make a cake go stale very quickly.’

As they set about the serious business of tackling the cake, they exchanged day-to-day news. Mma Potokwani’s husband had developed a frozen shoulder and was finding it difficult to drive. Mma Ramotswe remembered having this problem herself many years previously and said it had taken a long time to get better. Mma Potokwani then asked after Mma Makutsi’s baby and was told about the disagreement with the aunt about the proper time at which to expose a baby to visits from others.

‘I am very much in favour of the modern approach,’ she said. ‘One or two of the housemothers here, though, are very conservative about these things.’

They moved on to the latest price increases, and from there they went on to the issue of traffic jams. There would have to be more roads, they concluded, but roads cost money.

‘Everything costs money,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘That’s why people borrow so much.’

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was a problem. ‘And yet there are people who say that we shouldn’t worry about borrowing,’ she said. ‘I do not understand how you can borrow to get out of debt.’

‘You cannot,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘You cannot get uphill by walking downhill.’

‘Or downhill by walking uphill,’ suggested Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwani, whose mouth was full of cake at the time that this observation was made, simply nodded. There are times when it is better to concentrate on the cake in one’s mouth than to contribute to a debate.

There was then a short silence before Mma Ramotswe spoke again. ‘I have been to see some people called Molapo,’ she said. ‘Do you know that family, Mma?’

Mma Potokwani brushed a few fragments of cake from her lips. ‘It is a common name, Mma. I have known some people called that. There are some Molapos at Kanye, I think. I met them a long time ago.’

‘This family has a farm not far from the Gaborone Dam,’ Mma Ramotswe said. ‘They have been there for a long time.’

Mma Potokwani gave a nod of recognition. ‘Oh yes, I have heard of those people. The old man was a politician, I think.’

‘He was. Yes, that’s the family.’

‘I have never met them,’ said Mma Potokwani. She took a small fragment of fruitcake from her plate – she was down to crumbs now. ‘But one of the housemothers here worked for them, I believe. She was with them for years before she came here.’

Mma Ramotswe was instantly alert. ‘Worked in the house?’

‘Yes. She was the cook at the farmhouse. I seem to remember her saying that they were good employees, but she wanted to move closer to town because her daughter and her grandchildren are in Gaborone.’

Mma Ramotswe replied that this was understandable, but her mind was elsewhere. She wanted to talk to this woman; would that be possible?

‘We can go and see her,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘The housemothers are usually in the houses doing some cooking or keeping the place tidy. If she isn’t there, she won’t be far away.’

They finished their tea. The cake, Mma Ramotswe pronounced, was very much better for the additional sultanas and she ventured to suggest that even more might be added to good effect. Mma Potokwani considered this possibility and said that she would try. ‘There will be a limit, though,’ she pointed out. ‘A fruitcake must have some other fruit, not just sultanas, otherwise it becomes a sultana cake.’

They left the office and walked a short distance to one of the ten small houses that made up the children’s home. These houses were dotted about under the shade of large jacaranda trees from the limbs of which here and there hung a child’s swing. The lower boughs, bending under their own weight towards the ground, were clearly accustomed to being climbed upon by children, their bark scuffed here, polished there, by the limbs of young climbers. I used to climb trees, thought Mma Ramotswe. I used to climb trees and sit there for hours, watching
.
She smiled as the memory came back of the tree behind the school that they had all climbed until somebody fell out and broke a leg and the practice was banned. They had moved to other trees.

Mma Potokwani called out as they approached the small, well-swept veranda of the house: ‘
Ko, ko! Ko, ko!
’

The main door of the house was invitingly open; inside, another door slammed and the housemother emerged, a kitchen cloth in her hand. She greeted the matron respectfully before turning to Mma Ramotswe and greeting her too.

‘This is Mmamodise,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘She is the housemother I told you about.’

Mmamodise gestured for them to go inside. ‘I have been cooking for the children,’ she said. ‘But everything is in the oven now.’

‘It smells very good,’ said Mma Ramotswe. And she suddenly remembered the sausages for Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. She must buy those on the way home.

‘The children in this house eat well,’ said Mma Potokwani with a smile. ‘They do not know how lucky they are, having one of the best cooks in Botswana as their housemother. They are all… well-built children.’

Mmamodise turned to Mma Ramotswe. ‘They are always hungry, Mma. Children, and men too, are always hungry.’

‘That is true,’ said Mma Ramotswe, looking about the room into which Mmamodise had led them. She noticed the red concrete floor, so highly polished that it shone; she noticed the yellow curtains that looked as if they had been ironed; she saw the framed portrait high on the wall (almost too high, she thought, for the children to see it), of a young President Khama with the coat of arms of Botswana, that lovely emblem with its zebra supporter, reminding one of what it meant to be part of this country they all loved so much – a country that had tried to lead a good life and, she thought, had succeeded.