The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She looked about her. She had worked as a detective for some years now, and in that time she had done her best for her clients. She liked to think that she had made a difference to the lives of at least some people and helped them to deal with problems that had become too burdensome for them to handle on their own. Now, however, surveying the shabby little office, she wondered whether she really had achieved very much. It was a rare moment of gloom, and it was at this point that she realised she was doing something that she very seldom did. She supported many people in their tears – for tears could so easily come to those who were recounting their troubles – but there were few occasions on which she herself cried. If you are there to staunch the tears of the world, then it does not cross your mind that you yourself may weep. But now she did, not copiously but discreetly and inconsequentially, and barely noticeably – except to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, who chose that moment to come into the room, wiping the grease off his hands, ready with a remark about what he had just discovered under the latest unfortunate car.

  For a moment he stood quite still. Then, letting the lint fall from his hands, he swiftly crossed the room and put his arm about his wife’s shoulder, lowering his head so that they were cheek to cheek and she could feel the stubble on his chin and the warmth of his breath.

  ‘My Precious, my Precious.’

  She reached up and took his hand. There was still a smear on it – some vital fluid of the injured car to which he had been attending – but she paid no attention to that.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There is really no reason for me to cry. I am being silly.’

  ‘You are not silly, Mma. You are never silly. What is it?’

  With her free hand she took the handkerchief from where it was tucked into the front of her dress. She blew her nose, and with some determination too. After all, the blowing of a nose can be the punctuation that brings such moments to an end.

  ‘I am much better now,’ she said. ‘I have been sitting and thinking when I should be working. And without Mma Makutsi to talk to, well, you know how hard it can be to sit with the problems of other people.’

  He knew, or thought he knew. Yes, he knew how she felt. ‘Just like cars,’ he said. ‘You sit and look at a car and you think of all its problems, and it can get you down.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it can.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ll be all right, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. Mma Makutsi will come back and everything will be the same again.’

  He removed his hand from her shoulder and stood up. ‘I will make you tea,’ he said.

  She looked at him with fondness. For some reason, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni did not make very good tea. It was something to do with the quantities of tea he put in the pot, or with not allowing the water to boil properly, or with the way he poured it. For whatever reason, his tea was never quite of the standard achieved by her or by Mma Makutsi. So she thanked him and said that it would be good for her to do something instead of sitting at her desk and moping, and then she made the tea for herself and for her husband, and for Charlie and Fanwell too, and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni took his cup back into the garage where he sipped at it thoughtfully while he decided what to do.

  Later that afternoon, on the pretext of taking a recently repaired car for a test drive, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni went out along the Tlokweng Road in the direction of the orphan farm. There was a good reason for taking that particular car on that particular road – he had fitted new shock absorbers and he wanted to check that they were properly bedded in – but his real motive was to see Mma Potokwani. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni held the matron in high regard, in spite of her habit of finding something for him to fix whenever she saw him, and he wanted to talk to her about what had happened earlier that day.

  She was in her office when he arrived and happened to be looking out of the window.

  ‘So, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni,’ she called out to him as he got out of the car. ‘So you’re coming to see me.’

  He waved to her and made his way into the small building from which Mma Potokwani, as matron and general manager, ran the lives of the children under her care. She welcomed him warmly and enquired after the health of Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Mma Makutsi is doing fine,’ he said. ‘She has a baby now.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘That is very good for her and for Mr Radiphuti. They will be very happy.’

  ‘They are, although Mma Ramotswe tells me that Phuti’s aunt has moved in. I think that is difficult for her.’

  Mma Potokwani made a face. ‘That is a very sour woman, that aunt. I think she eats too many lemons.’ She paused. ‘And Mma Ramotswe, Rra? What about her?’

  He suspected that she had sensed that something was wrong.

  His reply was hesitant. ‘I think that in general she is all right, but…’

  She waited for him to go on. He looked down at his hands. It was sometimes difficult for him, as a mechanic, to find the words that seemed to come easily to women.

  ‘Something is wrong, Rra,’ she prompted.

  He drew in his breath. ‘Mma Potokwani, may I talk to you in private?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Of course, Rra. There’s nobody else here. And remember I am a matron, and a matron hears all sorts of secrets. I could tell you, Rra! Only this morning there was…’ She stopped herself in time. ‘So you can talk, Rra.’

  He looked awkward, and she made a further suggestion. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni?’ she said. ‘It is easy to talk when you are walking.’

  She did not wait for an answer, but rose and guided him out of her office. It was warm outside, but the afternoon sun was less oppressive than it had been earlier in the day and they were not uncomfortable. Mma Potokwani suggested that they follow a path that skirted round the edge of the grounds. This would enable them to see the children playing on the small sports field – now not much more than a square of parched and frazzled grass – and also to inspect the new vegetable patch that had been planted near the borehole.

  Mma Potokwani did not walk fast. This was not because of any physical impediment, but because of her tendency to stop and examine what she came across; the ancient habit, he thought, of a matron who was used to inspecting and prodding things – and people – for whom she was responsible. So they stopped and looked at a gate that might need rehanging – if anybody could find the time to do it. And as she said this, she looked meaningfully at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, who nodded meekly and made the offer she was expecting.

  ‘I should be able to do that some time,’ he said. ‘I can bring Charlie or Fanwell and they will give me a hand.’

  ‘That is very kind,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘I was not going to ask you, Rra, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But since you offer, what about next week some time?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But tell me, Rra,’ Mma Potokwani said. ‘What is the trouble? It is not a marriage thing, is it?’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, never that.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would be. I know that you and Mma Ramotswe are very happy.’

  ‘We are,’ he said. ‘But she is happy and unhappy, if you see what I mean.’

  Mma Potokwani frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I do, Rra.’

  ‘I found her crying.’

  She appeared to absorb this for a few moments. Then she asked why this was.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She said it was to do with sitting there and thinking about problems. She said that was why she was crying. But she normally never cries – not even when she has a whole lot of problems to think about.’

  Mma Potokwani’s pace became even slower. ‘Do you remember what happened to you, Rra?’ she asked. Normally Mma Potokwani spoke in stentorian tones – the result of having to make herself heard over the voices of hordes of children; now her voice was softer, gentler.

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was not sure what she was referring to. ‘Many things have happened to me,’
he said. ‘In fact, Mma, things happen to me every day.’

  ‘No, no, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. I am not thinking of ordinary things. I am thinking of when you were ill. Some years ago – remember?’

  He stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh…’

  Mma Potokwani was looking at him intently. ‘People get depressed, Rra – it is very common. One of the housemothers here had that happen to her just a few months ago. She sat and sat and thought about problems. One of the children came to me and said that the mother cried too much and sometimes could not manage to heat up their dinner. I knew what the trouble was.’

  ‘And this lady – how is she now?’

  ‘Good as new,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘I took her to the doctor and they knew what was wrong. It was the same thing that happened to you.’

  ‘That was thanks to Dr Moffat,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘He is very kind.’

  ‘But I do not think she’s depressed,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘She is eating as much as ever. She is keeping the house very well. She has no trouble with her sleeping. Dr Moffat told me that if you’re depressed you usually do none of those things.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Mma Potokwani.

  ‘I am very sure, Mma. She is still laughing. When I was depressed I did not do any laughing.’

  They resumed their walk. They were now near the patch of grass and dust where a group of children were playing football. They were all wearing the khaki shorts and shirts of the classroom, but were barefoot. Two teams of six, running and wriggling with all the energy that young boys can muster, battled over a somewhat deflated old leather ball, urging each other on exuberantly and raising a cloud of dust that darted about the pitch like a tiny, localised tornado.

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni called out encouragement, and Mma Potokwani gave a good-natured wave of her hand.

  ‘Boys,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘Their batteries never seem to run down, do they, Mma?’

  ‘No,’ said the matron. ‘They’re on the go all day. Non-stop. I think that…’ She broke off and turned to look at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘Batteries, Rra.’

  He made a gesture towards the boys. ‘Yes, look at them…’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not the boys’. Mma Ramotswe’s batteries.’

  He took a little while to reply. Then he said, ‘Her batteries are run down? Is that what you’re saying, Mma?’

  ‘You see, Rra, women have to do so much. They have to run a house. They have to look after children. They have outside jobs to go to as well. Nearly every woman has three or four jobs altogether if you add everything up.’

  He understood that. ‘We men often just have one.’

  ‘That is so, Rra. You men work hard, but it is often only at one job.’ She paused. ‘Not that I’m criticising men, you understand, Rra. It’s just that sometimes it all gets too much for women and it would help a great deal if their husbands could be a little bit more modern.’

  ‘More modern, Mma?’

  She tried to explain. ‘Modern husbands support their wives more. They help around the house. They pay more attention to their wives. They try to look a bit smarter for their wives, too. That helps, you know. If men go around looking very run-down and scruffy, then that is not nice for their wives. A modern husband takes that into account.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ said Mma Potokwani, warming to her theme. ‘A modern husband is more sensitive. He knows how his wife is feeling.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Not that I am looking at you when I say any of this, Rra.’

  ‘No. That is good.’

  ‘Except it might be an idea – just an idea, Rra – if you were to think about these things and see how you might become a bit more modern.’

  He looked down at the ground. He would not claim to be modern and had never considered whether he might be at fault in that regard. But he had come for Mma Potokwani’s advice, and he knew from his own experience of advising people about their cars that advice, once sought, should be followed if at all possible.

  ‘I have been reading in the newspaper about a course,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘It might help if you could go on that.’

  ‘I have heard of that course,’ he said, guardedly. Mma Ramotswe had told him about it after the woman in the baby supplies shop had mentioned it to her.

  ‘Do you think you might try it?’ asked Mma Potokwani. ‘If you took that, it could help Mma Ramotswe a lot. She would be very much cheered up by having a modern husband.’

  He made up his mind. ‘You’re right, Mma Potokwani. I shall find out about this modern husbands course and go on it. It will make a big difference, I think.’

  Mma Potokwani was pleased. ‘If you were able to take my husband too,’ she said with a sigh, ‘that would be very good. But I’m afraid there are some men who are too old-fashioned to benefit from courses like that.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni thought this was true. He enquired where the course was held, and Mma Potokwani explained that she believed it was held in the evening in one of the buildings at the university. ‘I’m sure they will find you a place, Rra,’ she said. ‘I have heard that they turn nobody away, not even the most unpromising men. All men can benefit, Rra.’

  He went over those words in his mind. All men can benefit. It would make a wonderful slogan for anything – even for a beer advertisement. But he stopped this train of thought, as he suspected that modern husbands did not allow themselves to think such things, at least not in public.

  Chapter Ten

  Not a Lady With Many Enemies

  If Mma Ramotswe had felt at all defeated – and she had, after all, found herself in tears at her desk – then that feeling was a temporary one. It was not in her nature to be morose or to engage in self-pity; she saw these things in others and was always sympathetic to those who felt that the world was in some respect too much for them, but was herself rarely in anything but an equable state of mind. So while the sight of her in a momentary low state was enough to trigger alarm in Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, Mma Ramotswe was, within a matter of minutes, back to normal. Yes, she was missing Mma Makutsi, and yes, it was not easy to run a detective agency by yourself and with nobody to bounce ideas off, but these setbacks were minor irritations compared with the lot of so many other people; and anyway, they were not destined to last. Mma Makutsi had said that she did not intend to take a long maternity leave, and even in the time that she was away Mma Ramotswe could still consult her on any matter on which she needed advice. And she would do that, she decided, over the next day or so: she would visit Mma Makutsi and see what she made of the troublesome case of the young man who claimed to be Liso Molapo and who might or might not be lying.

  That thought gave her pause. The young man might be lying – that was certainly possible – but there was another aspect of the situation that had not occurred to her. If Liso was telling the truth, then did that necessarily mean that he was the real Liso Molapo? Or could it be that he was not lying, but still was not the person he said he was? That could be the case if he believed himself to be Liso Molapo, having been told that this was who he was, but all the while he was actually somebody else altogether? The possibility was enough to make her head ache, but now it had come to her, she had to think it through.

  This, she told herself, was how it might work: eighteen years ago, Edgar Molapo’s brother – the one who lived in Swaziland – has a son, and he and his wife call this boy Liso. Then, in a terrible accident of the sort that is always happening on those mountainous Swazi roads, Liso loses his life. The father, in his misery, takes under his wing the child of one of the women working in his hotel. This woman has more children than she can manage – four or five, perhaps – and the grieving parents informally adopt one of these children and call him by the name they had given to their own son. Liso is replaced by a new Liso, who at the same time is Liso but is not Liso. Edgar, of course, thinks that the chi
ld is his nephew, and treats him accordingly. But he is not… or is he? If Edgar thought of him as Liso Molapo, his nephew, then when he made provision for him in his will, he was thinking of that actual child. And if that were so, then why should the young man who was treated as Liso Molapo not benefit from something that was meant for him – as a person, rather than as a name?

  It was a possibility, she felt, but only a remote one, and it did not really bring her any closer to a solution. The problem with being a private detective was that people expected you to provide them with a clear-cut answer to their query. Sometimes that could be done, and Mma Ramotswe was able to provide a full account of exactly what happened, but there were many occasions on which that simply was not possible and a more tentative answer was all that could be given – or no answer at all. Some matters remained obstinately unresolved because that was what life was like. Not all the uncertainties we faced were capable of being resolved – there were many strings left untied; there were many events that happened and could not be explained; there were many injustices that remained injustices because we could not find out who had perpetrated them, or who could rectify them. As a child she had believed that wrongs would always be righted, that somehow the world would not let the innocent suffer, but now she realised that this was not true. Old oppressors were replaced by new ones, from another distant place or from right next door. Old lies were replaced by new ones, backed up by old threats. There had been so much suffering in Africa, and nobody had done a great deal to stop it. In some places the suffering continued: through wars fought by child soldiers, crying behind their guns; through famine and disease, quick to take root in the shanty towns that perched on the edge of plenty. People waited for intervention, for rescue, but it never came – or only rarely, and then too late. Contemplating this vast human suffering, you might be tempted to shrug your shoulders, but you could not. You had to try, thought Mma Ramotswe – you had to try to sort things out for others and point them in the direction of the truth that they were so anxious to find.