The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

by Alexander McCall Smith

  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.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  That is Not How You Treat a Sausage

  Mma 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 beneat
h 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.

  The picture gave her an idea. ‘You used to work with the Molapo family, I hear, Mma,’ she began. She looked up at the picture. ‘I believe that the old man, the father of Rra Edgar, worked in the government with Seretse Khama.’

  Mmamodise nodded. ‘That is so, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse Khama. I saw him come to the house many times. They would talk and talk.’

  Mma Ramotswe encouraged her. ‘I saw him too – in Mochudi. My father did not know him, but he met him once and he talked to him about cattle.’

  At first, Mmamodise had nothing to add to this, but then, appearing to realise that some comment was required from her, she said, ‘Those days are in the past now, Mma.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We live in the present day, but the past… the past
is still there, I think, Mma.’ She paused. Mma Potokwani was staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘You know that Rra Edgar is now late, Mma? You know that, I assume?’

  Mmamodise did know that. ‘I was at the funeral, Mma. There were many, many people. He was well known throughout the country; maybe because of his father, but still well known.’

  ‘And now the sister is living on the farm,’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘Yes, she has been there for some time. Rra Edgar built her a house. I don’t think that she liked it very much. She always said it was too hot.’

  ‘That might be the country, not the house.’

  The two of them laughed. Mma Potokwani was still gazing at the ceiling, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

  Mma Ramotswe clasped her hands together. ‘Now the farm is going to go to the nephew – to Liso.’

  She watched Mmamodise as she spoke and saw immediately that what she said triggered a response. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. A tiny electric wire, a filament, had touched a nerve and made a connection.

  ‘That is good,’ said Mmamodise. ‘I have not seen that boy for many years, but I remember him. He was a very good boy.’

  ‘He spent his holidays on the farm?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He was there a lot. He was very helpful with the farm work, and he used to help me, too. He was very keen on peeling potatoes. He had a penknife that he used for everything, including for peeling potatoes.’

  ‘So you’re pleased that he is getting the farm?’

  There was a slight hesitation, so Mma Ramotswe decided to probe. ‘You feel a bit doubtful, Mma?’

  Mmamodise reacted quickly and defensively. ‘I am not doubtful, Mma. He is a good boy – I told you that.’

  Mma Ramotswe decided that if Mmamodise knew anything, she was not going to reveal it in the course of an informal conversation.

  ‘Mmamodise, I’ll tell you why I’m interested in this. It is because there is somebody – a lawyer – who thinks that Liso is not who he claims to be. She thinks he is another boy altogether.’