The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

  It did not take her long to find the relevant passage, and she read it out loud just as she would have done had Mma Makutsi been there. Remember, wrote Clovis Andersen, that of all the possibilities you may address, the truth may lie in the simplest explanation. So if you are looking for something that is stolen, always remember that it may not be stolen at all, but mislaid. Similarly, if you are investigating a homicide, it is always possible that the victim died a natural death. Do not exclude this possibility even where the death seems very suspicious. I knew a man who stabbed himself to death. Everybody thought that he had been murdered, and they found plenty of suspects – he was one heck of an unpopular guy – but then they discovered a note in which he said that he was going to do this in order to make things look bad for his principal enemy. He even used his enemy’s knife to do it!

  Mma Ramotswe let out a little cry, half of surprise, half of disapproval. She had forgotten about that example but now it came back to her. It must be very unusual to stab oneself; people shot or poisoned themselves, but self-inflicted stabbing was an altogether different matter. She reminded herself that there was nothing like that in this case. Yet Clovis Andersen’s words brought home to her that it was entirely possible that Liso Molapo was quite genuine. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more she felt that this was the likely outcome and that… She stopped herself. Was it possible that Mma Sheba stood to benefit in some way if the legacy of the farm to the boy were to fail? What if he were really Liso but was shown, falsely perhaps, to be an imposter? Who would get the farm then?

  She explored the possibility for a few minutes. She was well disposed towards Mma Sheba because she had been kind to her at the lunch all those years ago. But lawyers could be calculating people and perhaps she should be cautious about accepting her story at face value. Again, Clovis Andersen said something about being politely sceptical and not trusting everything that a person told you, even if you liked the person. Friends can be good liars, he said. Yes, that was true; presumably liars had friends, as everybody had. But did liars lie to their friends, or did they tell them the truth while they went about lying to other people? She stared up at the ceiling but saw no answer there. She would have to think about that again – perhaps when Mma Makutsi returned to work. She could say: ‘Mma, I have been thinking about liars and whether they can have true friends.’ And Mma Makutsi would say, ‘Don’t ask a liar that question, Mma,’ and they would both burst out laughing, as they often did.

  She closed The Principles of Private Detection and returned it to the shelf. She had now decided what she needed to do, which was to go to the farm, introduce herself, and form her own assessment of the situation. She had wondered about how she could explain her interest in the matter without revealing her client’s suspicions. This was going to be difficult as she did not like using deception. Of course, she could claim to be lost. Nobody in Botswana would turn away somebody who had lost her way, or they would not do so in the Botswana in which she had been born and brought up; whether that was still the case in the Botswana of today, she was not so sure. But she thought, on balance, that however much things might have changed on the surface, people were still good at heart and had not forgotten everything that the country had tried to teach them. No, people will not turn another away. Not yet at least, not until the old Botswana ways – the code that had been followed by her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, and had served him so well all his life – no longer accounted for anything at all, which was not the case, she felt, thank heavens.

  ‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ she said under her breath. ‘Botswana has not changed – not in the things that really matter.’

  There was silence. She would have loved him to reply. She would have loved to hear his voice again saying, Precious, my Precious, I know, I know. And behind that voice she would perhaps hear the lowing of those cattle that he always said lived in heaven and were there to greet us when it was time for us to go. But she heard none of this, and so, with a sigh at the inevitability of duty, she closed the office and set off down the Lobatse Road towards the farm that was the cause of the trouble.

  Further reflection on the way led her to rule out any deception. She would not pretend to be lost, but would tell the truth – that she was working for the lawyers and had come to check that everything was in order. That was quite true, even if it was one of those truths that left something unsaid. But you did not have to say everything all the time, especially if you were a detective and you were interested in trapping those who might be less attached to the truth than you were.

  The Lobatse Road was straight as an arrow here – an undulating strip of black tar that shimmered in the noon heat. Mma Sheba had told her where to turn, and the landmark appeared on cue. Now she was on a rough farm track that meandered off into scrub bush. Behind the level of the trees, squat hills that had seemed blue from a distance now took on the grey-green hue of acacia. The track had been scraped into the red earth carelessly, without regard to the land it crossed, and was interrupted here and there by obstacles it had not bothered to avoid – an outcrop of rock, a cluster of termite mounds, the beginnings of a donga – one of those deep eroded ditches that criss-crossed the land. The tiny white van had been through worse, and its suspension was in such a state that little by way of potholes or humps could discourage it further. Even so, Mma Ramotswe drove with caution; a broken axle or a shattered oil sump would no doubt bring renewed suggestions from Mr J. L. B. Matekoni that the time had arrived to get a new van. It would also mean a long walk back to the Lobatse Road in the full heat of day, hard enough for anyone but particularly demanding for those of traditional build.

  It took the best part of half an hour to reach the farm gate. Once through this, the track improved somewhat, and showed signs of recent use. She noticed the tyre-tracks in the dusty ground and reflected on how a good Kalahari tracker could have told her precisely when the last vehicle had passed by and whether it had been lightly or heavily laden. For those trackers with the necessary knowledge, an antelope or a truck were much the same, both leaving on the earth information about themselves that could be as clearly read as if it were writing on a page.

  A farmhouse came into view – a low-slung building with a red tin roof and a long, shady veranda. Behind the house were several outbuildings, including an open-sided garage and a high water-tank made of corrugated iron. A metal windmill of the sort that was common on farms stood beside the tank, its vane sticking out behind it like a pointing finger, its blades turning slowly. The trees themselves were still, but the windmill, being taller, had picked up an invisible breeze, enabling it to pump water into the tank. She stopped the van and got out to stretch her legs. She had not been to this farm before, but the scene seemed both familiar and peaceful. This, she thought, was how you should live, if you possibly could: with your cattle around you, with the land beneath you, with this air about you.

  She sniffed at the air. It was pure and dry, and it carried the scent of cattle and dust, and of acacia too – a smell you could never describe, but you took in nonetheless. She listened. There were cicadas somewhere, that shrill note that seemed to fill the sky, and, barely audible, the familiar clanking of the windmill pump. It was a miracle that there was water in such a place, but it was there, deep below; water that came from a long way away but was cool and fresh and pure.

  She got back into the van and completed her journey. As she pulled up in front of the house, a door opened and a woman stepped out on to the veranda to peer at the unexpected visitor. Inside the van, Mma Ramotswe composed herself. She felt as she often did before she started an investigation: there was a familiar fluttering of the heart, a feeling of risk, an awareness that she had to be on the lookout for any information that might be presented to her by the body language of the other. It is the first few minutes of any encounter, said Clovis Andersen, that can be most revealing; it is what people do before they have the chance to work out what they should be doing.

  The woman came dow
n the couple of steps that led from the veranda. She greeted her visitor courteously, but Mma Ramotswe could sense the curiosity that lay behind the greeting.

  ‘I work for Mma Sheba,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I have come to see that everything is all right.’

  The woman visibly relaxed. ‘You are very welcome, Mma. I am Mma Molapo – I am the sister of my brother, who is late.’

  Mma Ramotswe lowered her gaze respectfully. ‘I am sorry about that, Mma. I am very sorry.’

  Mma Molapo accepted the sympathy gracefully. ‘It was too early, Mma, but when it is the will of the Lord, then we must accept it.’

  ‘That is true, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  There was a brief pause before Mma Molapo invited her in. ‘Would you like some water, Mma?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps some tea?’

  ‘If there is tea,’ said Mma Ramotswe, ‘then I will be very happy.’

  ‘There is tea.’

  ‘Then I am very happy.’

  Mma Molapo led her into the house, into a rather dark and empty corridor, and then, from there, into a sitting room. The room was furnished with several green armchairs, angular and box-like in their construction, with wooden facings on the arms that provided a place for chrome ashtrays. The dark green fabric of the chairs had been stained here and there by ancient cups of tea that had toppled and spilled. The shabbiness of the furniture was compounded by the appearance in one or two places of cigarette burns. On the walls, several pictures hung from a picture-rail below the ceiling. There was a picture of a Brahman bull with its great white hump; another picture of a Dakota aircraft on the runway of the old Gaborone airfield; and a framed photograph of Sir Seretse Khama meeting a much younger Prince Charles.

  Mma Molapo noticed Mma Ramotswe’s interest in the picture of Seretse Khama. ‘Do you like that picture, Mma?’ she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe nodded, and moved closer to examine it.

  Mma Molapo, who had been polite but perhaps a bit reserved, became animated. ‘If you look at Prince Charles you can see that he knows that this is a great man whose hand he is shaking.’

  Mma Ramotswe continued to stare at the picture. She had a plate with a picture of the Queen on it, and a biscuit tin with Prince Charles on the top. ‘My father met Seretse,’ she said. ‘When he came to Mochudi, he met him.’

  Mma Molapo absorbed this. ‘You know who my father was, Mma?’

  ‘I do, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse’s.’

  Mma Molapo smiled. ‘I met him too. Many times. He came to this house once and sat in that chair over there, Mma – that very chair.’

  Mma Ramotswe looked at the shabby green armchair that suddenly seemed so important.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in it, Mma?’ said Mma Molapo. ‘I’ll fetch tea.’

  Mma Ramotswe lowered herself into the armchair. It felt much as any other armchair, if perhaps a little bit harder, but she was aware of the historical significance of the moment. She was sitting in an armchair that had once supported the greatest man in Botswana’s history, a man who had set an example to all of Africa, and to the world, in much the same way as Mr Mandela had done. And here was she, an ordinary woman from Mochudi, of no particular distinction – at least in her mind, even if she was the first lady private detective in Botswana – seated in the great man’s chair.

  Mma Molapo returned with two cups of tea. ‘Is everything going all right with the execution?’ she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. ‘Execution, Mma? Who is being executed? I do not know of anybody who is going to be executed.’

  ‘The will,’ said Mma Molapo. ‘Lawyers make a big fuss over the execution of the will.’

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘That is executry, I think, Mma. They call it executry.’

  Mma Molapo waved a hand airily. ‘I often get words mixed up. I’m hopeless that way, Mma.’

  Mma Ramotswe found herself warming to the other woman. She knew that it was too early to reach any conclusion, but she found it difficult to think of this well-mannered and modest woman being a liar.

  ‘Mma Sheba is taking a long time,’ said Mma Molapo as she sipped her tea. ‘Are there any difficulties, Mma? Is that why she sent you?’

  Mma Ramotswe detected a note of anxiety in Mma Molapo’s voice, but thought that anybody would be anxious when discussing the timescale against which lawyers conducted their business. ‘I don’t think there is any particular problem,’ she said. ‘These things are slow. They have to check and double-check everything. She sent me to find out that everything was all right at this end.’ That, she thought, is true; I have not told any lies.

  Mma Molapo sighed. ‘I know about lawyers. They are like tortoises. Some people say that they are the tortoise’s cousins. And I also know that I shouldn’t be impatient; it’s just that my nephew would like to get everything sorted out. You know how young men are.’

  Mma Ramotswe saw her opportunity. ‘Is your nephew here? Could I meet him, do you think?’

  ‘Certainly you can, Mma. He is outside, working in the shed. I shall go and fetch him.’

  Mma Molapo left the room and Mma Ramotswe sat in the Seretse Khama armchair, deep in thought. After a minute or two, she got up and crossed the room to the window, and looked out. Her eye was first caught by the windmill; the breeze had stopped and the blades were still, etched sharply against the blue of the sky. But then she saw, standing in front of the shed, Mma Molapo and a tall young man wearing a bright red T-shirt and one of the narrow-brimmed round hats that were all the fashion with young men. Mma Ramotswe did not like those hats, which she thought made the wearers look like children; but that, she reflected, might be the idea behind them. Some young men did not want to grow up and seemed to cling to the things of boyhood. But then she thought: perhaps they have good reason to do that. Perhaps what they saw in the world of adults was conflict and competition that scared them. And anyway, hats were nothing much – young people had always worn hats that older people considered ridiculous. It had always been so, probably since hats were first invented.

  She watched the two figures, making sure that she was standing well enough back from the window so as not to be seen. Mma Molapo appeared to be lecturing her nephew about something. He made a defensive gesture and then nodded his head, as if agreeing to the terms of some bargain. She watched them. Something was happening, but she had no idea what it was.

  They began to walk towards the house, and Mma Ramotswe went back to her chair. A few minutes later the door opened and Mma Molapo came into the room, followed by the tall young man. Mma Ramotswe noticed that the red T-shirt had been replaced by a smart white open-necked shirt; of the ridiculous round hat there was nothing to be seen.

  Mma Molapo effected the introduction, and Liso stepped forward to offer his hand politely. He spoke in Setswana to begin with before switching to English, and Mma Ramotswe noticed that his Setswana was perfectly enunciated. If he had been brought up in another country, it certainly did not show in his accent.

  ‘So, Liso,’ Mma Ramotswe began. ‘You are going to be a farmer soon.’

  Liso was modest. ‘I will have to learn how to do it, Mma.’

  ‘You’ve never lived on a farm?’

  He hesitated, but only slightly. ‘I used to come here when my uncle was alive.’

  ‘He stayed with us,’ said Mma Molapo. ‘Every school holiday, he stayed with us.’

  ‘But back in… where was it? Swaziland? On that side you stayed…’

  ‘In a hotel,’ supplied Mma Molapo. ‘His father, my other brother, who is late too, was the manager of a hotel in the Ezulweni Valley. Do you know Swaziland, Mma?’

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. ‘I would like to go some day, but I only really know Botswana, I’m afraid.’

  It seemed that Mma Molapo was pleased to hear this answer. ‘It is a much smaller country, Mma, and much greener too.’

  ‘I have heard that they have forests,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She directed the comment to Liso, but again it was intercepted by Mm
a Molapo.

  ‘There are many forests,’ said Mma Molapo.

  ‘And rivers,’ said Mma Ramotswe. She turned to Liso. ‘Liso, there are some good rivers in Swaziland, aren’t there? Always full of water. Do you like that one, the river that…’

  She was interrupted by Mma Molapo. ‘The Umbeluzi,’ she said. ‘That is the one you like, isn’t it, Liso?’

  The young man nodded. He had been looking at Mma Molapo, but now he turned to Mma Ramotswe and beamed at her. ‘There are crocodiles in the Umbeluzi, Mma. I used to walk beside it when I was a little boy and my father used to say, “You be careful of old croc! Old croc would like you for his dinner!”’