The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

  After a few minutes the course leader came into the room. She was a tall woman with a high, prominent forehead, and she was dressed in a sombre trouser suit. On the lapel of her jacket she wore a large brooch that Mr J. L. B. Matekoni could make out as a hovering bird of some sort – an eagle, perhaps, or a buzzard.

  The woman told them that her name was Keitumeste. ‘As you know, men,’ she said, ‘that name means something in Setswana. Can anyone tell me, please?’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni noticed that she addressed them, unusually, as men. The correct plural term, in Setswana, was borra, or in English, gentlemen. But men? He would never address a group of women as women, but then, he suddenly thought, I am not modern…

  ‘It means I am happy,’ said a man near the front. ‘And I am happy that you are happy, Mma.’

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter. Keitumeste, though, did not join in.

  ‘But I am not happy,’ she said forcefully, causing the laughter to die out. ‘I am far from happy.’

  There was complete silence.

  ‘You see,’ she went on, glaring at the man who had spoken, ‘the reason why I am so unhappy is because I do not think I can be happy as long as there are so many men who are causing unhappiness among the women of Botswana.’ She paused. ‘At all levels. Up in Francistown. Over in Maun. In Lobatse. In Gaborone. Everywhere.’

  The silence continued. One or two of the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats; others remained quite still, as one stays still in the presence of great danger, hoping that the source of the danger will not notice one.

  ‘And who are these men?’ Keitumeste asked.

  Very tentatively a hand was raised at the front. Keitumeste’s gaze fixed on a man slouched in his chair.

  ‘People like us?’ he said, with a snigger.

  The sheer effrontery of this remark – a risky attempt to defuse the tension – brought a sharp intake of breath from the rest of those present. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s mouth opened in horror.

  For a few moments Keitumeste said nothing. Then she said, ‘I see.’ Her tone was icy.

  The man who had made the suggestion looked over his shoulder for support. When he saw it was not forthcoming, he changed his posture slightly. The slouch became less pronounced.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

  Fixed with an even more intense gaze, he corrected his posture even further.

  ‘And you weren’t funny, Rra,’ she said, her tone still icy. ‘You’ll see that I am not laughing. And neither is anybody else in the class laughing.’ She scanned the rows of faces. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked down at the floor, wondering whether he could slip out unnoticed. Being at the back of the class, he was close to the door, but Keitumeste had closed it when she entered and he thought it would be impossible to leave without being spotted and challenged.

  The course began. There was a short introductory lecture from Keitumeste on how she had been brought up in a patriarchal household but had freed herself from all that and made a marriage in which everything was shared equally with her husband. He, however, was an unusual man and she realised shortly after she married him that there were very few men like him in Botswana. At this, she looked sternly at the class members once again. Several nodded their heads in enthusiastic assent.

  ‘My mission,’ she went on, ‘is to help the men of Botswana to change. That is what God has called me to do, and that is what I shall do.’

  The mention of God made Mr J. L. B. Matekoni frown. In his experience, people were always claiming that God agreed with them even when there was little or no evidence that this was the case. And anybody could say that God had called him to do what he did – even burglars. ‘God has called me to break into houses,’ such a man might say. ‘That is the work He planned for me.’ Of course, if he said that to a judge, then the judge might say, ‘And He has called me to send you to prison.’

  No, thought Mr J. L. B. Matekoni – people should be careful about claiming authority that they did not have. It was the same with Mma Ramotswe and Seretse Khama, he reflected – not disloyally, of course. She was always claiming that Seretse Khama believed this, that and the next thing, whether or not there was any indication that he had ever even considered the matter on which she was pronouncing. But that was such a small fault, and rather an endearing one at that…

  ‘Now, before we go any further,’ continued Keitumeste, ‘I should like to carry out a little test. May I have a show of hands, please, on the following: firstly, how many of you consider yourselves to be modern men?’

  She looked about her. A hand went up in the front – very tentatively – and then another one in the second row, and a few more in the third. Men looked around and, seeing hands go up, followed suit. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni did not consider himself to be a modern man – not yet – and so he felt he simply could not make the claim.

  Keitumeste was smirking. ‘Hands down!’ she commanded. ‘You are all wrong – all except that man at the back. You, Rra, you did not put your hand up.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni shook his head. He wished he had not drawn attention to himself in this way, but he could not make an untrue claim. It would be as bad as describing a car as being in good condition when it patently was not; he had never done that sort of thing before, and he had no intention of doing it now.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Keitumeste, ‘this shows us a very important thing: a really modern man does not pretend to be something that he is not. All of you – all, except our friend at the back – are therefore old-fashioned.’

  The other men turned to stare at Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. Their expressions were reproachful – as if he stood accused of trying to curry favour with the teacher. He looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘There are more questions,’ announced Keitumeste. ‘The first of these is this: when did you last vacuum-clean the house?’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni bit his lip as he tried to decide on the answer he would give if attention were suddenly to be focused on him. At one level the answer was simple – he had never vacuumed the house – but there was an even more profound issue to be resolved: did they even have a vacuum cleaner? If there was no vacuum cleaner, then it would look less bad for him that he had never used one in the house. Mind you, he had never swept the house either – and they did have a broom.

  A forest of hands went up, but it did not include his.

  Keitumeste pointed at a man in the middle. ‘Yes, Rra? When did you do that?’

  The man answered in a clear, confident voice. ‘Yesterday, Mma. I vacuumed the living room and the dining room, too. I would have done more if I had not been so tired.’

  Keitumeste nodded. ‘And what sort of vacuum cleaner is it, Rra?’

  The question, so innocently put, found its target. The man opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ said Keitumeste scornfully. ‘I can tell you then. Perhaps it was a Nothing Vacuum Cleaner. That is a very popular make of vacuum cleaner with men, because it does not exist – that is why!’

  Again she looked over the heads of the front two rows to focus on Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘You have never vacuumed, have you, Rra?’

  Conscious of the eyes of the class upon him, he muttered a response that did not consist of any words – just a few self-deprecatory sounds.

  ‘Once again, I must commend you, Rra,’ said Keitumeste. ‘A truly modern husband does not make up information to please people.’ She paused. ‘And here is another question: hands up those who have given their wife a present this month?’

  Now no hands went up. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni looked around; honesty, it seemed, was beginning to prevail. And then he remembered: two weeks ago he had bought Mma Ramotswe a new plant for her garden. It was not a plant that she had asked for – it was a completely out-of-the-blue present.

  Very slowly he raised his hand.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Keitumeste. ‘What was this present, Rra?’

  ‘It
was a plant,’ mumbled Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘She is a very keen gardener and she likes to get plants.’

  Keitumeste smiled broadly. ‘You see!’ she exclaimed. ‘You see what a truly modern, sympathetic husband does? He gives his wife a present of something that he knows she wants. He does not choose something that he would like to receive himself; he gets something for her.’

  Mr J. L. B. Matekoni squirmed in his seat. If he had known that the course would involve this… this humiliation, then he would never have signed up for it. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. They had another half hour ahead of them. And it was a long half hour – one that moved with all the slowness of time spent in circumstances of social embarrassment.

  At the end of it, in spite of Keitumeste’s offer to stay and answer any personal questions that the class might have, he slipped away quickly and returned at a fast pace – almost a run – to his truck. He was not made for courses of that sort, he thought. It might be a good thing to be a more modern husband but there were other ways, he felt, of reaching that desired goal – if indeed Mma Potokwani was right in her view that it was a desirable goal. There had been plenty of men in the past who had not been modern husbands, and their wives had seemed pleased enough with them. Perhaps women like Keitumeste should leave men alone for a while, rather than making them uneasy. And then he thought: what would it be like to be married to somebody like her? How unhappy that poor man must be; how uneasily he must sleep, if he slept at all. That was another thing: modern people always appeared to be rushing about doing things, having no time, it seemed, for looking at the sky, or counting the cattle they had already counted, or waiting for somebody to walk by and pass the time of day with them. They missed so much in all their anxiety and anger, and in their determination to stop other people doing things of which they happened to disapprove. Perhaps he should stay more or less as he was: Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, mechanic, not-very-good cook, but nonetheless devoted husband of Precious Ramotswe, the woman he loved and admired above all others and for whom he would do anything – anything at all – in his own not-very-modern way.

  While Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was attending his first class on how to be a modern husband, Mma Ramotswe was on her way to visit Mma Makutsi. She had telephoned her assistant to arrange the visit and had been surprised that the telephone had been answered by Mma Makutsi herself, rather than by Phuti’s aunt. Had the aunt answered, she had no doubt at all that reasons would have been given for the visit not to take place, but Mma Makutsi, by contrast, was keen that she should come.

  ‘My baby is making a lot of progress,’ she said. ‘He’s taken very great strides, Mma.’

  ‘He’s not walking already, Mma?’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Surely it is a bit early for that.’

  Mma Makutsi laughed. ‘No, I do not mean that, Mma. He will walk in good time, but not yet.’

  Mma Ramotswe continued the joke. ‘I thought that perhaps up in Bobonong babies walked earlier than down here. I thought maybe they walked back from the hospital with their mother – holding her hand, of course.’

  A shriek of laughter came down the line. ‘Mma Ramotswe! You are very funny. You are making my stomach hurt with laughter.’

  A time was agreed, and now Mma Ramotswe had closed the Radiphuti gate behind her and was driving her tiny white van cautiously up the rough driveway to the house. The painters who had been working on the outside had made great strides too and had almost finished with the guttering, which was being painted purple. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a Makutsi touch, as she had always had a liking for purple shoes. It was something to do with Bobonong, perhaps, where there were whole fields of those strange rocks which, when broken open, revealed purple crystals. Mma Makutsi had brought one into the office to use as a paperweight, and it caught the light sometimes, sending dancing specks of light on to the walls, as if a colourful hand had touched them and left its purple fingerprints.

  Mma Ramotswe had hoped that Phuti’s aunt would not be in, but it was she who opened the front door.

  ‘It is you,’ said the aunt abruptly. ‘Yes?’

  Mma Ramotswe made an effort to control herself. The rudeness of this woman was almost beyond belief. ‘Yes, it is me, Mma. I’m sorry, but it’s me.’

  ‘And?’ snapped the aunt.

  ‘I am here to see Mma Makutsi.’

  ‘Mma Radiphuti,’ shot back the aunt. ‘What is this nonsense about keeping names. She is a Radiphuti now.’

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. ‘And a Makutsi. I am a Ramotswe and a Matekoni. We can use both names, Mma, if that is what we want to do.’

  The aunt wrinkled her nose. ‘She is very tired. You should come back some other time.’

  Mma Ramotswe ignored this. ‘Thank you, Mma. You are very kind, but I can show myself in. Thank you very much.’

  As on her previous visit, she pushed past the aunt and started to make her way into the house when Mma Makutsi appeared. ‘You can get on with your rest now, Auntie,’ she said respectfully. ‘We shall go to the kitchen.’

  The aunt sniffed and retreated, leaving the two women by themselves.

  ‘Your house is looking so good,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It’s many years since we painted Zebra Drive. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni has been promising to do it for a long time, but he has not started yet.’

  ‘He is very busy, Mma. You will need to get our painter. He works very quickly and very well.’

  Mma Ramotswe thought of their last painter. ‘They are always going off to funerals, Mma. Don’t you find that?’

  Mma Makutsi smiled. ‘He was off this week, but he came back.’

  ‘I think that it is not really funerals they are going to,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘They go off to paint other houses. They have more than one job at a time.’

  ‘Like us,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘We do that. We have more than one case going at any time, do we not?’

  It was true, and it reminded Mma Ramotswe of the reason for her visit. ‘I need to talk to you, Mma,’ she said. ‘We have some very difficult cases at the moment.’

  They went into the kitchen. The baby, Mma Makutsi explained, was sleeping but he would wake up before long and make his presence known. ‘He has a very loud voice,’ she said. ‘And he sounds just like Phuti.’

  Mma Ramotswe was puzzled by this remark, but said nothing. How could a baby sound like his father? Babies said nothing, they cried, and Phuti… The awful thought occurred to her: did the baby have a stammer, as Phuti had? Could one stutter as one cried? It was an absurd idea, and she stopped herself from thinking it, as she had stopped herself envisaging the baby making great strides around the nursery…

  Mma Makutsi made tea. Mma Ramotswe saw that she had a special supply of redbush tea specially for her, and was touched; that one woman should keep something in the house for the visit of another woman was a nice example of what friendship might be.

  ‘Now, Mma,’ said Mma Makutsi as she sipped at her own cup of Tanganda Tea. ‘What is all this?’

  Mma Ramotswe began with the Molapo case. Mma Makutsi had been there for the visit of Mma Sheba, of course, but Mma Ramotswe brought her up to date with what had happened since, including the visit to the farm and the encounter with Liso.

  ‘I didn’t like the look of him to begin with,’ she said. ‘He was wearing one of those ridiculous hats that young men wear. I know it means nothing, but it put me against him.’

  ‘It is a sign,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘A hat can be a sign.’

  ‘Yes, but you have to be careful. Remember what Clovis Andersen says in the book? Remember how he says that the shirt a man wears is not always the shirt he would like to wear?’

  Mma Makutsi remembered that. ‘Have you heard from him?’ she asked.

  ‘From?’

  ‘From Mr Andersen? I thought that perhaps he might have written again.’

  ‘No, he has not, Mma. He has many important things to do.’

  There had been one letter since Clovis Andersen had returned to Munc
ie, Indiana. It had arrived shortly after his trip to Botswana had come to an end and it had been read and reread by both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi before being filed away in a file specially devoted to it.

  Dear ladies,

  There are some letters that are easy to write and some that are hard. This is a hard letter, not because I have anything unpleasant to say – as some hard letters require – but because I am not sure that I can find the words to express what I feel I need to say. And that is to thank you not merely for all your kindness to me when I was in your wonderful country, but to thank you for helping me come to terms with what has happened to me and with who I am. I could say so much more about that, but I know that it would make you embarrassed. We Americans can sometimes say too much about how we are feeling when other people keep those things to themselves. So I will not say much more than I have said because I know that you will understand. Here may be a wide sea between us, and many thousand of miles of it, but that sea and those miles are nothing to true friends, which is what I hope you will allow me to call you.