The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

‘And that boy not knowing the truth,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘There he is going through life not knowing who he really is.’

  ‘He thinks he knows,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And surely that’s what counts. We need a story about ourselves, but does it really matter whether it is the true one or it has been made up? I wonder.’

  ‘You mean, as long as we believe it ourselves?’

  She had not thought it through, but she imagined that this was so. ‘At the end of the day, Mma Makutsi, aren’t we all the same? Aren’t we simply people? Aren’t we all distant cousins from long, long ago?’

  ‘We all came from Africa,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘It doesn’t matter what the colour of our skin is; we’re all from Africa originally. I have read that, Mma Ramotswe. There was an article about it in the paper. East Africa. That’s where everyone comes from. Me, you, the King of Sweden.’

  ‘The King of Sweden?’

  ‘I choose him as an example,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘I’m not saying that he had an African grandmother, but a long, long time ago his people would have been from Africa, same as everybody.’

  Mma Ramotswe grinned. ‘So there were these Swedens in Kenya – just ordinary farmers…’

  ‘Cattle,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘They had many cattle, those people over there. They wore long red cloaks and looked after their cattle. I have seen photographs.’

  ‘And that Sweden family?’

  ‘They were there too. And the Arabs. And the Jews. Everyone. No enemies in those days.’

  Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. ‘I’m not so sure, Mma. I don’t think human nature has changed. We have always been unkind to one another.’

  ‘And good sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, and good sometimes.’

  Mma Ramotswe returned to the topic of Liso. ‘The truth, Mma Makutsi, is that it doesn’t matter in the slightest that that boy has a father who is also his uncle. We do not like things like that, but once it has happened it makes no difference to that boy himself. We must love him the same as we love everybody else. That is all there is to it.’

  Mma Makutsi agreed. But she asked what this meant in practical terms. What were they going to say to Mma Sheba, who had asked them to investigate in the first place?

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. There were moments when one knew that a few words uttered could change somebody’s life.

  ‘We tell her that the boy on the farm is the boy Rra Edgar had in mind when he made the will. He is the person whom he wanted to inherit. That is very clear.’

  ‘The will says that the farm must go to his nephew…’

  ‘Who is late.’

  Mma Makutsi was still concerned. ‘Yes, but if the real Liso is late, then the farm goes to Mma Sheba. That is what the will says. It says that the farm is to go to his nephew, Liso. We know that nephew is dead, and so the legacy cannot be executed. It goes into the residue.’

  ‘Yes, but when he said “my nephew”, he didn’t mean his real nephew Liso, he meant his son, Liso,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘He meant the Liso he knew. The Liso who was his son, but who he thought was his nephew. That’s what he wanted.’

  ‘But would the courts agree with that?’

  Mma Ramotswe was not sure. She wondered whether a court would try to work out what Rra Edgar had wanted. If they did that, then Liso – the Liso on the farm – would inherit. But the law was not always reasonable, and there might be reasons why a court might not try to work it out. It was best not to risk it, she thought.

  ‘The right thing,’ she said, ‘is for Liso to get the farm. It is what Rra Edgar intended.’

  Mma Makutsi was ready to be persuaded. ‘And it’s only fair too, don’t you think, Mma? The farm is going to his child, as is right. We should do nothing to change that.’

  ‘So we will not be lying to Mma Sheba if we tell her what I suggested,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We tell her that Liso is the young man Rra Edgar was thinking of when he made the will. That is absolutely true, Mma Makutsi. One hundred per cent true. We don’t have to tell her anything else we happen to have found out. She will have to do what the will says.’

  ‘She won’t like that, Mma.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We all have to do things we don’t like. You had to be polite to that aunt of Phuti’s. You did it. You put up with her.’

  ‘That snake, Mma, it did us a big favour. Maybe it knew all about difficult aunts. Maybe it had a very nasty snake aunt who was always hissing.’

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘Yes, maybe.’ She became serious again. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it, Mma, that a person can feel so ashamed of something that they can never talk about it. That woman on the farm – the mother – she has spent her life being frightened that her secret will be found out. That cannot be easy.’

  ‘She is frightened more for the boy than for herself, I think,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But it is equally sad.’

  ‘That is why I am pleased that they will get the farm. He will be a good farmer and she will be there watching him look after his father’s place. That is a good result, Mma.’

  ‘And Mma Sheba?’ asked Mma Makutsi.

  ‘She has enough money, I think – she does not need more. And she has her sadness, too, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Because Rra Edgar is late?’

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘She has lost him. But she does not need his farm to be able to remember him. She does not need that.’

  And now they had to tell Mma Soleti that they had identified the person who was waging the campaign against her: Violet Sephotho. Mma Makutsi was looking forward to this and to the subsequent denunciation – to Violet’s face – that she had been taking great pleasure in planning. Mma Ramotswe was more hesitant. She was prepared to be firm when firmness was required, but she did not like confrontation if she could possibly avoid it.

  They left the office with Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti sound asleep in the small baby-seat that Phuti had bought and that strapped neatly into the passenger seat of the tiny white van, with Mma Makutsi herself travelling in the back. When they arrived, the infant was removed from the seat and tied firmly into a traditional African baby sling on his mother’s back. Some mothers, Mma Ramotswe had noticed, were beginning to use front slings, but this seemed to her to be all wrong. Babies had always been carried on their mothers’ backs in Africa, and it would be very confusing for everybody if they were to be carried in the front. What if the mother fell? She would fall on top of the baby. What if she were hit by one of those thorny branches while walking along a path through the bush? The baby would feel the thorns first. There were many arguments for the traditional approach, and she was pleased that she did not have to raise any of them with Mma Makutsi.

  They went straight to the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. Mma Soleti was there, together with a young woman whom she introduced as her cousin’s daughter, whom she had agreed to train as a beautician. Both looked despondent. When they saw Mma Makutsi’s baby, however, they cheered up immediately and spent some time cuddling him and exchanging baby gossip with Mma Makutsi. There were tips to be given on the care of the delicate skin that babies had, and several special creams were produced and demonstrated on Itumelang, with the result that his face was soon quite pale with all the creams and potions applied.

  It was Mma Ramotswe who broached the subject of the campaign. ‘I think we have found out who is responsible for your troubles,’ she said. She glanced at the young woman, uncertain as to whether she was aware of what had been happening.

  Mma Soleti intercepted the look and reassured her. ‘Angela knows all about it,’ she said. ‘You can talk freely.’

  Mma Soleti handed Itumelang back to his mother and wiped her hands clean of the creams she had been applying. ‘That is very good news,’ she continued. ‘Who is this person?’

  ‘It is Violet Sephotho,’ said Mma Makutsi. There was a note of triumph in her voice.

  ‘Her!’ hissed Mma Soleti.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mma Makutsi with relish. ‘Her!’

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; ‘We think it’s her,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We know that it is somebody Violet Sephotho employs who probably photocopied that leaflet. This suggests that Violet is behind it.’

  ‘It is the sort of thing that woman would do,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘We all know about her.’

  ‘I have known about her for many years,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Ever since those early days at the Botswana Secretarial College, I have known all about her and her… her machinations.’

  ‘So what now?’ asked Mma Soleti.

  Mma Ramotswe explained that they would go to see her and reveal that they knew she was responsible. ‘That should stop it,’ she said. ‘Which is what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘And what about her punishment?’ asked Mma Soleti.

  ‘That will be more difficult,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘If we go to the police, they will ask where is our proof? And we don’t really have much proof. We might be able to get her assistant to confess to having done the photocopying, but if she keeps her mouth shut then we will have nothing concrete to give the police.’

  ‘So she may go unpunished?’ The disappointment in Mma Soleti’s voice was evident.

  Angela was also dismayed. ‘There is no justice,’ she said. ‘Maybe somewhere else there is justice, but not here.’

  ‘For a person like that, to be stopped in her tracks might be punishment enough,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘She will not like being thwarted.’

  This was clearly less than what Mma Soleti wanted, but at least it would set her mind at rest. To be persecuted by a known person was bad enough; to be persecuted by an unknown one was perhaps more terrifying.

  Mma Soleti began to smile. ‘I’m very happy, Mma Ramotswe. Now that I know who my enemy is, and that her campaign against me will come to an end, I feel much happier.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘Let us give you free face treatments,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘Both of you. I will do you, Mma Makutsi, as you are a challenge. Angela will do Mma Ramotswe.’

  Fortunately, Mma Makutsi did not seem to take offence at Mma Soleti’s tactless remark. Itumelang had dropped off to sleep and she held him gently as she lay down on the couch. Angela took Mma Ramotswe into the back room, where there was a chair for her to sit in while she had her facial treatment.

  ‘I am very glad that you have sorted this out, Mma,’ said Angela as she began to apply cold cream. ‘Mma Soleti is a very kind lady, and I have been very angry that she has been frightened. It is very bad.’

  ‘Well, I think it is over now,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Or it will be, soon enough.’

  ‘That Violet Sephotho,’ said Angela. ‘Even I have heard of her, Mma. She is a very wicked woman.’

  ‘I’m afraid she is,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I think it must be because she is unhappy. People who behave badly are often unhappy with themselves – and with the world.’

  Angela rubbed the cream into Mma Ramotswe’s cheeks. She worked gently, and Mma Ramotswe decided that she would be good at her craft.

  ‘Mind you,’ said the young woman, ‘I thought it was somebody else.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it was the person who wanted this shop.’

  ‘Violet Sephotho wants this shop,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘That’s why we knew it was her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘Maybe she does want it, but somebody else wants it even more. I heard about another person altogether but I didn’t want to say anything to Mma Soleti because I wasn’t sure and I knew that there had been a lot of trouble with that person.’

  Mma Ramotswe was listening carefully. ‘How did you hear all this?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I met the agent who lets these places,’ said Angela. ‘He lives near my parents. He said to me that he hoped that Mma Soleti was pleased with this place because he could have let it to somebody else. He said that there was somebody who tried to bribe him to let it to her, even after Mma Soleti had signed the agreement. He said she offered him money because she was desperate to get this shop. She wanted to open a branch of her printing business here and she thought this was the best place for that. He refused.’

  Mma Ramotswe sat motionless, holding her breath. ‘Did he say who it was, Mma?’

  ‘It was that woman whose husband went off with Mma Soleti.’

  ‘Daisy Manchwe?’

  ‘Yes. He said it was her. So I thought that she must be the person who was trying to get us out. But now I know that I am wrong and it was really Violet Sephotho, I’m glad that I didn’t say anything.’

  Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. ‘Can you wipe the cream off?’ she said. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘But I’ve hardly started,’ Angela complained.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There are things that are more important than beauty.’

  Angela removed the cream and Mma Ramotswe stood up. Returning to the main treatment room, she addressed Mma Soleti, who was applying a thick layer of cream to Mma Makutsi’s face.

  ‘I think,’ she began, ‘that it might not be Violet Sephotho after all.’

  Mma Soleti put down the jar of cream with a thump. ‘Not her?’

  ‘No. I think it is somebody else.’ Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. ‘I… we both probably jumped to a conclusion. It was not an unreasonable conclusion, but it was perhaps a little bit too early to decide what we decided. I’m sorry, Mma.’

  Mma Soleti frowned. ‘It is not one person, but you say it is another. Who is this other person, Mma?’

  ‘I think it is Daisy Manchwe. Angela has just told me that she tried to get hold of this shop. She is the one who copied that notice – and I think she probably wrote it too.’

  Mma Soleti gasped. ‘Her! I told you, Mma Ramotswe! You asked me for a list of enemies and I put her name at the top. Remember?’

  ‘You did tell me, Mma,’ agreed Mma Ramotswe. ‘And I went to see her. She told me that she bore you no ill will. She said that she was pleased that you had taken her husband from her because…’

  ‘Because of what, Mma?’ Mma Soleti exploded.

  Mma Ramotswe made an effort to summon every reserve of tact. ‘Because she felt perhaps the two of them were not very well suited. It was something like that.’

  Mma Soleti gave a crowing laugh. ‘I rescued him from that big liar, Mma. She is a very big, famous liar.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela loyally. ‘That is what she is. A big, big liar. There are many liars in this country, Mma, and her name is up at the top of the list. If the government published a list of liars, whose name would be at the top? Daisy Manchwe.’

  Mma Ramotswe turned to Mma Makutsi. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t Violet,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I know you were looking forward to denouncing her.’

  ‘There will always be another time,’ said Mma Makutsi philosophically. ‘When there are many bad ladies around, Mma, it is best to deal with them one by one, I think.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ interjected Angela. ‘But what are you going to do with this Manchwe person? Is she going to get away with it, like Violet Sephotho would have done?’

  Mma Ramotswe turned to Angela. ‘There are ways of handling these things, Mma.’

  ‘What are they?’ challenged Angela.

  Mma Ramotswe was tolerant of the younger woman’s impatience. ‘Mma Makutsi and I will go to speak to her. We will tell her that we know that it was her who has done these things.’ She paused. ‘Have you ever confronted a person who has done something really bad, Mma?’

  Angela said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ continued Mma Ramotswe, ‘sometimes you don’t have to say very much to them. You look at them and you must not blink. You look at them, and you watch them, thinking about what they have done. It doesn’t always work – there are some people who are without shame, but most people have some shame inside them, Mma. And you let that shame do its work. And…’ Now she raised a finger. ‘You may tell them that they are forgiven. That can be very, very powerful, Mma. Don’t forget it.
Forgiveness works.’

  Angela looked down at the floor. ‘I’m sorry, Mma. I was a bit rude.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘What you said was understandable. There are times when it is necessary to punish people to make them face up to their actions – and to make others feel that justice has been done. So we might come up with something that will bring it home to Daisy Manchwe that what she did was wrong. I’ve thought of something, in fact.’

  Mma Makutsi looked interested. ‘What is that, Mma?’

  ‘Could you use some advertising leaflets, Mma Soleti?’

  Mma Makutsi let out a chuckle. ‘Free, of course.’