They had returned to the subject of shoes. ‘Children’s feet grow so quickly,’ said Mmakosi. ‘So I always say to people: get shoes that are always slightly too big for your child. Then turn your head for a week or two and – whoosh – the child’s toes will have filled the extra space. That is what I say, Mma Ramotswe.’
Mma Ramotswe examined the tiny red shoes – boots, really – that had been selected for Mma Makutsi’s son. ‘These are size zero, Mma,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should go for size one. Then he will grow into them.’
Mmakosi shook her head. ‘No, Mma. These shoes are not like ordinary shoes. If you feel the toes, you will notice that the leather is very supple. These shoes can expand very easily to allow for growth. And they are not shoes for walking in, you know. These shoes are called crawling shoes. They are for when the child begins to crawl.’
‘But he’s only a few days old,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘He’s going nowhere.’
‘But he will,’ said Mmakosi. ‘He will start to crawl before too long, and these shoes will be there, ready for him. They are a very sensible present.’
Mma Ramotswe was drawn to the shoes. It tickled her to think that she was giving shoes to Mma Makutsi, who had always taken a rather condescending attitude towards Mma Ramotswe’s own shoes, which were designed for comfort rather than for fashion. They were always the same: flat and brown, and fairly wide too, to cater to traditionally built feet. But they had never let her down and, unlike Mma Makutsi’s shoes, had never been sarcastic.
‘You know something, Mma?’ Mma Ramotswe said to Mmakosi. ‘Mma Makutsi’s shoes are very unusual. They…’ She stopped herself. She had been about to mention that Mma Makutsi’s shoes appeared to speak, but she realised that this would sound very odd to the shopkeeper.
‘Yes, Mma?’ prompted Mmakosi.
‘They are a very unusual colour. And so I think she will like these red shoes.’
The purchase made, Mma Ramotswe went out into the covered square. The managers of the shopping centre had thoughtfully provided concrete benches for the comfort of tired shoppers, and for those who might not have been tired out by shopping but were tired at the thought of shopping. A few of these people now sat about on these benches, plastic bags of purchases resting at their feet, in some cases watching passers-by, in others looking vaguely into the distance, and in yet others half dozing in the drowsy warmth of the afternoon. A small group of four or five teenagers had congregated around one bench and were chatting about the things which teenagers liked to chat about and which adults, for all their efforts, singularly failed to understand. There was laughter and raised voices from this group, sufficient to attract a scowl of disapproval from a middle-aged man on a nearby bench. But Mma Ramotswe did not disapprove. Laughter, even teenage laughter, was something of which she would never disapprove, unless, of course, it was cruel laughter, which was always so easy to recognise from its higher pitch and sharper edge.
Mma Ramotswe decided to sit down. She was not particularly tired – it was simply one of those occasions when she felt like sitting down. There was no reason why one should always be on the move. That was half the trouble with the world, she thought: not enough people took the time to sit down for a few minutes and look up at the sky or at whatever it was that was before you – a herd of cattle, perhaps, or a stretch of bush dotted with acacia trees, or the sinking of the evening sun into the Kalahari. You did not have to sit for long; even a few minutes was enough to remind you that if you spent your life rushing about, then the years would slip through your fingers without your really noticing it until suddenly they were gone and you were old and before long it would be that moment that comes to everybody – the time to leave Botswana for ever.
A morbid notion, and Mma Ramotswe was not given to such things, so as she lowered herself on to the bench, the gift parcel on her lap, she turned her mind to something else altogether: the Sheba case. Although she had not started her actual investigation, she had been thinking about it, and thinking about a problem – even in a rather dreamy way – was often a good way of allowing the mind to come up with possibilities. What puzzled her about this case was that if anybody was lying, it would be the aunt: she was the one on whose word the whole matter rested. If Mma Sheba was right and Liso was not the real Liso, then there had to be a reason for the aunt to go along with that deception. Would she have an interest in stopping the real Liso from inheriting the farm? Would it be because he might evict her from her house? That was possible. Or did she want this other young man to inherit it because she could control him in some way? Perhaps she wanted to buy the farm at a knockdown price and had a secret agreement with him to sell it to her if she lied about his identity in order to enable him to inherit. Unlikely, she thought. Very unlikely.
Her chain of thought was diverted when she looked up and saw two workmen struggling with several large plywood boards. The boards had been covering the window of a shop undergoing renovations, and now the renewed shop beneath was being revealed. She tried to envisage what had been there before. It had been, she seemed to recall, a shop that sold gardening equipment: spades and trowels, specialist rakes and gloves. These were things that people liked to own, and would find quite useful, but not things that they would bother to buy. If you wanted a trowel, you hunted through the piles of old possessions that naturally accumulated in sheds and garages and as likely as not you found one, soil-encrusted and ancient, but a trowel nonetheless; you did not think of buying such a thing.
She shook her head as she thought of the shop-owner’s disappointment at becoming yet another commercial failure. People had said that the same fate awaited her when she started the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. They had laughed and said that nobody would want the services of a detective agency in a society in which there were few secrets, and where, moreover, everybody prided themselves on how easily they could find out anything they wished to know. That is what they had said behind her back and in some cases even to her face. Yet here she was, years later, with a firm that had defied these Jeremiah-like predictions and was a well established, prosperous concern. Well, if not actually prosperous, then at least not a business that lost too much money.
One of the workmen paused to mop his brow with a handkerchief. Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, it is very hot, even here in the shade. Yet people had to work, even in this heat; they had to take boards off the front of shops, they had to cook meals in kitchens, they had to lie under cars and struggle to undo the nuts on oil sumps, they had to… Her attention was caught by the workman’s renewed struggles with the board. He had prised it off successfully and was shifting it to one side, revealing the lettering painted on the glass behind.
Mma Ramotswe stared at the name: The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. It took a moment or two, but then it came to her: she knew about this business. She had met Mma Soleti, its owner, who had previously operated her beauty salon from such unpromising small premises – no more than a shack, really – and who now was moving into this much smarter accommodation. This was indeed a business success.
She got to her feet and approached the workman.
‘Dumela, Rra,’ she said. ‘You are doing a very good job.’
The man, breathless from his exertions, mopped his brow again. ‘It is too hot to be working, Mma.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The only thing to do in weather like this is to sit in some cool place somewhere. But…’ She paused as she peered into the shop’s interior. ‘But business has to go on, Rra, and, as it happens, I know this lady. I know Mma Soleti.’
The man scrutinised her for a moment. ‘You have been a client, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘Not really, Rra. I am not a lady who spends a lot of time on fashion and such things. And you, Rra? Have you…’ She left the question unfinished.
He laughed. ‘Men do not go to these places.’
‘Perhaps they should, Rra. Perhaps men should go and have the wrinkles taken out of their faces.’
For a moment
the workman looked anxious, and his hand went involuntarily to his face.
‘I am not being serious,’ Mma Ramotswe reassured him. ‘Women do not notice the wrinkles on men’s faces. Women are mostly interested in what is in a man’s heart. Is he a kind man? That is the question, Rra. And there are many kind men who have many wrinkles.’
The workman nodded. ‘This woman, this Mma Soleti, is coming here soon to open up her shop. That is why we are getting it ready.’
‘Soon soon?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
‘Yes. She should have been here already, but maybe there is traffic and she is delayed.’
Mma Ramotswe nodded. The traffic was getting worse – particularly at lunchtime and in the late afternoon – and one could no longer say with certainty when one would arrive. There were too many cars, and it would be a good idea to round up all the cars and throw away half of them, to make things better for the surviving vehicles. Such a solution, though, was hardly practicable and of course there was Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to think of. Cars were his livelihood and by extension hers too, in a way, until the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency became much more profitable – which it would not, unless people started to have rather more problems than they currently did, and who would wish more problems on other people?
She became aware of somebody approaching, and she turned round.
‘Mma Ramotswe!’
Mma Soleti, carrying a bulging canvas bag in each hand, was struggling towards her. Instinctively Mma Ramotswe reached out to help her, but this only caused the other woman to lose her grip on one of the bags. A cascade of plastic bottles – shampoos, creams, lotions – scattered about their ankles.
Apologising profusely, Mma Ramotswe scooped up the bottles and jars and stuffed them back into the bag.
‘This is the last load,’ said Mma Soleti, fumbling for her keys with her free hand. ‘Once we have these on the shelf, I shall be ready for business.’ She looked at Mma Ramotswe as if she were planning something. ‘In fact, Mma, would you like to be my official first customer?’
It took Mma Ramotswe a little while to answer. She realised that she did not have very much money on her – the purchase of the baby shoes had been more expensive than she had expected, and the remaining one hundred and fifty pula she had in her purse had been earmarked for the purchase of groceries. It would hardly do for her to reveal to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni that there was nothing to put on the table because she had spent the housekeeping money on beauty treatments. Tolerant though he was, no man could fail to be disappointed by such information; some would even be angry, but those particular men would do well to ask themselves how much of the household budget went on beer. If men bought beer, thought Mma Ramotswe, then women should be entitled to spend money on beauty treatments. At least beauty treatments made you look better, while beer generally made you look worse. She had to admit, though, that both were capable of making you feel more cheerful – in moderation, of course.
Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands in gratitude. ‘That is very kind, Mma, but I’m afraid that I’m having to watch my pula these days and I don’t have much money on me. Some other day perhaps.’
Mma Soleti shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh no, Mma. I was not going to charge my first customer. The treatment would be entirely free. On the house. Nothing to pay.’
Mma Ramotswe was grateful, but still felt unable to accept. ‘That is very kind, Mma, but it is not a good way to run a business. If you did not charge for your treatments, then you would be out of business pretty quickly.’
Mma Soleti was having none of this. ‘But of course I’m going to charge for the treatments. All I’m saying is that I won’t charge you, Mma Ramotswe, as you will be the first customer in my new premises. That is all I’m saying.’
Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. The supermarket would be quite busy, she thought, and she would need time to cook Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s dinner. She also had to call on Mma Makutsi to deliver the present. ‘Time is the problem for me,’ she said. ‘There are so many things to do.’
‘It would not take long, Mma,’ said Mma Soleti, peering at Mma Ramotswe’s face. ‘I think the main thing would be doing something about those slightly enlarged pores at the side of your nose. And there’s a bit of dry skin near your ears, if I’m not mistaken. It’s this weather, Mma. The sun dries a lady’s skin very quickly and when we have as much sun as we’re getting on days like this, then moisturiser is the only solution.’
‘Fifteen minutes?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
‘Twenty,’ countered Mma Soleti.
‘Then I accept. Thank you, Mma.’
Mma Ramotswe was impressed by the interior of the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon.
‘This is very luxurious, Mma,’ she said as she lay down on Mma Soleti’s treatment couch. ‘Your last place was… very nice, but it was a…’
‘Shack,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘You have to start somewhere, Mma, and that is where I started. Now we have this new salon complete with hot and cold running water and a fan to keep the customers cool. It is very different.’
‘It must have cost a lot,’ said Mma Ramotswe. Through her mind was going the question that always went through people’s minds but they never liked to ask: Where did the money come from?
Mma Soleti would understand that question – everybody in Botswana was familiar with it. In rural Botswana, everybody, no matter how long they had lived in a town, helped one another, would not let another go hungry and were polite in their dealings with their fellow villagers; yet there was one major failing shared by all – a human enough trait, of course, but a failing nonetheless – envy. People could be envious of the material success of others, and almost everybody knew of some case where something spiteful had been done purely out of envy. So if somebody suddenly had a lot to spend, it was envy that fired up curiosity as to where the money had come from.
‘You will be wondering where I got the money,’ said Mma Soleti. This was no accusation – her tone was matter-of-fact.
‘I must admit the thought crossed my mind, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Soleti twisted the lid off a jar of cold cream. ‘I had some money saved,’ she said. ‘A good amount, in fact, but not nearly enough to pay the rental deposit on this shop. Nor to pay the builder. No, I was able to borrow money, Mma – and at a very competitive rate of interest.’
‘That is good because you must have needed a lot,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Even this couch…’ She ran her hand over the surface. It looked expensive and it felt expensive too.
‘Two thousand pula,’ interjected Mma Soleti. ‘It came all the way from Johannesburg. It is the latest thing. Except it’s second-hand, of course.’
‘Many old things are very good,’ said Mma Ramotswe diplomatically. ‘Things are rather like people in that respect, Mma…’
Mma Soleti waited for Mma Ramotswe to finish, but her voice died away. Perhaps, thought the beautician, that is all she wanted to say; perhaps there was no conclusion to the observation.
From her supine position on the couch, Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. Two flies were engaged in a display of complicated footwork – an upside-down argument over upside-down territory. Or a dance of love perhaps. From the flies’ perspective, she thought, the ground was the sky, the thing you looked at when you craned your neck and looked up. And what were we to them? Great elephants lumbering around, strangely attached to that sky; our exposed flesh, moist with sweat in this heat, wide expanses of swamp for courageous flies to explore; our hair the jungle; our nostrils great caves emitting gales of heated air, places into which only a foolhardy insect would venture.
At length Mma Soleti spoke. ‘I think you’re right, Mma Ramotswe. Many people improve as they grow older. They become less foolish. They behave more thoughtfully towards others. There is a long list of these things.’
Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘I suppose that is what I meant. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni thinks that about cars, you know. He says that an old car has a big soul. Those were
the words he used – the exact words.’
Mma Soleti had now arranged three jars of cream on a tray beside the couch. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said. ‘This will feel nice and cool.’
Mma Ramotswe did as she was bidden. The cream, applied by Mma Soleti’s gentle fingers, felt pleasant, and it smelled good too. She wrinkled her nose slightly in an effort to identify the scent.
‘That cream is made of aloes,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘But they have added lemon to it. That is what you’re smelling, Mma.’ She paused, spreading the cream in generous quantities across Mma Ramotswe’s brow. ‘Lemon juice is a very good skin cleanser, Mma,’ she continued. ‘It is good for oily skin and when you mix it with aloe then it heals very well too. You can drink lemon juice with honey in the mornings – that will clean your skin from within.’