Morality for Beautiful Girls

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF BEAUTY

MMA MAKUTSI, Acting Manager of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, went to work that day in some trepidation. Although she welcomed responsibility and had delighted in her two promotions, she had nonetheless always had Mma Ramotswe in the background, a presence to whom she could turn if she found herself out of her depth. Now, with Mma Ramotswe away, she realised that she was solely responsible for two businesses and two employees. Even if Mma Ramotswe was planning to be no more than four or five days on the farm, that was long enough for things to go wrong and, since Mma Ramotswe could not be contacted by telephone, Mma Makutsi would have to handle everything. As far as the garage was concerned, she knew that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was now being looked after at the orphan farm and that she should not attempt to contact him until he was better. Rest and a complete break from the worries of work had been advised by the doctor, and Mma Potokwane, not accustomed to contradicting doctors, would be fiercely protective of her patient.

Mma Makutsi secretly hoped that the agency would get no clients until Mma Ramotswe came back. This was not because she did not want to work on a case—she certainly did—but she did not wish to be solely and completely responsible. But, of course, a client did come in, and, what was worse, it was a client with a problem that required immediate attention.

Mma Makutsi was sitting at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s desk, preparing garage bills, when one of the apprentices put his head round the door.

“There is a very smart-looking man wanting to see you, Mma,” he announced, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls. “I have opened the agency door and told him to wait.”

Mma Makutsi frowned at the apprentice. “Smart-looking?”

“Big suit,” said the apprentice. “You know. Handsome, same as me but not quite. Shiny shoes. A very smart man. You watch yourself, Mma. Men like that try to charm ladies like you. You just see.”

“Don’t wipe your hands on your overalls,” snapped Mma Makutsi, as she rose from her chair. “We pay for the laundering. You don’t. We give you cotton waste to use for that purpose. That is what it’s for. Has Mr J.L.B. Matekoni not told you that?”

“Maybe,” said the apprentice. “Maybe not. The boss said lots of things to us. We can’t remember everything he says.”

Mma Makutsi brushed past him on her way out. These boys are impossible, she thought, but at least they were proving to be harder workers than she expected. Perhaps Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been too soft on them in the past; he was such a kind man and it was not in his nature to criticise people unduly. Well, it was in her nature at least. She was a graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College, and the College teachers had always said: Do not be afraid to criticize—in a constructive way, of course—your own performance and, if necessary, the performance of others. Well, Mma Makutsi had criticised, and it had borne fruit. The garage was doing well and there seemed to be more and more work each day.

She paused at the door of the agency, just round the corner of the building, and looked at the car parked under the tree behind her. This man—this smart man, as the apprentice had described him—certainly drove an attractive car. She ran her eye for a moment over the smooth lines of the vehicle and its double aerials, front and back. Why would somebody need so many aerials? It would be impossible to listen to more than one radio station at a time, or make more than one telephone call while driving. But whatever the explanation, they certainly added to the air of glamour and importance which surrounded the car.

She pushed the door open. Inside, seated in the chair facing Mma Ramotswe’s desk, knees crossed in relaxed elegance, was Mr Moemedi “Two Shots” Pulani, immediately recognisable to any reader of the Botswana Daily News, across whose columns his handsome, self-assured face had so often been printed. Mma Makutsi’s immediate thought was that the apprentice should have recognised him, and she felt momentarily annoyed at his failure to do so, but then she reminded herself that the apprentice was an apprentice mechanic and not an apprentice detective, and, furthermore, she had never seen the apprentices reading the newspapers anyway. They read a South African motorcycle magazine, which they pored over in fascination, and a publication calledFancy Girls which they attempted to hide from Mma Makutsi whenever she came across them peering at it during their lunch hour. So there was no reason, she realised, for them to know about Mr Pulani, his fashion empire, and his well-known work for local charities.

Mr Pulani rose to his feet as she entered and greeted her politely. They shook hands, and then Mma Makutsi walked round the desk and sat in Mma Ramotswe’s chair.

“I am glad that you could see me without an appointment, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mr Pulani, taking a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket.

“I am not Mma Ramotswe, Rra,” she said, declining his offer of a cigarette. “I am the Assistant Manager of the agency.” She paused. It was not strictly true that she was the Assistant Manager of the agency; in fact, it was quite untrue. But she was certainly managing it in Mma Ramotswe’s absence, and so perhaps the description was justified.

“Ah,” said Mr Pulani, lighting his cigarette with a large goldplated lighter. “I would like to speak to Mma Ramotswe herself, please.”

Mma Makutsi flinched as the cloud of smoke drifted over the table to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That will not be possible for some days. Mma Ramotswe is investigating a very important case abroad.” She paused again. The exaggeration had come so easily, and without any thought. It sounded more impressive that Mma Ramotswe should be abroad—it gave the agency an international feel—but she should not have said it.

“I see,” said Mr Pulani. “Well, Mma, in that case I shall speak to you.”

“I am listening, Rra.”

Mr Pulani leaned back in his seat. “This is very urgent. Will you be able to look into something today, straightaway?”

Mma Makutsi took a deep breath before the next cloud of smoke engulfed her.

“We are at your disposal,” she said. “Of course, it is more expensive to handle things urgently. You’ll understand that, Rra.”

He brushed her warning aside. “Expense is not the issue,” he said. “What is at issue is the whole future of the Mss Beauty and Integrity contest.”

He paused for the effect of his words to be felt. Mma Makutsi obliged.

“Oh! That is a very serious matter.”

Mr Pulani nodded. “Indeed it is, Mma. And we have three days to deal with this issue. Just three days.”

“Tell me about it, Rra. I am ready to listen.”

“THERE IS an interesting background to this, Mma,” began Mr Pulani. “I think that the story begins a long time ago, a long time. In fact, the story begins in the Garden of Eden, when God made Adam and Eve. You will remember that Eve tempted Adam because she was so beautiful. And women have continued to be beautiful in the eyes of men since that time, and they still are, as you know.

“Now, the men of Botswana like pretty ladies. They are always looking at them, even when they are elders, and thinking that is a pretty woman, or that this woman is prettier than that woman, and so on.”

“They are like that with cattle, too,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “They say this cow is a good cow and this one is not so good. Cattle. Women. It’s all the same to men.”

Mr Pulani cast her a sideways glance. “Maybe. That is one way of looking at it. Perhaps.” He paused briefly before continuing. “Anyway, it is this interest of men in pretty ladies that makes beauty competitions so popular here in Botswana. We like to find the most beautiful ladies in Botswana and give them titles and prizes. It is a very important form of entertainment for men. And I am one such man, Mma. I have been involved in the beauty queen world for fifteen years, nonstop. I am maybe the most important person in the beauty side of things.”

“I have seen your picture in the papers, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. “I have seen you presenting prizes.”

Mr Pulani nodded. “I started the Miss Glamorous Botswana competition five years ago, and now it is the top one. The lady who wins our competition always gets into the Miss Botswana competition and sometimes into the Miss Universe competition. We have sent ladies to New York and Palm Springs; they have been given high marks for beauty. Some say that they are our best export after diamonds.”

“And cattle,” added Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, and cattle,” Mr Pulani agreed. “But there are some people who are always sniping at us. They write to the newspapers and tell us that it is wrong to encourage ladies to dress up and walk in front of a lot of men like that. They say that it encourages false values. Pah! False values? These people who write these letters are just jealous. They are envious of the beauty of these girls. They know that they would never be able to enter a competition like that. So they complain and complain and they are very happy when something goes wrong for a beauty competition. They forget, by the way, that these competitions raise a lot of money for charity. Last year, Mma, we raised five thousand pula for the hospital, twenty thousand pula for drought relief—twenty thousand, Mma—and almost eight thousand pula for a nursing scholarship fund. Those are big sums, Mma. How much money have our critics raised? I can tell you the answer to that. Nothing.

“But we have to be careful. We get a lot of money from sponsors, and if sponsors withdraw, then we are in trouble. So if something goes wrong for our competition, then the sponsors may say that they do not want to have anything more to do with us. They say that they do not want to be embarrassed by bad publicity. They say that they are paying for good publicity, not for bad.”

“And has something gone wrong?”

Mr Pulani tapped his fingers on the desk. “Yes. Some very bad things have happened. Last year, two of our beauty queens were found to be bad girls. One was arrested for prostitution in one of the big hotels. That was not good. Another was shown to have obtained goods under false pretences and to have used a credit card without authorisation. There were letters in the paper. There was much crowing. They said things like: Are these girls the right sort of girls to be ambassadors for Botswana? Why not go straight to the prison and pick some of the women prisoners and make them beauty queens? They thought that was very funny, but it was not. Some of the companies saw this and said that if this happened again, they would withdraw sponsorship. I had four letters, all saying the same thing.

“So I decided that this year the theme of our competition would be Beauty and Integrity. I told our people that we must choose beauty queens who are good citizens, who will not embarrass us in this way. It is the only way that we are going to keep our sponsors happy.

“So for the first round, all the ladies had to fill in a form which I designed myself. This asked all sorts of questions about their views. It asked things like: Would you like to work for charity? Then it asked: What are the values which a good citizen of Botswana should uphold? And: Is it better to give than receive?

“All the girls filled in these questions, and only those who showed that they understood the meaning of good citizenship were allowed to go on to the finals. From these girls we made a shortlist of five. I went to the papers and told them that we had found five very good citizens who believed in the best values. There was an article in theBotswana Daily News which said:Good girls seek beauty title.

“I was very happy, and there was silence from our critics, who had to sit on their hands because they could not come out and criticise these ladies who wanted to be good citizens. The sponsors telephoned me and said that they were content to be identified with the values of good citizenship and that if all went well they would continue to provide their sponsorship next year. And the charities themselves said to me that this was the way of the future.”

Mr Pulani paused. He looked at Mma Makutsi, and for a moment his urbane manner deserted him and he looked crestfallen. “Then, yesterday I heard the bad news. One of our short-listed girls was arrested by the police and charged with shoplifting. I heard about it through one of my employees and when I checked with a friend who is an inspector of police, he said that it was true. This girl had been found shoplifting in the Game store. She tried to steal a large cooking pot by slipping it under her blouse. But she did not notice that the handle was sticking out of the side and the store detective stopped her. Fortunately it has not got into the newspapers, and with any luck it will not, at least until the case comes up in the Magistrate’s Court.”

Mma Makutsi felt a pang of sympathy for Mr Pulani. In spite of his flashiness, there was no doubt that he did a great deal for charity. The fashion world was inevitably flashy, and he was probably no worse than any of the others, but at least he was doing his best for people in trouble. And beauty competitions were a fact of life, which you could not wish out of existence. If he was trying to make his competition more acceptable, then he deserved support.

“I am sorry to hear that, Rra,” she said. “That must have been very bad news for you.”

“Yes,” he said, miserably. “And it is made much worse by the fact that the finals are in three days. There are now only four girls on the list, but how do I know that they are not going to embarrass me? That one must have lied when she filled in her questionnaire and made out that she was a good citizen. How do I know that the rest of them aren’t lying when they say that they would like to do things for charity? How do I know that? And if we choose a girl who is a liar, then she may well prove to be a thief or whatever. And that means that we are bound to face embarrassment once she gets going.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “It is very difficult. You really need to be able to look into the hearts of the remaining four. If there is a good one there …”

“If there is such a lady,” said Mr Pulani forcefully, “then she will win. I can arrange for her to win.”

“But what about the other judges?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“I am the chief judge,” he said. “You might call me the Chief Justice of Beauty. My vote is the one that counts.”

“I see.”

“Yes. That is the way it works.”

Mr Pulani stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. “So you see, Mma. That is what I want you to do. I will give you the names and addresses of the four ladies. I would like you to find out if there is one really good lady there. If you can’t find that, then at least tell me which is the most honest of the lot. That would be second best.”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “How can I look into the hearts of these girls that quickly?” she asked. “I would have to talk to many, many people to find out about them. It could take weeks.”

Mr Pulani shrugged. “You haven’t got weeks, Mma. You’ve got three days. You did say that you could help me.”

“Yes, but …”

Mr Pulani reached into a pocket and took out a piece of paper. “This is a list of the four names. I have written the address of each lady after her name. They all live in Gaborone.” He slipped the piece of paper across the desk and then extracted a thin leather folder from another pocket. As he opened it, Mma Makutsi saw that it contained a chequebook. He opened it and began to write. “And here, Mma, is a cheque for two thousand pula, made payable to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. There. It’s postdated. If you can give me the information I need the day after tomorrow, you can present this at the bank the next day.”

Mma Makutsi stared at the cheque. She imagined how it would feel to be able to say to Mma Ramotswe when she returned, “I earned the agency two thousand pula in fees, Mma, already paid.” She knew that Mma Ramotswe was not a greedy woman, but she also knew that she worried about the financial viability of the agency. A fee of that size would help a great deal, and would be a reward, thought Mma Makutsi, for the confidence that Mma Ramotswe had shown in her.

She slipped the cheque into a drawer. As she did so, she saw Mr Pulani relax.

“I am counting on you, Mma,” he said. “Everything that I have heard about the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency has been good. I hope that I shall see that for myself.”

“I hope so too, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi. But she was already feeling doubtful about how she could possibly find out which of the four short-listed ladies were honest. It seemed an impossible task.

She escorted Mr Pulani to the door, noticing for the first time that he was wearing white shoes. She observed, too, his large gold cuff links and his tie with its sheen of silk. She would not like to have a man like that, she thought. One would have to spend all one’s time at a beauty parlour in order to keep up the appearance he would no doubt expect. Of course, reflected Mma Makutsi, that would suit some ladies perfectly well.