Morality for Beautiful Girls

CHAPTER FIFTEEN WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?

MMA MAKUTSI had only three days. It was not a long time, and she wondered whether she could possibly find out enough about each of the four finalists to enable her to advise Mr Pulani. She looked at the neatly typed list which he had provided, but neither the names, nor the addresses which followed them, told her anything. She knew that there were people who claimed that they could judge people on their names, that girls called Mary were inevitably honest and home-loving, that you should never trust a Sipho, and so on. But this was an absurd notion, very much less helpful than the notion that you could tell whether a person was a criminal by looking at the shape of his head. Mma Ramotswe had shown her an article about that theory and she had joined her in her laughter. But the idea—even if clearly not a very appropriate one for a modern person like herself to hold—had intrigued her and she had discreetly embarked on her own researches. The ever-helpful librarian of the British Council Library had produced a book within minutes and had pressed it into her hands.Theories of Crime was a considerably more scholarly work than Mma Ramotswe’s professional bible,The Principles of Private Detection by Clovis Andersen. That was perfectly adequate for tips on dealing with clients, but it was weak on theory. It was obvious to Mma Makutsi that Clovis Andersen was no reader ofThe Journal of Criminology; whereas the author ofTheories of Crime was quite familiar with the debates which took place as to what caused crime. Society was one possible culprit, Mma Makutsi read; bad housing and a bleak future made criminals of young men, and we should remember, the book warned, that those to whom evil was donedid evil in return.

Mma Makutsi read this with astonishment. It was absolutely correct, she reflected, but she had never thought about it in those terms. Of course those who did wrong had been wronged themselves—that very much accorded with her own experience. In her third year at school, all those years ago in Bobonong, she remembered a boy who had bullied the smaller boys and had delighted in their terror. She had never been able to understand why he had done it—perhaps he was just evil—but then, one evening, she had passed by his house and had seen him being beaten by his drunken father. The boy wriggled and cried out, but had been unable to escape the blows. The following day, on the way to school, she had seen him striking a smaller boy and push him into a painful wagenbikkie bush with its cruel thorns. Of course she had not linked cause and effect at that age, but now it came back to her and she reflected on the wisdom revealed in the text ofTheories of Crime.

Sitting alone in the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, it took her several hours of reading to reach what she was looking for. The section on biological explanations of crime was shorter than the other sections, largely because the author was clearly uncomfortable with them.

“The nineteenth century Italian criminologist, Cesare Lombroso,” she read, “although liberal in his views of prison reform, was convinced that criminality could be detected by the shape of the head. Thus he expended a great deal of energy on charting the physiognomy of criminals, in a misguided attempt to identify those facial and cranial features that were indicative of criminality. These quaint illustrations (reproduced below) are a testament to the misplaced enthusiasm which could so easily have been directed into more fruitful lines of research.”

Mma Makutsi looked at the illustrations taken from Lombroso’s book. An evil-looking man with a narrow forehead and fiery eyes looked out at the reader. Underneath this picture was the legend:Typical murderer (Sicilian type). Then there was a picture of another man, elaborately moustachioed but with narrow, pinched eyes. This, she read, was aClassic thief (Neapolitan type). Other criminal “types” stared out at the reader, all of them quite unambiguously malign. Mma Makutsi gave a shudder. These were clearly extremely unpleasant men and nobody would trust any of them. Why, then, describe the theories of Lombroso as “misguided”? Not only was that rude, in her opinion, but it was patently wrong. Lombroso was right; youcould tell (something which women had known for a very long time—they could tell what men were like just by looking at them, but they did not need to be Italian to do so; they could do it right here in Botswana). She was puzzled; if the theory was so clearly right, then why should the author of this criminological work deny it? She thought for a moment and then the explanation came to her: he wasjealous! That must be the reason. He was jealous because Lombroso had thought about this before he had and he wanted to develop his own ideas about crime. Well! If that were the case, then she would bother no more withTheories of Crime. She had found out a bit more about this sort of criminology, and now all she had to do was apply it. She would use the theories of Lombrosan criminology to detect who, of the four girls on the list, was trustworthy and who was not. Lombroso’s illustration had simply confirmed that she should trust her intuition. A brief time with these girls, and perhaps a discreet inspection of their cranial structures—she would not want to stare—would be enough to provide her with an answer. It would have to suffice; there was nothing else that she could do in the short time available and she was particularly keen that the matter should be satisfactorily resolved by the time of Mma Ramotswe’s return.

FOUR NAMES, none of them known to Mma Makutsi: Motlamedi Matluli, Gladys Tlhapi, Makita Phenyonini, and Patricia Quatleneni; and beneath them, their ages and their addresses. Motlamedi was the youngest, at nineteen, and the most readily accessible—she was a student at the university. Patricia was the oldest at twenty-four, and possibly the most difficult to contact, at her vague address in Tlokweng (plot 2456). Mma Makutsi decided that she would visit Motlamedi first, as it would be a simple matter to find her in her students’ hall on the neatly laid-out university campus. Of course, it would not necessarily be easy to interview her; Mma Makutsi knew that girls like that, with their place at the university and a good job virtually guaranteed for them, tended to look down on people who had not had their advantages, particularly those who had attended the Botswana Secretarial College. Her own 97 percent in the final examinations, the result of such hard work, would be mocked by one such as Motlamedi. But she would speak to her and treat any condescension with dignity. She had nothing to be ashamed of; she was now the Acting Manager of a garage, was she not, and an assistant detective as well. What official titles did this beautiful girl have? She was not even Miss Beauty and Integrity, even if she was in the running for that particular honour.

She would go to see her. But what would she say? She could hardly seek out this girl and then say to her: Excuse me, I have come to look at your head. That would invite a hostile response, even if it had the merits of being completely true. And then the idea came to her. She could pretend to be doing a survey of some sort, and while the girls were answering, she could look closely at their head and facial features to see if any of the telltale signs of dishonesty was present. And the idea became even better. The survey need not be some meaningless marketing survey of the sort which people were used to responding to; it could be a survey of moral attitudes. It could pose certain questions which, in a very subtle way, would uncover the girls’ attitudes. The questions would be carefully phrased, so that the girls would not suspect a trap, but they would be as revealing as searchlights. What do you really want to do with your life? for example. Or: Is it better to make a lot of money than to help others?

The ideas fell neatly into place, and Mma Makutsi smiled with delight as each new possibility revealed itself to her. She would claim to be a journalist, sent by theBotswana DailyNews to write a feature article on the competition—small deceptions are permissible, Clovis Andersen had written, provided that the ends justified the means. Well, the ends in this case were clearly important, as the reputation of Botswana itself could be in the balance. The girl who won Miss Beauty and Integrity could find herself in the running for the title of Miss Botswana, and that post was every bit as important as being an ambassador. Indeed, a beauty queen was a sort of ambassador for her country, and people would judge the country on how she conducted herself. If she had to tell a small lie in order to prevent a wicked girl from seizing the title and bringing shame to the country, then that was a small price to pay. Clovis Andersen would undoubtedly have agreed with her, even if the author ofTheories of Crime, who seemed to take a very high moral tone on all issues, might have had some misplaced reservations.

Mma Makutsi set to typing out the questionnaire. The questions were simple, but probing:

1. What are the main values which Africa can show to the world?

This question was designed to establish whether the girls knew what morality was all about. A morally aware girl would answer something along the lines Africa can show the world what it is to be human. Africa recognises the humanity of all people.

Once they had negotiated this or, rather if they negotiated this, the next question would become more personal:

2.What do you want to do with your life?

This was where Mma Makutsi would trap any dishonest girl. The standard answer which any beauty contestant gave to this question was this:I should like to work for charity, possibly with children. I would like to leave the world a better place than it was when I came into it.

That was all very well, but they had all learned that answer from a book somewhere, possibly a book by somebody like Clovis Andersen.Good Practice for Beauty Queens, perhaps, orHow to Win in the World of Beauty Competitions.

An honest girl, thought Mma Makutsi, would answer in something like the following fashion:I wish to work for charity, possibly with children. If no children are available, I shall be happy to work with old people; I do not mind. But I am also keen to get a good job with a large salary.

3.Is it better to be beautiful than to be full of integrity?

There was no doubt, again, that the answer which was expected of a beauty contestant was that integrity was more important. All the girls would probably feel that they had to say that, but there was a remote possibility that honesty would propel one into saying that being beautiful had its advantages. This was something that Mma Makutsi had noticed about secretarial jobs; beautiful girls were given all the jobs and there was very little left over for the rest, even if one had achieved 97 percent in the final examination. The injustice of this had always rankled, although in her own case, hard work had eventually paid off. How many of her contemporaries who may have had a better complexion than herself were now acting managers? The answer was undoubtedly none. Those beautiful girls married rich men, and lived in comfort thereafter, but they could hardly have claimed to have had careers—unless wearing expensive clothes and going to parties could be described as a career.

Mma Makutsi typed her questionnaire. There was no photocopier in the office, but she had used carbon paper and there were now four copies of the question sheet, withBotswana Daily News Features Department meretriciously typed at the top of the page. She looked at her watch; it was noon, and the day had warmed up uncomfortably. There had been some rain a few days previously, but this had rapidly been soaked up by the earth and the ground was crying out for more. If rain came, as it probably would, the temperatures would fall and people would feel comfortable again. Tempers became frayed in the hot season and arguments broke out about little things. Rain brought peace between people.

She went out of the office and closed the door behind her. The apprentices were busy with an old van which had been driven in by a woman who brought vegetables up from Lobatse to sell to the supermarkets. She had heard about the garage from a friend, who had said that it was a good place for a woman to take her vehicle.

“It is a ladies’ garage, I think,” the friend had said. “They understand ladies and they look after them well. It is the best place for a lady to take her car.”

The acquisition of a reputation for looking after ladies’ cars had kept the apprentices busy. Under Mma Makutsi’s management, they had responded well to the challenge, working late hours and taking much greater care with their work. She checked up on them from time to time, and insisted that they explain to her exactly what they were doing. They enjoyed this, and it also helped to focus their thoughts on the problem before them. Their diagnostic power—so important a weapon in the armoury of any good mechanic—had improved greatly and they also wasted less time in idle chatter about girls.

“We like working for a woman,” the older apprentice had said to her one morning. “It is a good thing to have a woman watching you all the time.”

“I am very happy about that,” said Mma Makutsi. “Your work is getting better and better all the time. One day you may be a famous mechanic like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. That is always possible.”

Now she walked over to the apprentices and watched them manipulating an oil filter.

“When you have finished that,” she said, “I would like one of you to drive me over to the university.”

“We are very busy, Mma,” complained the younger one. “We have two more cars to see to today. We cannot go off here and there all the time. We are not taxi drivers.”

Mma Makutsi sighed. “In that case I shall have to get a taxi. I have this important business to do with a beauty competition. I have to speak to some of the girls.”

“I can drive you,” said the older apprentice hurriedly. “I am almost ready. My brother here can finish this off.”

“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “I knew that I could call on your finer nature.”

THEY PARKED under a tree on the university campus, not far from the large, white-painted block to which Mma Makutsi had been directed when she showed the address to the man on the gate. A small group of female students stood chatting beneath a sun shelter that shaded the front door to the three-storey building. Leaving the apprentice in the van, Mma Makutsi made her way over to this group and introduced herself.

“I am looking for Motlamedi Matluli,” she said. “I have been told she lives here.”

One of the students giggled. “Yes, she lives here,” she said. “Although I think that she would like to live somewhere a bit grander.”

“Like the Sun Hotel,” said another, causing them all to laugh.

MMA MAKUTSI smiled. “She is a very important girl, then?”

This brought forth more laughter. “She thinks she is,” said one. “Just because she has all the boys running after her she thinks she owns Gaborone. You should just see her!”

“I would like to see her,” said Mma Makutsi simply. “That is why I am here.”

“You will find her in front of her mirror,” said another. “She is on the first floor, in room 114.”

Mma Makutsi thanked her informants and made her way up the concrete staircase to the first floor. She noticed that somebody had scribbled something uncomplimentary on the wall of the staircase, a remark about one of the girls. One of the male students, no doubt, had been rebuffed and had vented his feelings in graffiti. She felt annoyed; these people were privileged—ordinary people in Botswana would never have the chance to get this sort of education, which was all paid for by the Government, every pula and thebe of it—and all they could think of doing was writing on walls. And what was Motlamedi doing, spending time preening herself and entering beauty competitions when she should have been working on her books? If she were the Rector of the university she would tell people like that to make up their minds. You can be one thing or the other. You can cultivate your mind, or you can cultivate your hairstyle. But you cannot do both.

She found room 114 and knocked loudly on the door. There were sounds of a radio within and so she knocked again, louder this time.

“All right!” shouted a voice from within. “I’m coming.”

The door was opened and Motlamedi Matluli stood before her. The first thing that struck Mma Makutsi about her was her eyes, which were extraordinarily large. They dominated the face, giving it a gentle, innocent quality, rather like the face of those small night creatures they called bush babies.

Motlamedi looked her visitor up and down.

“Yes Mma?” she asked casually. “What can I do for you?”

This was very rude, and Mma Makutsi smarted at the insult. If this girl had any manners, she would have invited me in, she thought. She is too busy with her mirror which, as the students below had predicted, was propped up on her desk and was surrounded by creams and lotions.

“I am a journalist,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am writing an article about the finalists for Miss Beauty and Integrity. I have some questions I would like you to answer.”

The change in Motlamedi’s attitude was immediately apparent. Quickly, and rather effusively asking Mma Makutsi in, she cleared some clothes off a chair and invited her visitor to sit down.

“My room is not often this untidy,” she laughed, gesturing to the piles of clothes that had been tossed down here and there. “But I am just in the middle of sorting things out. You know how it is.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. Taking the questionnaire out of her briefcase, she passed it over to the young woman who looked at it and smiled.

“These questions are very easy,” she said. “I have seen questions like this before.”

“Please fill them in,” asked Mma Makutsi. “Then I would like to talk to you for a very short time before I leave you to get on with your studies.”

The last remark was made as she looked about the room; it was, as far as she could make out, devoid of books.

“Yes,” said Motlamedi, applying herself to the questionnaire, “we students are very busy with our studies.”

While Motlamedi wrote out her answers, Mma Makutsi glanced discreetly at her head. Unfortunately the style in which the finalist had arranged her hair was such that it was impossible to see the shape of the head. Even Lombroso himself, thought Mma Makutsi, might have found it difficult to reach a view on this person. Yet this did not really matter; everything she had seen of this person, from her rudeness at the door to her look of near-disdain (concealed at the moment when Mma Makutsi had declared herself to be a journalist), told her that this woman would be a bad choice for the post of Miss Beauty and Integrity. She was unlikely to be charged with theft, of course, but there were other ways in which she could bring disgrace to the competition and to Mr Pulani. The most likely of these was involvement in some scandal with a married man; girls of this sort were no respecters of matrimony and could be expected to seek out any man who could advance her career, irrespective of whether he already had a wife. What sort of example would that be to the youth of Botswana? Mma Makutsi asked herself. The mere thought of it made her feel angry and she found herself involuntarily shaking her head with disapproval.

Motlamedi looked up from her form.

“What are you shaking your head about, Mma?” she asked. “Am I writing the wrong thing?”

“No, you are not.” Her reply came hurriedly. “You must write the truth. That is all I am interested in.”

Motlamedi smiled. “I always tell the truth,” she said. “I have told the truth since I was a child. I cannot stand people who tell lies.”

“Oh yes?”

She finished writing and handed the form to Mma Makutsi.

“I hope I have not written too much,” she said. “I know that you journalists are very busy people.”

Mma Makutsi took the form and ran her eye down the responses.

Question 1: Africa has a very great history, although many people pay no attention to it. Africa can teach the world about how to care for other people. There are other things, too, that Africa can teach the world.

Question 2: It is my greatest ambition to work for the benefit of other people. I look forward to the day when I can help more people. That is one of the reasons why I deserve to win this competition: I am a girl who likes to help people. I am not one of these selfish girls.

Question 3: It is better to be a person of integrity. An honest girl is rich in her heart. That is the truth. Girls who worry about their looks are not as happy as girls who think about other people first. I am one of these latter girls, and that is how I know this thing.

Motlamedi watched as Mma Makutsi read.

“Well, Mma?” she said. “Would you like to ask me about anything I have written?”

Mma Makutsi folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into her briefcase.

“No thank you, Mma,” she said. “You have told me everything I need to know. I do not need to ask you any other questions.”

Motlamedi looked anxious.

“What about a photograph?” she said. “If the paper would like to send a photographer I think that I could let a photograph be taken. I shall be here all afternoon.”

Mma Makutsi moved towards the door.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I do not know. You have given me very useful answers here and I shall be able to put them into the newspaper. I feel I know you quite well now.”

Motlamedi felt that she could now afford to be gracious.

“I am glad that we have met,” she said. “I look forward to our next meeting. Maybe you will be at the competition … you could bring the photographer.”

“Perhaps,” said Mma Makutsi, as she left.

THE APPRENTICE was talking to a couple of young women when Mma Makutsi emerged. He was explaining something about the car and they were listening to him avidly. Mma Makutsi did not hear the entire conversation, but she did pick up the end: “… at least eighty miles an hour. And the engine is very quiet. If a boy is sitting with a girl in the back and wants to kiss her in that car he has to be very quiet because they will hear it in the front.”

The students giggled.

“Do not listen to him, ladies,” said Mma Makutsi. “This young man is not allowed to see girls. He already has a wife and three children and his wife gets very cross if she hears that girls are talking to him. Very cross.”

The students moved back. One of them now looked at the apprentice reproachfully.

“But that is not true,” protested the young man. “I am not married”

“That’s what all you men say,” said one of the students, angry now. “You come round here and talk to girls like us while all the time you are thinking of your wives. What sort of behaviour is that?”

“Very bad,” chipped in Mma Makutsi, as she opened the passenger door and prepared to get in. “Anyway, it is time for us to go. This young man has to drive me somewhere else.”

“You be careful of him, Mma,” said one of the students. “We know about boys like that.”

The apprentice started the car, tight-lipped, and drove off.

“You should not have said that, Mma. You made me look foolish.”

Mma Makutsi snorted. “You made yourself look foolish. Why are you always running after girls? Why are you always trying to impress them?”

“Because that’s how I enjoy myself,” said the apprentice defensively. “I like talking to girls. We have all these beautiful girls in this country and there is nobody to talk to them. I am doing a service to the country.”

Mma Makutsi looked at him scornfully. Although the young men had been working hard for her and had responded well to her suggestions, there seemed to be a chronic weakness in their character—this relentless womanising. Could anything be done about it? She doubted it, but it would pass in time, she thought, and they would become more serious. Or perhaps they would not. People did not change a great deal. Mma Ramotswe had said that to her once and it had stuck in her mind. People do not change, but that does not mean that they will always remain the same. What you can do is find out the good side of their character and then bring that out. Then it might seem that they had changed, which they had not; but they would be different afterwards, and better. That’s what Mma Ramotswe had said—or something like that. And if there was one person in Botswana—one person—to whom one should listen very carefully, it was Mma Ramotswe.