The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party Read Online Free PDF Page B

together so that she could advise.
    She glanced at her watch and dragged herself away from the window display. The café, which was round the corner, overlooking a parking lot, was a favourite of hers as it afforded a good view of one of the entrances to the shopping centre. If you sat there long enough, as Mma Ramotswe occasionally did, you might observe allBotswana pass by, or at least a large part of it, and you would never fail to see at least one friend to whom you might give a wave.
    As she approached the café, she realised that she had said nothing to her client as to how they might recognise one another. What if there were several men sitting at tables by themselves, as sometimes happened? Would she have to go up to each and say, “I am Mma Ramotswe”? This could be embarrassing, as the man would be obliged to give his own name and enquire after her health—if he had any manners at all—and then there would be an awkward silence. And Mma Ramotswe would then say, “And what is troubling you, Rra?” and he would reply, “Well, nothing actually,” because he would not be the client but a perfect stranger instead.
    She looked about the café. There were several places to sit in the indoor part, and these were all empty. Outside, spilling onto the pavement that ran alongside the parking lot, there were more tables, and these were mostly occupied: a young couple, completely self-absorbed; two middle-aged women with shopping bags at their feet; two teenage girls discussing a photograph one of them was holding—of a boy, no doubt—and highly amused by something—by the boy, of course; and a man sitting by himself. She knew immediately that he was her client and, as he looked up, he knew that she was Mma Ramotswe.
    She made her way to his table.
    “Mma Ramotswe?”
    She reached out and they shook hands.
    “Mr. Moeti.
Dumela,
Rra.”
    There were the usual enquiries of the formal greeting, while she sat down. He had risen to greet her and sat down too, awkwardly, even furtively. Nervousness, she thought. And then, looking for the first time into the eyes of her new client, she saw something else, and that was fear.
    It surprised her at first, because this Moeti was a large man, not in girth but in height, and she never expected tall men to show fear. As the waitress came over to take their order, Mma Ramotswe noticed further things about Mr. Moeti: she looked at his shoes and saw that they were well polished, but with a fine layer of dust that had settled since he put them on that morning; she saw the well-pressed khaki trousers, and the two pens in the top pocket of his shirt. So he was a farmer, but he had not been born to it; she was sure of that.
    But there was still the fear: that was the predominant impression, and it intrigued and troubled her.
    She opened the conversation brightly. “You found this place all right, Rra. I like coming here. You can see everybody.” She made a gesture towards the car park. “These big shops are not like the markets we used to have, are they? So we need places like this instead.”
    He looked out over the car park. Forty-five, she thought. Maybe fifty; old enough to remember how things used to be.
    “Yes,” he said. “It is a good place.”
    “And you can talk here,” she went on. “The tables are far enough apart to do that. Nobody can hear, except those two girls over there, perhaps, and they would not be interested in what we have to say—their heads are full of boys.”
    He glanced in the direction of the girls; the photograph was still coming under intense scrutiny. He turned to Mma Ramotswe and smiled weakly. “And their phones,” he said.
    “Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe, “their mobile phones. Yes, that is a big problem, isn’t it? So much talking going on. The air above Botswana must be almost full by now with all these words.”
    He looked down at the ground.
    She leaned forward. “I can tell that you are anxious, Rra.” She wanted to say that he was