Ladies' Detective Agency 01 - The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith

appreciated, and she dropped her eyes
immediately. She would not want him to think she was looking at him, even if
she continued to glance at him from her seat. Who was this man? A musician,
with that case beside him; a clever person from the University perhaps?
    The bus stopped in Gaborone before going south on the road to Lobatse. She
stayed in her seat, and saw him get up. He stood up, straightened the crease of
his trousers, and then turned and looked down the bus. She felt her heart jump;
he had looked at her; no, he had not, he was looking out of the window.
    Suddenly, without thinking, she got to her feet and took her bag down from
the rack. She would get off, not because she had anything to do in Gaborone,
but because she wanted to see what he did. He had left the bus now and she
hurried, muttering a quick explanation to the driver, one of her cousin’s
husband’s men. Out in the crowd, out in the late afternoon sunlight,
redolent of dust and hot travellers, she looked about her and saw him, standing
not far away. He had bought a roast mealie from a hawker, and was eating it
now, making lines down the cob. She felt that unsettling sensation again and
she stopped where she stood, as if she were a stranger who was uncertain where
to go.
    He was looking at her, and she turned away flustered. Had he
seen her watching him? Perhaps. She looked up again, quickly glancing in his
direction, and he smiled at her this time and raised his eyebrows. Then,
tossing the mealie cob away, he picked up the trumpet case and walked over
towards her. She was frozen, unable to walk away, mesmerised like prey before a
snake.
    “I saw you on that bus,” he said. “I thought I
had seen you before. But I haven’t.”
    She looked down at the
ground.
    “I have never seen you,” she said.
“Ever.”
    He smiled. He was not frightening, she thought, and
some of her awkwardness left her.
    “You see most people in this
country once or twice,” he said. “There are no
strangers.”
    She nodded. “That is true.”
    There
was a silence. Then he pointed to the case at his feet.
    “This is
a trumpet, you know. I am a musician.”
    She looked at the case. It
had a sticker on it; a picture of a man playing a guitar.
    “Do you
like music?” he asked. “Jazz? Quella?”
    She looked up,
and saw that he was still smiling at her.
    “Yes. I like
music.”
    “I play in a band,” he said. “We play
in the bar at the President Hotel. You could come and listen. I am going there
now.”
    They walked to the bar, which was only ten minutes or so
from the bus stop. He bought her a drink and sat her at a table at the back, a
table with one seat at it to discourage others. Then he played, and she
listened, overcome by the sliding, slippery music, and proud that she knew this
man, that she was his guest. The drink was strange and bitter; she did not like
the taste of alcohol, but drinking was what you did in bars and she was
concerned that she would seem out of place or too young and people would notice
her.
    Afterwards, when the band had its break, he came to join her, and
she saw that his brow was glistening with the effort of playing.
    “I’m not playing well today,” he said. “There are
some days when you can and some days when you can’t.”
    “I thought you were very good. You played well.”
    “I don’t think so. I can play better. There are days when the
trumpet just talks to me. I don’t have to do anything then.”
    She saw that people were looking at them, and that one or two women were
staring at her critically. They wanted to be where she was, she could tell.
They wanted to be with Note.
    He put her on the late bus after they had
left the bar, and stood and waved to her as the bus drew away. She waved back
and closed her eyes. She had a boyfriend now, a jazz musician, and she would be
seeing him again, at his request, the following Friday night, when they were
playing at a braaivleis at the Gaborone Club. Members of the band, he