Chapter 8
On the third day of his visit to this beach town, Harry met Esther Mwemba in the checkout line of the Chandarana store. He and Aldo were on a morning errand scrounging liquor and snacks for their hotel rooms. Aldo was still browsing the wine selections. He drank wine like it was water, but he insisted it be Italian or at worst French and never, unless there was absolutely no choice, South African. (“Troppo forte,” he would say with a sneer.)
She was buying milk and bread. She spoke first, looked down at the items in Harry’s cart and quipped, “I hope that’s not breakfast.”
Harry smiled and shot back, “I don’t have anyone to tell me what not to do. Besides, I think there’s soccer tonight. Excuse me, football. It’s a lot cheaper than room service when we’re watching TV.”
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