Bobur had been in Manchester for six weeks, and he had learned that the number 86 bus came every twelve minutes, except when it rained. It was raining.
He was standing at the stop with his hood up when an elderly woman with a tartan shopping trolley joined him. "Terrible weather, isn't it?"
Bobur began to explain that, in fact, it was only the third rainy day that week, and that the forecast said —
She was smiling. He stopped. A teacher had told him once that in England a question about the weather is not really a question. It is a greeting with a question mark.
"It is, isn't it?" he said.
"Not from round here, are you?"
"No, I'm from Tashkent."
"Tashkent!" Her face changed. "I taught English there. Nineteen ninety-four and ninety-five."
"Did you?" said Bobur.
Her name was Margaret. She had taught at an institute near Amir Temur Square, and she still remembered the apricots in June. "I still love the Chorsu bazaar," she said.
"So do I. My grandmother sells dried fruit there."
"I never got used to the summer heat, though."
"Neither did I," he admitted, "and I was born there." She laughed.
She asked what he was studying (civil engineering) and whether he was homesick (a little, on Sundays). He asked about her grandchildren, and about the trolley, which held four cabbages for a neighbour.
The bus arrived eighteen minutes late. At the door, Margaret turned round.
"Lovely to chat, love. Take care of yourself."
"You too. Have a good day."
They had talked about rain, apricots and cabbages — nothing important at all. Yet for the first time in six weeks, he felt that someone in this city knew who he was. Small talk, he decided, is not about the weather. It is a way of saying: I see you; you are not invisible here.
The next Monday, at the same stop, a tartan trolley appeared beside him. "Dreadful morning, isn't it?"
"It is, isn't it?" said Bobur, smiling, and moved his bag so that she could shelter under the roof.