On Thursday Igor needed a size thirty-eight last, narrow, and it turned out to be in the very stack I had so neatly piled on top of the father's box on Saturday.
He took four lasts off, stood them on the floor, pulled out the fifth, and then moved the shelving aside to push the box back with his foot, and instead of that he crouched down and stayed crouching, because the box had slid out and the bundle was lying on top.
"Listen," he said. "I keep thinking about that bevel."
The evening before I had been listening to bells ringing in a town I have never seen, because I once asked a man whether he heard anything besides faults. I was pleased with myself and probably for that reason I dealt with it faster than usual.
"Igor." I crouched down beside him, took the bundle and put it back on the bottom of the box, under the tins. "You've got twenty-two pairs due Friday."
He looked at the box, then at his hands, and I saw him counting the pairs.
"Twenty-two," he agreed.
"And let's drive out to that old man on Sunday about the lasts. You've been meaning to for six months."
That worked at once: Igor brightened up and began saying he had seen wooden ones at the old man's, pre-war, and they don't make them like that any more, and that if he gives them at a decent price we'll take the lot. He didn't bring up the bevel again, either that day or on Friday.
He carried off the thirty-eight last, and ten minutes later he was already hammering, and I could tell by the sound that he had gone into the work and was thinking of nothing else.
I stacked the lasts back myself while he washed his hands. There were four, and I put them in the same order they had been in, and pushed the shelving back into place, and checked that it was straight.
Then I washed my hands and went to take an order.
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