I did not hide the copy straight away. In fact I decided nothing at that minute: a customer came up, I took in two pairs, wrote the tickets, and the sheet I folded in four, as it had been folded, and put it in my overall pocket so it wouldn't be in the way.
In the evening it moved to my bag, and I told myself I would hand it over when Igor had finished with the cases, because just now he is entirely inside them and wouldn't hear anything anyway.
On Wednesday that woman came about the pale boots, and I spent an hour explaining why we don't dye, and she left offended all the same, and Igor said we should have taken them and dyed them, and we quarrelled a little, because we don't know how to dye and he knows it.
On Thursday I took the bag home and all evening I knew where the copy was: in the side pocket, zipped, together with the receipts from the hardware shop. Igor was talking about the cut in the case and about having found another one like it, and I listened and thought that now, right now, I would say: listen, a man came in.
Then he asked whether we'd have tea. I said I would. He put the kettle on, and the minute passed.
On Friday Tamara rang and asked whether I knew who to apply to about installing benches, because at two points on her route benches are needed and there aren't any. I didn't know. She said she'd find out herself, and her voice was cheerful and very tired at the same time, and after that conversation I sat for ten minutes doing nothing.
On Saturday we drove Igor's mother to the clinic, because her slip was for nine in the morning and she won't go alone at that hour. We sat there till twelve, then took her home, then drank tea at her place, and for the third time she told how in sixty-eight she had a coat made to measure. The bag hung on my shoulder the whole time.
Once during that week I held the copy in my hand with him present. That was on Sunday morning: I was clearing out the bag on the kitchen table, laying out receipts, the chemist's list, two tickets, and the sheet lay on top, unfolded, and Igor stood with his back to me at the stove frying eggs. He should have turned round. He didn't turn round, because the eggs were burning, and I managed to turn the sheet text-side down.
After that I explained it all to myself properly, and the explanation came out well.
The father died eight years ago. Igor couldn't go into the shop alone for six months then and went in only with me, and I remember that better than I would like. To go picking apart now why Ilya Nikolaevich didn't go somewhere in some year of the seventies means opening it all up again and mending nothing by it. We have twenty-two pairs handed in, thirty-one cases in the works, the motor on credit, and the wedding on the eighth.
And the main thing: Igor wasn't asking. A person who needs to know asks.
All of that was true. Every word separately was the plain truth.
On Monday I came in before him, opened the till, took out the change tray and laid the copy on the bottom, where the old ticket stubs and the spare key to the back door lie.
The tray sat straight. The paper was folded in four and was not in the way at all.
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