The first washing was on Friday.
I gathered up the laundry, took his jacket off the hook and carried it to the machine, and in the kitchen doorway I met Igor.
"Give it here."
He took the jacket, laid it on the table, turned out one pocket, then the other, and put a bolt, a coin and two receipts on the windowsill. Laid them out straight, in a row, the way I lay them out. Then he gave me the jacket back.
"There," he said. "Empty."
I took it and put it in the machine.
It took about twenty seconds and there was no ceremony to it: he didn't look at me, didn't emphasise anything, said nothing more. Then he went into the room and turned on the television.
On Tuesday it was the same, and on Friday too.
In the third week I tried once to take the jacket before he came out of the bathroom, and managed it, and took a bolt and a receipt out of the pocket, and put them on the windowsill, and was standing with the jacket in my hands when he came out.
He looked at the windowsill, looked at the jacket and said nothing.
I did not do that again.
We have never said a single word about those wash days, neither then nor since, and I don't know how much longer they will go on. They were still going on in January.
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