He asked on a Sunday, in the evening, when we had already put out the kitchen light and I was finishing the last mug.
"Listen. And what did you want yourself?"
At first I didn't understand what he meant, and asked again.
"Well, all this." Igor was sitting at the table turning a jar lid in his hands that I had meant to throw out. "You did it for some reason. What did you want?"
"For the shop to stand," I said. "For you not to take it all apart again. You were in a bad way for six months after the father, I remember it, and you, I think, don't."
He nodded.
"And the motor," I said. "Twenty-two pairs. The rent. In December you slept properly for the first time in four years, I counted."
"Mm."
"And you weren't asking. I didn't stop you asking, you simply weren't asking."
"Mm," said Igor. "I'm not talking about the shop."
I finished the mug and put it on the rack, and it stood crooked, and I moved it.
"About what, then?"
"About you."
Outside in the yard someone was starting a car, for a long time, on the third try.
"I don't know," I said.
He waited. He can wait longer than I can stay silent, and usually at that point I start talking, but that time I didn't start.
"All right," said Igor at last, put the lid on the table and went to bed.
I finished washing everything there was, wiped the table, took out the rubbish and went to bed at half past midnight.
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