And after she left, the combination sat in his chest, heavier than the order itself.
She was seventy-four. Everyone on the market street knew that much. She had lived in the same narrow house at the end of Binder Lane since before the tannery closed. Her husband, Emil, had been dead for eleven years. No children visited. In winter, she bought two eggs and a small loaf of bread. In spring, she might buy a chicken wing if the price had fallen.
Sixty kilos of beef every morning did not belong to that life.
On the fourth day, Tomas wrapped the last parcel more slowly than necessary.
“Mrs. Varga,” he said, “that is a great deal of meat for one kitchen.”
She did not smile. She had the polite face old women sometimes wore in shops, the kind designed to discourage anyone from keeping them there.
“I am paying,” she said.
“I didn’t ask about paying.”
Her hands tightened around the plastic.
For a moment, Tomas thought she might put the bags down and tell him everything.
