In the corner of Hameed’s watch repair shop, behind the glass case, there had been a black umbrella for eleven years.
A man had left it there during the rains of a year Hameed could no longer name precisely. The man had come in to have a strap fitted, had propped the umbrella against the counter, and had gone out into weather that had stopped without anyone noticing.
He had said, at the door, I will come back for it.
For the first year Hameed kept it near the door where it could be seen. In the third year he moved it behind the case, because customers kept trying to buy it. By the seventh year he had stopped explaining it, and simply said it belonged to someone.
His son thought this was foolish. He is not coming, he said. He has bought four umbrellas since then.
Probably, Hameed agreed.
Then why keep it?
Hameed took a long time with the answer, the way he took a long time with small screws.
Because he said he would come back, he said at last. And somebody should behave as though that still means something.
The man never came. Hameed died on a Tuesday in the cold season, and his son cleared the shop, and found the umbrella, and stood holding it for a while.
Then he put it back behind the glass case, where it remains.
