As the sun began to rise Petya hurried inside. His mother insisted that he eat a bowl of oatmeal before going anywhere. He ate it as fast as he could, ignoring her concerns that he’d get a stomach ache. Finished, he ran out of the house, reaching the track that snaked through the fields on its way towards town. He slowed to a brisk pace. The shops wouldn’t be open yet. He might as well enjoy the anticipation.
In Gukovo the kiosk which sold stamps and newspapers was still closed. Petya didn’t have a watch. He didn’t know when it would open exactly but he didn’t mind waiting. It was exciting being in town knowing that he had enough money for a new stamp and he wandered the streets without any particular destination. He stopped by the elektrichka station, knowing that there was a clock inside. The time was seven fifty. A train was due to leave and he decided to watch it, walking onto the platform and sitting down. He’d travelled on the elektrichka before. It was a slow train which stopped at every destination on the way to the city of Rostov. Though he’d only ever been as far as Rostov with his parents, he and some of his school friends occasionally boarded the train for no reason other than they knew they could do so for free. Tickets were rarely checked.
He was almost ready to return to the kiosk and buy his stamp when a man sat down beside him. The man was smartly dressed and had a black case, which he put on the ground between his legs as though he was afraid someone might run off with it. Petya looked up at his face. He had thick square glasses, neat black hair. He was wearing a suit. Petya couldn’t tell how old the man was. He wasn’t properly old, with grey hair. But then again he wasn’t properly young either. He seemed unaware of Petya’s presence. Petya was about to stand and leave when, quite suddenly, the man turned and smiled.
— Where are you travelling to today?
— I’m not going anywhere, sir. Not on a train, I mean. I’m just sitting here.
Petya had been taught to be polite and respectful towards elders.
— It’s an odd place to be sitting for no reason.
— I’m waiting to buy some stamps but the kiosk isn’t open yet. Although it might be open now, I should go and check.
Upon hearing this, the man turned his whole body towards Petya.
— You collect stamps?
— Yes, sir.
— I used to be a stamp collector when I was your age.
Petya sat back, relaxing — he didn’t know anyone else who collected stamps.
— Did you collect new stamps or used stamps? I collect both.
— All of mine were new. I bought them from a kiosk. Just like you.
— I wish all mine were new. But they’re mostly used. I cut them off old envelopes.
Petya reached into his pocket, pulling out his handful of copper kopeks and showing them to the man.
— I had to save for three months.
The man glanced at the small heap of coins.
— Such a long time for not very much.
Petya looked down at his coins. The man was right. He didn’t have very much. And he realized that he’d never have very much. His excitement was tainted. He’d never have a great collection. Other people would always have more than him: it didn’t matter how hard he worked, he could never catch up. His spirits dampened, he wanted to leave and was about to stand when the man asked:
— Are you a tidy boy?
— Yes, sir.
— Do you look after your stamps?
— I take good care of them. I put them in an album. And my dad has made me a wooden box. That’s to keep the album safe. Our roof leaks sometimes. And there are rats sometimes too.
— That’s sensible to put your album somewhere safe. I did a similar thing when I was your age. I kept mine in a drawer.
The man seemed to weigh something up in his mind.
— Listen, I have children of my own. Two young daughters and neither of them are interested in stamps. They’re messy children. As for me, I no longer have time for stamps — I’m busy with my work. You can understand that? I’m sure your parents are also busy.
— All the time, sir, they work very hard.
— They don’t have time to collect stamps, do they?
— No, sir.
— I’m in the same situation as them. Here’s my idea: I would like my collection to go to a person who’d appreciate it, a person who’d take care of it, a person just like you.
Petya considered the prospect of an entire book filled with new stamps. They would date back for as long as this man had been collecting. It would be the collection he’d always dreamed of. He said nothing, unable to believe his luck.
— Well? Would that interest you?
— Yes, sir, I could put it in my wooden box and it would be safe.
The man didn’t seem so sure, shaking his head.
— But my book is so full of stamps it might be too big for your little box.
— Then my father will make me another one. He’s clever like that. And he wouldn’t mind at all. He likes making things. He’s skilful.
— And you’re sure you’d look after the stamps?
— Yes, sir.
— Promise me.
— I promise, sir.
The man smiled.
— You’ve convinced me. You can have it. I only live three stops away. Come on, I’ll buy you a ticket.
Petya was about to say that a ticket was unnecessary but he swallowed the words. He didn’t want to admit to breaking the rules. Until he got the stamps he needed to maintain this man’s good opinion.
Sitting on the wooden seats of the elektrichka, staring out the window at the forests, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his kopeks on a new stamp. It seemed unnecessary considering all the stamps he was about to acquire and he decided that he’d return the money to his parents. It would be nice if they could share in his good fortune. The man interrupted his thoughts by tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
— We’re here.
The elektrichka had stopped at a station in the middle of the woods, long before the town of Shakhty. Petya was confused. This was a leisure stop for people wanting to get away from the towns. There were paths through the undergrowth, trodden down by walkers. But this wasn’t a good time for walking. The snows had only recently melted. The woods were bleak and unwelcoming. Petya turned to his companion, looking at his smart shoes and black case.
— You live here?
The man shook his head.
— My dacha is here. I can’t keep my stamps at home. I’m too worried that my children will find them and touch them with their dirty fingers. But I’m going to have to sell this dacha, you see. So I have nowhere to keep this collection any more.
He got off the train. Petya followed, stepping down onto the platform. No one else had disembarked.
The man walked into the woods, Petya just behind. Having a dacha made a kind of sense. Petya didn’t know anyone rich enough to have a summer home, but he knew they were often situated in woods or by lakes or by the sea. While walking the man continued to talk.