Three cents a copy

The copy shop on Mèlic street charges three cents a copy and asks no questions. It was my neighbour who tipped me off: "Look closely — the copies come out better than the original."

I brought the lease for the flat. In the copy, the clause about the lift was gone. I brought the map of my father's village: the copy had one extra street, short and nameless, that died at the river.

The clerk never blinks. He changes the toner, takes your money and points at the sign: THE HOUSE ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR DIFFERENCES.

Yesterday I brought the last photo of the four of us. I laid it face down, pressed the green button and looked out at the street, the way you do when you don't want to influence things.

The copy took longer than it should have. It came out warm, still smelling of light. It's the four of us, same kitchen, same cake. Only here we are all looking at the camera, and in the window at the back it's starting to get dark.

I kept the original in my bag. The copy went into the frame in the hallway. Nobody has noticed a thing; only my mother says that at last she remembers that afternoon like this.