Kamola's aunt Gulnora is a wedding photographer, and her camera is the most valuable thing she owns. So when Kamola asked to borrow it for a school trip to Khiva, Gulnora thought for a long time before she said yes. "Use the strap," she said. "Always."
On the second day, on the wall of the Itchan Kala, Kamola took the strap off because it spoiled her photos. Then the camera slipped out of her hand and fell onto the stones. The lens cracked, and the screen went black.
At Gulnora's flat, her apology came out like this:
"I'm really sorry, but it wasn't really my fault. The bag was too small, and somebody pushed me. And the camera's quite old, isn't it?"
Gulnora said nothing at all. She took the camera, looked at the lens, and closed the door gently. Kamola stood on the landing and understood, slowly, that she had made things worse. She had said sorry, but every sentence after it had been an excuse.
The next evening she came back and read a second apology from her phone.
"I'm sorry for breaking your camera. It was my fault. You told me to use the strap, and I took it off because I wanted better photos. I'm sorry that I made excuses yesterday — that was worse than dropping it. I've found out that the lens can be repaired for four hundred thousand sum. I'm working at the café this summer, and I'll pay for the repair from my wages. I'll make sure nothing like this happens again."
Gulnora was quiet for a moment. Then she opened the door wider. "Apology accepted," she said. "Come in. I'll make tea."
In the kitchen she told Kamola a secret. When she was sixteen, she had broken her own mother's sewing machine and blamed it on the cat. "The machine was easy to fix," she said. "It took my mother much longer to trust me again."
Kamola paid for the repair by the end of August. In September, Gulnora lent her the camera again for her cousin's wedding — and, without a word, handed her a new strap first.