The Day the Bakery Opened

Twelve years ago there was no bakery on our corner. There was an empty room with grey walls and one small window.

Bekzod's father painted the walls white. He cleaned the floor three times. He carried an old oven from his brother's house and repaired it with his own hands.

The bakery opened on a Monday in March. At six o'clock the bread was ready and the room was warm. Nobody arrived.

He waited. At seven o'clock one old man walked in and asked for two loaves. At eight the same man returned with his neighbour.

On the second day thirty people waited at the door before six.

That week Bekzod's father worked nineteen hours a day and finished at midnight. He stopped only twice: for tea, and for the evening prayer.

Bekzod's mother helped him with the dough. On Sunday she counted the money on the table and laughed: it was enough for flour, and nothing else.

Twelve years later the room is warm every morning and the walls are still white. Bekzod's father says one sentence about that first Monday.

"One man walked in. That was enough."