“Maybe Portugal,” Keller said. “ Portugal and colonies.”

“Angra and Angola,” Schaffner intoned. “Kionga. Madeira, Funchal. Horta, Lourenзo Marques. Tete and Timor. Macao and Quelimane.” He cleared his throat, swung his chair around to the left, and took three small black loose-leaf notebooks from a shelf, passing them over the counter to Keller. “Have a look,” he said. “Tongs and a magnifier right there in front of you. Prices are marked, unless I didn’t get around to it. They run around a third off catalog, more or less depending on condition, and the more you buy the more of a break I’ll give you. You from around here?”

Keller shook his head. “ New York.”

“City or state?”

“Both.”

“I guess if you’re from the city you’d have to be from the state as well, wouldn’t you? Here on business?”

“Just passing through,” Keller said. That didn’t really answer the question, but it seemed to be good enough for Schaffner.

“Well, take your time,” the man said. “Relax and enjoy yourself.”

Keller’s mind darted around. Should he have said he was from someplace other than New York? Should he have invented a more specific reason for being in Louisville? Then he got caught up in what he was doing, and all of that mental chatter ceased as he gave himself up entirely to the business of looking at stamps.

He had collected as a boy, and had scarcely thought of his collection until one day when he found himself considering retirement. The old man in White Plains was still alive then, but he was clearly losing his grip, and Keller had wondered if it might be time to pack it in. He tried to imagine how he’d pass the hours, and he thought of hobbies, and that got him thinking about stamps.