by Peter Barker
“Once we’ve done the measuring we can make the last.”
“The last what?”
The shoemaker paused and smiled politely.
“I’m sorry sir, I should have explained: The last” – he leaned into the word – “is the form we use to model the foot. Once we’ve made the last…” a litany of steps followed which floated to the periphery of Burkhardt’s consciousness, waiting as he was, to deliver his punchline:
“So the last will be first.”
This time it was an indulgent smile.
“You’d be surprised at the stock of jokes a shoemaker acquires over the years. Jokes and anecdotes.”
Another pause.
Anton Hirschenberger – the name appeared on a gold plaque over the entrance to the shop – clearly liked his pauses and Burkhardt was beginning to realize that he quite liked them too. In fact, in the half hour he had been there, the shoemaker had quite grown on him. He had an air of distinction so natural that it precluded any suspicion of conceit. Burkhardt admired the mane of wiry, black hair and the matching Van Dyke beard, the royal blue suit set off against a white shirt. As if aware of the danger of excessive formality, he had opted for double monks and light-brown socks, lively but not provocative. The trousers, Burkhard noted when Mr. Hirschenberger stood up, did not stop halfway down his ankles. This was a shoemaker Burkhardt could trust, no doubt someone he could learn from, but could he…the thought trailed off as the shoemaker launched in on his measuring ritual, pausing occasionally for an explanation or a piece of advice: He produced two oval trays, each with a sheet of blank white paper on which Burkhardt had to place his feet, unwound a tape measure which he held against each foot and then sketched their outlines with a long, olive-green pencil. Burkhardt was glad he had remembered to put on his chocolate-coloured socks.
While the shoemaker worked with his pencil and tape measure, carefully noting down key measurements, Burkhardt decided that, were he ever to return to full-time journalism, he would propose an interview with Anton Hirschenberger as one of his first assignments.
“My father took over from my grandfather and I’ve been in the shoe trade for over 40 years. One can’t help having a” – he paused – “a shoe thing. Not with my background. So, Mr. Burkhardt…”
“Ludwig.”
“Very kind sir, but we like to stay on formal terms, at least for the first few pairs of shoes, he smiled, this time tentatively apologetic.
But now it was Burkhardt’s turn:
“No, Ludwig is my last name. Burkhardt is my first name. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the”…this time he paused…“the last.”
The shoemaker laughed, picking up the jest like a well-trained ball boy, and then offered a superfluous apology:
“Mr. Ludwig, terribly sorry sir.”
Just at that moment Burkhardt glanced down at the wiry hieroglyphics on the paper for outlining his feet. His eyes flicked back and forth between the marks next to the left and right feet, a look of mortification spreading across his features. Sensing his confusion and diagnosing its cause, the shoemaker pulled out another smile, his counsellor’s smile:
“It’s relatively rare to find a pair of feet that are exact mirror images. It’s perfectly normal for there to be a slight” – this time an open-handed gesture accompanied the pause – “discrepancy in the length or width of the feet.”
He provided some background about meta-tarsals, how arches flatten or even collapse after a certain age, giving Burkhardt time to come to terms with the indignity of the asymmetry, a revelation which the high-street shoe shops had spared him over the years, no doubt due to incompetence rather than discretion.
“Would we like to talk about the” – his hands traced a shape in the air – “the model of shoe you’re considering for your first pair of shoes?”
It suddenly struck Burkhardt how ill-prepared he was, like a schoolboy with half-finished homework.
“You always know a man by his shoes sir, so it’s important we get things right.”
Burkhardt looked up at the shoemaker who was nodding pensively, his bearded chin cradled in a lined hand.
“You said formal, but not too formal. Am I right in thinking in terms of a trip to a museum or an evening in a restaurant with a lady as opposed to a black-tie event or a funeral?”
“Yes, yes,” Burkhart nodded in agreement.
“Shall we consider Oxfords or Derbys? Toe-capped Oxfords might be a little too formal – I think we would be happier with a pair of Derbys, perhaps a semi- or quarter brogue but without any other ornamentation.”
Bewildered, but deeply impressed, Burkhardt allowed him to continue, nodding approvingly at remarks about respecting the architecture of the foot, the need for a strong, classic toe shape and the aperçu about the form giving the shoes their drama.
Desperate to make some sort of contribution Burkhardt mumbled something about boots for his next pair but the shoemaker steered him back on course:
“Shoes tell stories, boots tell of adventures. I suggest we start with the shoes.”
He guided Burkhardt via a well-rehearsed catalogue of questions to a pair of dark-brown semi-brogued Derbys, tactfully pointing out that the open-lacing system would be kind to the generous spacing of his feet.
By a quarter past eleven Burckhardt heard the brass bell ring for the second time that day as he pulled open the door to the street, refreshed, reassured, like last week after his check-up at the doctor’s. Yes, a shoe thing, perhaps that was just what he had needed all along.
Peter Barker, born in England, studied Modern Languages at Cambridge and taught English in France and Austria. After qualifying as a Chartered Accountant he moved to Heidelberg, Germany to work in IT. He takes part in the Writing Center in the Deutsch-Amerikanisches Institut in Heidelberg. He writes flash fiction, short fiction and novellas.
Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-photo-of-a-brown-leather-shoes-6765524/
