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Manolo's Shoes
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Manolo's Shoes
Mr. Bootblack is a philosopher with distinct views of his own. He earns a living cleaning shoes. Once every two weeks he writes an article about footwear for GDS – and about the wearers.
Manuel always comes when the sun’s out. After the blizzards of the past few weeks he kept appearing, even otherwise only coming when there was slush and water on the streets. “Manolo,” I would say to him each time, “when did Noah build the ark?” And then he grins a lopsided grin before saying: “I know, I know, Bootblack – before the rain. Before the rain.” Which is exactly the time when shoes need looking after. Though to be quite honest: with Manuel’s shoes it really doesn’t matter. He buys the cheapest ones that still don’t look it. I have to laugh even just touching his shoes. Then he says: “Bootblack, you’re a snob,” and I reply: “You haven’t grasped the way of the world, Manuel - which is also why you don’t understand shoes.” He normally then just nods indulgently as if remaining silent so as not to provoke me into giving him a lecture.
He never asked until this morning. There he was, beaming from a distance, competing with the sun already high in the sky over Brooklyn. It is far too late for him, the workaholic he is. “There has to be a woman behind it,” I say as he sits down in my customer’s chair still grinning, merely saying: “Bootblack, you know about these things. Just tell me: Why do women pay a thousand dollars for a pair of strappy sandals if they have the right name on them?”
At this point I realise the moment has come to have a little chat with Manuel about the way of the world. “There’s a difference between you being faithful to your wife – and her just thinking you are. And there’s a huge difference between buying a work of art by an artist and just buying an exact copy. Women see these shoes as a work of art, Manolo,” I say “and the decision is whether you want a work of art in your life or just a piece of decoration.” He then actually does think about this, at surprising length for the quick-witted lawyer he is. He then looks at me. “Bootblack,” he says, “you’ll be the death of all those guys in the Village selling fake Rolexes.” And that I would love to be. “The same game,” I say, “the same game: a real man doesn’t need a Rolex. But when he does buy one he only does it out of respect for the craftsmanship. And what kind of respect would that be if I claimed all this was possible without the effort? Without the ideas? Without the inspiration?“
He stands up and resigns himself to an expensive day ahead of him. “So I’m now going to spend a thousand dollars on a pair of shoes,” he says, “because Doctor Bootblack prescribes it.”
“Do it if comes from the heart,” I say, “then the name Manolo will be all over those shoes.”
