The Generalissimo's cobbler

The Generalissismo's cobbler

Gustavo the cobbler sat on his stool carefully re stitching a pair of hideous bejewelled military boots. Turning one of the boots over so it was now upside down, the rubies that covered it flashed red in the light of the hearth. He began to apply the glue to the comically high platformed sole. setting the boot down the shoemaker let out a yawn and his mind turned back to the very night when he had first set eyes on these wretched foot coverings.Then they had been little more than a common pair of boots, a dusty brown leather and the type you would find worn on any avocado farm across Rio Grande´. In fact the only thing that was remarkable about these bootees was the dramatic nature of their arrival in Gustavo's workshop. on that night the fighting in the capital had been fierce, people had hidden in their homes as rumours abounded about a psychopathic midget who had led a troop of bloodthirsty mercenaries bringing terror to the peaceable villages of Rio Grande´. His army were now on the cusp of seizing the capital and there was little resistance left, nothing more to be done by the residents except to hide in their ramshackle dwellings half starved and pray to santa maria socrates. This is exactly what Gustavo had been doing as there was a wild hammering at the door. Gripped by horror the shoemaker did not move but crawled into the empty fireplace muttering incantations to himself. There was a crash and the door burst open a young man gasping for breath stood in the now open doorway the light of the flares in the sky behind illuminating the boyish looking soldier in a glow of phosphorous. Gustavo did not move he watch as the officer scan the room his eyes at last resting on the crouched figure of the cobbler whose eyes shined out of the black shadows of the hearth.Gustavo realising he had no other option, emerged from the fireplace his limbs quivering. The shoemaker let out a audible sigh of relief when instead of drawing his pistol the young officer thrust a pair of small grime covered leather boots into the arms of Gustavo.

He had listened to the soldiers request, had not questioned it but instead went over to his stool lit the gas lantern and had began to work on the boots. the soldier must have been no more than eighteen he stood there uncomfortably watching as the cobbler used a small hammer to push the metal pins into the ridiculously high platform soles he had been instructed to attach to the boots. it was clear to Gustavo that this young man wanted to make it clear that these now idiotic looking boots did not belong to him.When he spoke he sounded nervous as trying to sound casual he asked the shoemaker "if he had a pair of mountain grapplers in a size 43?" the cobbler shook his head and apologised saying that since the trouble had begun it had been hard for him to get hold of leather for new boots. As he said this he turned and watched the soldier; he had a handsome face that glowed warm in the gaslight he wasn't eighteen he was still a boy no older than fourteen! His uniform was ill fitting, a hand me down that his mother had tried to make good with a darning needle and some goats thread. He looked scared, he was looking at the boots shifting from one leg to the other, in the distance through the open door the cobbler could here the sound of instrument strings being picked in a mournful lament. Then as if suddenly gripped by the something the music had awoken in him he grabbed Gustavo by the shoulders and pulled him close as if to plant a kiss upon the shoemaker instead in a barely audible whisper he took the ear of the cobbler. " These are for the Generalissimo please make them shine".

Gustavo had not known from that night on he would be forbidden to work on any other footwear apart from those of the "great" Generalissimo.

He sat there his thin legs creaking with each movement from the endless years sat at the stool, reaching over Gustavo took another huge dollop of the thick indigenous Do Sul beeswax and slathered another coat on the already sickly glistening patent boots. The cobbler wondered how many pairs of people shoes he could have lovingly attended to over these last years if it had not been for the Generalissimo? Then in a fit of rage he tossed the shoe brush and watched as the beeswax on the bristles caused the brush to skid across the stone floor until it came to a rest with a thud as it hit the crumbling brick wall of the dead fireplace. 

These years alone, isolated by his task, kept away from his fellow Grandeans, day after day huddled over these wretched boots, their ruby eyes constantly watching him imprisoning him in this tiny workshop he could take not a moment more.

For hours the cobbler worked with a feverish concentration, gathering up every piece of dry timber, evert splinter of wood he could find. He broke up the desk and his acacia wood stool with an axe, scrunched up decades old newspaper Rio Grande´match reports into balls. At last in the fireplace stood a magnificent pyre. Atop it he carefully placed the jewel encrusted 10 inch platformed boots, doused them in homemade grape spirit and struck a match.

When the Generalissimo's not so secret secret police were called to the remnants of the blaze nothing of the boots remained accept a small pile of red precious stones that glowed orange in the white hot embers. A few hours later the cobbler was arrested, they had found him lying by a quiet acacia draped part of the river, the late spring sun dappling through the leaves and dancing on his face. Gustavo was fast asleep and on his wore a contented smile, a smile that did not leave him even after he had been roughly awoken and charged with high treason.