opened my window. The cold air came blowing in. I lit myself a cigarette, looked down at my feet and noticed that the scuff mark on the top of my right shoe had been coloured in with something too dark to be soil. I wondered if it might be dog shit, and where it would have come from.
‘Byron!’
‘What?’
‘You nearly drove into that car.’
I’d misjudged a corner. A car next to me, with about five people in their mid-twenties, had slowed down. They were all giving me hand signals, pointing at their eyes, pointing at their heads.
‘You must be careful!’ she said to me.
‘Ja.’
We finally made it into the Cavendish Square parkade.
Victoria pulled down the sunshade in front of her, expecting to find a mirror in which to examine her face. But there was none.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Without hesitating for more than second, she turned sideways, pulled the rear-view mirror toward her, looked at herself – coldly, as a surgeon might look at a patient – touched her pointy chin, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Come!’ she said, then unlocked the door and hopped out.
I walked behind her. She never once turned around to see if I was following. She walked past the large mirror at the top of the escalators, paused for a second to look at her reflection, again coldly, hopped on the machine and began the descent. I followed.
The escalators are right in the centre of the mall, in a large chasm of space filled with sunlight. In front of me was a Muslim family. The father was dressed in a robe, as was his young son. The woman’s entire body was covered, with only a small slit for the eyes. I was very stoned and suddenly realised I’d been staring at her for too long. And staring is wrong. We embrace diversity and barely notice minor differences like that. The truth was, I envied her. I was starting to get paranoid and would have killed to hide myself inside a full body veil. Perhaps I should invest in one.
Then I was at the bottom of the escalator standing in front of a Levi’s shop with all the pretty models smiling at me. Victoria had already rounded the corner and walked into Truworths. I ran after her. She was winding her way through the women’s clothing section. I noticed that the mannequins were getting slightly chubbier, and yes, some of them were charcoal coloured. I wondered if veil shops invested in mannequins.
I started moving faster and nearly bumped into a trendy black girl of high-school age. She was with a large group of friends and they were holding up clothes against their bodies and giggling. And Victoria was climbing onto the escalator. I ran toward her and grabbed hold of her arm.
‘Byron. What are you doing?’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
It had been such a long time since I was last in the shoe section of a shop. Nothing had changed. A pop song was playing over the stereo. There were countless mirrors and large pictures of men kicking balls and girls sitting on haystacks and smiling. And then the shoes. There they were. The sevens with the sevens. The eights with the eights. All paired up and matching. They seemed to be staring down at me and laughing.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A short woman with greasy black hair pulled back so tight it looked as if it were about to be ripped from her skull was standing behind me.
‘Umm … ’ I said.
‘Are you looking for anything?’ She smiled.
‘Yes,’ Victoria said. ‘We are looking for shoes, of course, that is.’
As she spoke her bag slipped off her shoulder and landed in the V of her arm.
‘For?’ asked the shoe lady
‘Him,’ said Victoria. ‘We are looking for shoes – white shoes, nice, bowling sort of shoes. For him.’
‘Well, would you like to come with me?’ The assistant seemed amused by us. She had a smirk on her face.
‘What is that you’re laughing at?’ Victoria asked her.
‘Nothing,’ said the shoe lady. ‘Over here!’ She pointed with her right hand at a shelf full of boxes.
‘Stop sniggering’ Victoria said. ‘We’ve come here to buy shoes.’
I stood silently.
‘Would you like to look at them?’ The shoe lady was now doing her best not to snigger. She was in fact overcompensating, to the point where her expression looked like a stick-on serious face. At this stage I didn’t know what she found so funny.
‘These are some Levi’s,’ she said taking a white pair out of the box. ‘They’re on special. As advertised in our flyer.’
I saw all the boxes sitting there. The numbers: 8, 7, 11, 12.
‘They’re nice,’ Victoria said, running her hand along the white leather, and holding them up to her nose.
‘What size would you like?’ the shoe assistant lady asked Victoria whilst looking down at my feet.
I slid the right foot back.
‘We have to try on various sizes’ Victoria said. ‘We can manage by ourselves now, thank you.’
‘Just shout if you need help,’ said the shoe assistant lady. She walked away, the sniggering face prying its way out from underneath.
Victoria’s handbag was still resting in the V of her arm. She looked up and down the rack of shoes. Her face had that same possessed intensity as when she took photographs.
‘What sizes?’ she asked, without looking up.
‘Eleven,’ I said.
‘And?’ She said the word so casually.
‘Seven,’ I said.
She took the two boxes out of the shelf, carelessly, and carried them over to the try-on spot. She placed the boxes on the floor. I stared at them for a second. She kicked the size 11 box toward me.
‘Come on,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘Try them on.’
‘I will,’ I said.
In the distance, prowling between the shelves and the tills, greasy head emerging here, and there, and there again, was the shoe assistant lady. And yes, now she was talking to one of her shoe assistant lady friends, a fat white girl with straw-coloured hair and acne vulgaris. What a revolting creature, I thought. I felt angry at her for being so sif. Then I suddenly became nervous again and longed for a Muslim veil.
‘What’s wrong?’ Victoria asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘So then, Byron, try on – I know, OK – just try them on, both.’
I opened the box with the size eleven shoes in it and took them both out, placing them on the floor.
‘Why you taking them both out?’ she asked me.
‘No!’ I said.
I picked up the right shoe and placed it on my lap. The leather was white and felt smooth beneath my fingers. I thought of the cow that laid down its life for these shoes. I was pleased.
‘Come, Byron!’ Victoria said.
I opened it right up and fumbled about, trying to undo the ridiculous knot that’s always tied into new shoes. When I had it undone, I slipped my foot inside and tied it back up, then waggled it about in the air and put it back on the floor.
‘It fits. I’ll buy them.’
‘But Byron, the other – what about the other, the other set of shoes.’
‘They’re fine.’