THE COBBLER IN the digital age!
The soles of my shoes split right down the middle – synthetic stuff from 2022. So, new soles.
Patching them up – the solution? Sticking the tear back together. Not a solution, according to him! Totally incompatible, foreign material.
I took the route I’d always known, and yes, the cobbler was still there. After all these years! Or so it seemed! There I was, suddenly face to face with a different face. No longer the warm, friendly man I’d visited for years, but a young, energetic man in his forties, looking somewhat self-assured, surrounded by models, laces and all manner of countless useful items of which I knew little but which certainly belonged to the trade: craftsmanship. Just as the clouds belong to the sky, he was surrounded by cheerfully working trinkets—or rather, necessary parts as diverse as humanity itself.
So that was a new owner. Two years ago already! With new shoes, you don’t need repairs. So I hadn’t been there for two years. Until recently, though, because my soles split right down the middle.
Now I’d come to collect them, as agreed. They weren’t ready! No, the shoes I’d handed in and paid for earlier hadn’t been repaired yet? So I had to come back at the end of the week.
Bloody hell! Another drive! I grumbled about the high diesel prices now that Trump’s war had turned everything upside down.
I struck up a conversation and told him he had a fascinating profession that earned him a good living. I knew this from a step-uncle who used to practice that trade in Antwerp with many Jewish customers. That immediately caught his attention. I had no doubt about the dignity of that profession, as his price for repairs was higher than for a pair of new shoes! He then told me that good work was his trademark and that the profession had graced his family for centuries. He had no intention of delivering shoddy work; if that was what they wanted, they could go elsewhere, such as to Mister Minute! His work seemed highly varied and inventive. He did a lot of work for riders and repaired saddles: difficult sewing and, from time to time, pattern designs which he then brought to life in leather. It seemed more complicated than I’d imagined. He particularly praised himself for not delivering rubbish; if they wanted that, they could go elsewhere.
A sound principle, it seems to me, one that I too practiced in my profession. Quality, not quantity,
Good work and not just money that counts. A refrain I’d heard often enough, which had its price, but could barely stay on track in this age of mass production and the scourge of ‘only money that counts’. That’s what ruined everything, brought it all down. How long had he taken over this shop? Two years – that’s how long I’d had no shoes to repair.
In those days, new ones were often cheaper. Loss of value and dignity – that’s how you could define the times. Behind my back, I could hear new customers trickling in and murmuring constantly.
I glanced casually to the side and saw, in a group of people waiting, one figure who stood out because of his height and strange appearance: half Chinese, half European, with a narrow face and white hair, from which a jet-black ponytail stuck up at the back, looking completely out of place. Outside, in front of the shop window, I saw a Chinese woman pacing up and down somewhat impatiently in front of a parked car. Typical: car in front of the shop window, not on foot, typically without thinking… laziness.
I left the shop and walked back to my car for fifteen minutes. Good exercise to stay limber at my age, free fitness and contact with the city and interesting shop windows: unwanted antiques and empty shops, where you could only view the goods by appointment via the number in the ‘Schauwfenster’.
Comments
Post a Comment