A literary memoir: Two pairs of shoes

In order to have a little chat with him before the reading in the Heine House, the reader picked the author up from the train.

Together they walk into the old town and get lost in a diner, where they try to have a conversation over hot dogs and some kind of coffee.

So far they have only emailed.

The writer has traveled widely and tells Chinese things about China.

He is currently on the road with his new novel, most recently in Basel.

Many critics have praised the book, the reader liked it too, and Basel, yes!

There she experienced a shoe story many years ago.

On a hot summer Sunday, on the way from the train station to the art museum, the strap that held her sandal on her foot suddenly broke.

What now?

Shops closed, no cord, nothing to tie with me and so my foot at my destination was black with Basel dust.

The cashier pushed her a ticket anyway, and an old man who understood what he was seeing waved from the cloakroom with a smile and offered to look after the ruins and the pendant.

Is he thinking about the same movie as you?

So she strolled free and barefoot through the quiet halls and sat in gloomy thoughts for a long time in front of Holbein's greenish corpse of Christ.

Finally she searched and found the toilet, where spotless washbasins gleamed, and when she returned to the cloakroom with two clean feet, the old man had driven the strap through the sole and pinched it like an experienced shoemaker and was speaking kindly all sorts of sympathetic things in Basel German, while she squeezed his hand and stammered "Mär-ci" many times and became happy and alive again.

This story dates back a long time, and the fact that the old man lives far beyond the clouds only becomes clear to the reader as she tells the story, which disturbs her.

She restlessly grabs the author's cap lying on the table, puts it on and rolls her eyes, which amuses the author.

Whether he's thinking of the same movie as she is or not, they're both laughing as they sit in this warm, ratty diner, drinking water and coffee and talking and talking.

In between, she thinks of the famous

of the film, who had to give his shoes to another, stricter cloakroom, and sighs.

It's already getting dark when they make their way to the bookshop.

Shops are lined up in the narrow streets, neon signs are flashing, many people are on the move.

A young, spiky-haired punk woman stands in the middle of the stream and asks for euros.

Her black-stockinged legs end in shiny red DocMartens with unlaced shoes, new for sure, expensive for sure.

She hums a bit, smiles encouragingly and holds out an empty coffee mug to passers-by.

What could fit into a story

Later, the reader ponders what must have been going through the writer's head when, after a few steps, he suddenly stops and turns around, back to the punk woman, where he pulls his wallet out of his pocket and throws a few coins into the cup.

Out of pity?

But why?

Cheerful and happy, she stands in her shoes and looks the author in the eye.

Instead of waiting, she holds out the cup.

Well why not?

The reader would have some objections, the author is satisfied, he does not draw a line between book pride and shoe pride, but responds to the moment without reasoning.

He generously contributes to what she needs and desires while she offers him her sight and her wit, a successful exchange.

Maybe one day he will remember her because she fits into a story.