Fifty Five - Golden Pony
NEW
THE TRUE STORY OF THE FIFTY FIVE
(or how I had the idea of creating my first model)
It was a Monday in February. I remember because it was cold. A cold that no longer exists, a polar cold. It was snowing heavily. Paris was paralysed. At the time, I was working for a major shoe brand created by a man who has now gone. Not gone on to better things, but gone. He was well and truly dead, well buried, well decomposed. Far, far away.
There were four of us in the shop, and I was there every day. I was alone on Mondays because it was more of a service opening, helping out potential customers, than a real business day. It wasn't my vocation to make a living there, but my boss paid me well, was kind and respectful, always listened to my ideas and never kept any of them. But I felt good there, serene, never pushed around or in competition with the other shop assistants. I was 20 years old. Tucked away behind my counter reading Stevenson's Treasure Island, I didn't expect to see a single soul come in. Even the most damned. But then, in the middle of the afternoon, just as a snowstorm had begun, a tall, blonde young woman came in, hiding behind smoked glasses even though it was almost dark. She hardly said hello to me. She came and went, picked up the models and put them down again. I could see that she was looking for something in particular, but not wanting to offend her, I let her come to me.
- Are all your models on display?
- Yes, ma'am, for the most part. It's possible that one model has been put away because there's only one left, but in the vast majority of cases we have everything in front of you.
- But I can't find the one I'm looking for, so of course that bothers me. And when I'm upset, nothing good happens.
- I can tell you one thing. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. I just love it. Can you see it?
- Yes, of course I can. But the name would help me enormously.
- Yes, you know they're the ones with the wings.
And she whispered.
- The Pétasses.
My boss was a facetious creature. And in the midst of all these models, he had found a way of naming one of them the Bitch model. Not to offend, or to shock or hurt, but as a wink to the girls he put in his shoes.
- I understand completely, madam, but don't worry. I'm here to help you. There you go. Could you describe the model in question in your own words? Or better still, give me its name if you know it?
Like, I'm a bitch, so I'm taking the liberty of making a model out of it. And it must be said that he was amused when customers came into the shop demanding the Pétasse model.
I laughed inwardly that this pretty girl didn't dare pronounce the absurd and slightly trivial name my boss had given this pump with its 8 centimetre heel. The Pétasse was part of the previous collection. But we reissued them in January. However, after a few weeks, we already had none left. Almost none, as I remembered that there was one left. A black 39. And luckily, that's what she wanted. And it was definitely the right size. She already had one, but she wanted another. Because she loved them. I remembered where I could find it. We had a lot of stock and a lot of places where to keep them. But I remembered that I'd put them away behind our counter, where I quickly glanced around, proud of myself. However, after looking everywhere, I couldn't find the pair in question. So I set about searching all the storerooms. The one at the back, the one on the first floor, the one on the mezzanine. Each time I came back to the customer and apologised for making her wait. Finally, I had to go to the basement. The pair appeared on the computer system. It was in the shop and I had to find it, it was my responsibility. And even if my boss didn't keep a chart of the best Employee of the Month, I wanted to do everything I could to ensure that my customer was satisfied.
There was little chance that my Pétasse would be in the basement, purely and simply because that's where we kept the summer collection: the sandals, the flip-flops. And yet she had to be there. I'd scanned the rest of the stock with my bionic eye and hadn't managed to find it. She was probably hiding here, wanting never to be adopted, to stay with her creator. So I went over and over all the labels looking for the Holy Grail, but never found it. Not on the top, middle or bottom shelf, nor in the right or left-hand room. In a final burst of near-dementia, I decided to open a folding door behind which lay a pile of accounting papers and my boss's personal effects. There was clearly no chance that the pair in question would be here. But I wanted to take my logic to its logical conclusion and flush out the facetious one. Moving boxes, files and objects was like trying to get out of the cursed temple.
I climbed over every obstacle in front of me in search of a miracle, I crawled along hoping to find the box and return to the surface.
But nothing, nothing, nothing apart from a trap door, which I'd never seen before as it was the first time I'd gone so deep into this basement storeroom. I knew that the customer was waiting, but I was extremely intrigued and I couldn't see what the trapdoor led to, given that beyond it, in my opinion, was the street, and therefore the sewers.
So I was surprised to discover a white light coming out of it, stroboscopically bright. And this singular light was calling me. I didn't hear it call me by name, but I felt that it wanted to envelop me, to absorb me. I didn't try to flee at all, I just let myself go and entered the trapdoor , determined to find out what kind of lighting they were using to produce such perfect white light. The path was narrow and I had to push on my heels to make my way through the cramped passageway, but I had to know, whatever the cost, where this was leading and why I had such a strong feeling of being called.
If I had the Home Depot stocks next to mine, or if a drug I'd used years ago was making a stunning comeback. And the further I went, the more intense it became, the more I was bathed in whiteness. It was intoxicating to crawl, strangely enough. But I wanted to reach that sparkle and come back to the surface, not necessarily with the pair but with something great to tell my client. At some point, I can't remember which, I lost all sense of time, all sense of direction, all sense of myself, and I was moving towards a point of light that just kept getting further and further away.
It was frustrating, yet I couldn't stop myself from moving forward, because there was nothing left but this mystery that grew thicker and thicker as I went along. I felt good and the further I went, the more confident I felt, bathed in this soft atmosphere, as if I were immersed in a big cotton bag.
The first thing I noticed was a heel. A curved heel, quite vintage, very pretty, which as I progressed became a tapered shape of rare beauty.
All this seemed far away, as if hanging on an unreachable horizon. But I had to know what it was all about and what the message I was visualising meant. I redoubled my efforts and in the end it paid off. Then I saw a boot taking clear shape in front of me. But it wasn't just any boot. It was different from anything I'd ever seen or experienced. It was masterful, phenomenal, a UFO.
Cut on the outside, replicating the V of victory, this low-boot glittered with all its might, inviting me to join it as quickly as possible.
I pushed hard on my thighs, my feet, using my arms and my hands to get out of here, to get out, to go towards the light. And if my whole journey through this passage was exhausting, long and painful, despite its exhilarating conclusion, the end was, on the contrary, maddeningly clear. All I had to do was let myself go, as if on a giant toboggan, stretching out my arms towards this model, this revolutionary boot that would become the Fifty-Five. I slid endlessly and laughed with so many emotions, not knowing where this pleasant fall would take me.
There, exactly where my adventure began, in the cellar, in the basement, from the trapdoor through which I had entered, except that everything was reversed. This trap door, previously on the floor, was now on the ceiling and it spat me out like a Valda wasabi tablet. I landed hard on the floor, thrown, and the trap door poured a thick, transparent liquid over me, similar to massage oil. But in truth, it looked more like placenta. And I felt like I was drowning underneath it, the trapdoor spitting out a ton of it.
When it was over, I got up and climbed the stairs to the shop, only to discover that it was night and I'd been locked in. The next day I handed in my resignation. Although I really liked my boss, he was a charming human being. This strange journey, this ultimate experience, had kept me awake all night because I'd had a vision.
And it wasn't just the vision of a boot, no, but the vision that it was finally time for me to take the helm and sail towards my destiny with myself as my only compass, my only captain. I had just been delivered a second time.
That's what life is, a succession of rebirths.
EPILOGUE
The day I opened my own shop in my own name, I didn't think it necessary to celebrate the moment. I tend to keep a low profile, so there was no inauguration. And just as I was about to close after a successful first day full of promise, a gentleman came through the door. He was extremely elegant, in a dark suit, his face hidden by a hat. I recognized him instantly when he took off his hat. He'd aged, of course, because a few years had gone by, but it was definitely him. My boss. Who, I don't know how, had found a way of finding me and finding out that I'd just launched my own brand today. He didn't want to disturb me and he was in a hurry, as he was on his way to the Bastille Opera. But without a word, he placed a shoebox on my counter and disappeared with an unconvincing "see you soon". The shoebox was the one that contained the pair I had so desperately sought fifteen years earlier. That Petasse.
