SCOTTISH SHOES

Scottish Shoes

ALI ALISHAEI

CHAPTER 1

The first sip of coffee burned down my throat, the heat radiating from my hands through my body. I held the cup close, savoring its aroma as it cooled. Carefully, I rotated it until the red lettering faced me - the full image of the red-clad woman printed on it. After ten minutes of brewing, I wanted to appreciate every detail, if only to momentarily forget the persistent sting in my eyes. I watched the steam rise, my imagination turning each wisp into magical shapes.

I smirked to myself: If the coffee seller knew I could savor a single spoonful as intensely as wandering through Brazil’s rainforests, he’d have charged me for a luxury cruise! Another sip, then I forced myself back to the sewing machine, vowing not to touch the coffee again until I’d attached both small buckles to the shoe in my hands.

Only a month or two remained until 2020, but with the chaos outside, who knew if customers would even collect their orders? To my father, this didn’t matter. He believed delivering perfect shoes late was like promising a child candy today but giving it tomorrow.

My father speaks beautifully - always with sweet metaphors that make me wonder if he creates them or borrows them. He often says shoes carry nostalgia because people buy different pairs throughout life. Even at seventy, new shoes make one’s inner child glow, bringing parents’ images to mind.

I’m certain if poorer, he could’ve written a book on shoes’ sanctity!

I hadn’t finished the first buckle when I broke my own rule, reaching for the coffee just as the shop bell rang.

Mrs. Fletcher stood wedged in the doorway, her wide hips preventing the glass door from closing as she shook her umbrella outside. Despite it, her shoulder was soaked - though with her size, expecting that small umbrella to work miracles was unreasonable!

She left the umbrella dripping in the corner and began talking. Watching the puddle form, I remembered begging Father to replace the stone floor with wood. He’d refused - wisely, since Scottish rains would ruin wood floors in months.

Father spun in his swivel chair from polishing shoes behind the counter. Peering over his glasses, he smiled: “Hello Mrs. Fletcher! What’s new?”

Asking “What’s new?” to this chatterbox was like cutting the wrong bomb wire. Even silent, you had ten seconds before detonation.

Hairpin in teeth while fixing her hair, she tucked it into frizzy curls and said: “How can you sit calmly sewing shoes? I’m shocked you’ve no radio or TV on here!”

A passing police siren drew her back to the door. Watching the street, she continued: “You should’ve seen the rain-soaked chaos! If younger, I’d have tasted those police batons myself...”

Father peered over his glasses: “They started this early?”

Mrs. Fletcher, face against the glass, replied: “Aye! Holed up here, you’ve no idea! If I banked at Lloyd’s, I’d have had a stroke! Protesters targeted Lloyd’s today - despite hundreds of officers, every window was smashed!”

Father asked incredulously: “What did Lloyd’s do to deserve this?”

Mrs. Fletcher smacked her hand: “See? You know nothing! Like you’re not Scottish! They say that bank laundered money for England!”

Father smirked: “Money laundering? Meaning?”

She twisted her lips: “I don’t know, but they must’ve washed our Scottish oil money straight to Westminster!”

Father chuckled, glancing at me: “Stevie, I’ve my gloves on - fetch Mrs. Fletcher’s shoes, would you?”

Rising, I finished my coffee: “Mrs. Fletcher, would you like coffee?”

As if noticing me for the first time, she smiled: “Och, Stevie love! How are you? Didn’t see you there!”

Turning to my father, she joked: “Good thing I wasn’t sharing private stories about your da!”

Her loud laugh filled the shop.

As more light hit my face, Mrs. Fletcher gasped and rushed over, leaning across the counter: “Good Lord, Stevie! Your eyes are so red! You must’ve been at Holyrood last night! See what those godless bastards are doing to our lads!”

She guessed right.

I had been there - on December 2nd...

We were thousands, not expecting clashes with police. But the crowd’s roar swept me away like a wave, moving me involuntarily like predetermined fate - somehow reminding me of Maradona’s “Hand of God” goal against England.

Climbing the shop’s back stairs for shoes, she told my father: “Believe me Robert, without this eye burning and breathlessness, I’d have joined them. Yesterday’s tear gas nearly killed me - but nobody expects a woman my age on front lines!”

Louder so I’d hear upstairs, she continued: “Thank God youth finally understand our motherland’s importance. Now’s the time to break from England forever - even at the cost of their lives!”

My kind father, his frayed gray silk bowtie always at his work collar - me being his only worldly possession - gave Mrs. Fletcher a look showing his dislike for this death-and-sacrifice talk.

“Aye, Steve’s a true Scot, but he’s promised only to play bagpipes at National Party ceremonies!”

His voice trembling - I knew he’d resumed shoe polishing - he added: “Last night he only went to play music and sword dance...then all that happened.”

He was right. Leaving at dusk, my only burden was the bagpipe case on my shoulder. We’d planned to gather outside the Union building, sing anthems, hoping to be heard.

Mrs. Fletcher scoffed: “For heaven’s sake! Do you think piping and dancing will defeat London?”

The rusty-hinged door creaked open. I recognized the gravelly voice immediately - Mr. Hamilton, my father’s Navy-retired friend visiting more often lately.

After greeting Dad and Mrs. Fletcher, he immediately launched into detailed Scottish news updates.

Phil Gordon, the National Party’s worthy leader, had died just days before.

I’d shaken his hand backstage at a speech, remembering his warm, powerful smile and the famous blue lavender flower always on his lapel.

A truly remarkable man, Scotland’s pride, embodying great leadership. A year after becoming party candidate, he’d revived the patriots’ fading spirit.

An honorable nationalist who’d charismatically won every Scot. On his final London trip to address British Parliament, he was suspiciously stabbed to death. Days later, British authorities still had no leads.

His death felt like Scotland’s slaughter. Westminster’s rejected independence referendum ignited public fury.

Now the blue lavender flower symbolized justice and independence - worn in hair, on coats, painted everywhere like flags.

Helping Mrs. Fletcher with her boots, Hamilton recounted the bitter incident while hanging his raincoat. Seeing me, he stopped mid-sentence, called my name, and approached - offering a fist bump instead of a handshake.

“Heard handshakes spread germs. This is safer, aye?” he chuckled before resuming his political rant...

Placing Mrs. Fletcher’s polished boots before her, she interrupted Hamilton: “Oh Lord! Look - better than new! Robert, your work’s magical! I was going to discard these!”

Hiking her pleated skirt, she told me: “Stevie love, help me put these on? My feet are swollen from walking.”

Positioning the wooden stool, I gripped the boot opening, hesitating at her thick ankle - why wear a skirt in this pouring rain?

Her skin resembled a plucked chicken’s, dotted with orange hairs and old pimple scars.

Finally booted, she draped her long skirt over them and preened before the mirror, only heels visible beneath fabric.

Adjusting her angle, she interrupted Hamilton: “Bought these in London! That idiot shopkeep claimed Scottish leather - but Robert says synthetic! English rubbish!”

Unfazed by interruptions, Hamilton raised his voice: “You think someone could publicly stab an important figure with all that security? And police can’t trace the killer? It stinks to high heaven!”

Mrs. Fletcher nodded at her boots: “Christ expose those liars! News claims one neck stab killed him from bleeding - but we know he’d live if hospitalized faster!”

Suddenly, police sirens wailed, pulling her toward the door.

Four years had passed since Britain left the European Union. With Phil Gordon’s rise to power, we were all certain Scotland’s time for independence had come. We believed that this time - unlike the previous referendum - all of Scotland would agree to separate from Britain. But with Phil Gordon’s death, rumors spread rapidly, and everything indicated some invisible hand didn’t want Scotland to leave England!

Mr. Hamilton walked toward the entrance door and stared down the street:

“Looks like the clashes are intensifying!”

Mrs. Fletcher protested:

“These foolish police don’t even understand whose side they’re on! After all, their salaries come from these very people’s taxes!”

Hamilton returned toward the heater and added:

“We can’t expect the police to just sit back and watch people destroy banks and buildings. Ultimately, everything will be decided by voting!”

Mrs. Fletcher, pointing at me indignantly, said:

“Look at this innocent boy’s eyes! See how red they are! How can you justify them treating us this way? Besides, I refuse to believe voting alone can sever England’s grip on our oil reserves - especially now that they’re facing so many problems, poverty and unemployment after leaving the EU themselves! I heard firsthand that if Scotland becomes independent, each of us would earn a thousand pounds more!”

Hamilton interrupted her:

“My dear lady, not everything is about money! Oil isn’t as valuable as it used to be. If London opposes our independence, it’s more about their prestige and authority!”

Fletcher sneered:

“Ha! Prestige?! If they cared about that, they wouldn’t have so cowardly murdered that poor man! They’re afraid that if we leave, Ireland and Wales might follow suit!”

Hamilton, picking up the wooden stool to sit, said:

“Though England would have to pay dearly for our separation. I know exactly how many weapons, missiles and nuclear submarines they have at the Clyde naval base - moving them to Plymouth might take ten years!”

My father chuckled quietly and said:

“If you two keep this up, you’ll solve all of Scotland’s problems within five minutes...”

Mrs. Fletcher turned to me and said:

“My dear Stevie, I’ll be wearing these boots now. Please put my old shoes in the box so I can take them.” She then went to pay my father for the repairs.

I placed her misshapen old shoes in the box and handed it to her just as an ambulance siren shattered her patience. Thanking my father repeatedly, she hurried out to assess the situation.

Hamilton, calmly scrolling through his phone screen - apparently checking the news - remarked:

“Naive people think it’s all so simple. That woman doesn’t even realize the pound is English currency, yet expects to earn a thousand more after leaving London!”

With characteristic composure, he looked up from his phone and noticed: “She forgot her umbrella too!”

Spotting Mrs. Fletcher’s umbrella leaning against the corner, I grabbed it and rushed outside.

The rain had paused, but the clouds were regrouping. Scanning Princess Street’s gentle slope, I spotted Mrs. Fletcher among young protesters moving en masse. Her confident stride proved my father’s cobbling skills still ruled Edinburgh’s streets.

Since she hadn’t gone far, I only needed a short run to catch up. I glanced at the darkening sky, inhaling deep breaths of damp air - only to gag on the bitter gift of Scotland’s current state: burning rubber.

I ran toward Mrs. Fletcher as distant sounds of tear gas canisters, bagpipes, whistles and chants mingled in the air. Protesters moved in scattered groups toward the main gathering, making shouts useless. I simply ran to deliver the umbrella before turning back.

The city felt unnatural, pregnant with events that might deliver Scotland’s premature destiny.

No elderly walkers occupied the sidewalks - just youths who’d normally be sleeping or scrolling social media at this hour. Their sole unity was direction, marked by lavender flower images, sneakers, and mysterious backpacks.

Though I longed to join them, last night’s events suggested I should stay with my father for his peace of mind. Nearing the shop, a sudden chorus of voices made me turn toward the street.

There were seven or eight boys and a few girls, among them “Peter” - my high school classmate and the drummer in our party ceremony band. He had draped Scotland’s blue flag like a cape over his shoulders as they all sang the anthem “Flowers of Scotland” in unison, keeping rhythm with their footsteps:

“Those days are past now,

And in the past they must remain,

But we can still rise now,

And be the nation again...”

Each day, I saw more clearly the impact of Phil Gordon’s fiery speeches. This was the same boy who just yesterday held a bottle of Scotch and sang George Michael songs - now humming the most epic anthems.

Dead, Phil Gordon served Scotland better than he ever had alive.

I remembered last night when Peter called after I got home, but my burning eyes made me ignore it. Now I crossed the street and placed my hand on his shoulder.

He’d removed the cross earring he always wore on his right ear. Still singing resolutely, he turned and - spotting me - excitedly threw an arm around my neck. Without missing a beat, he squeezed my neck in the crook of his elbow while ruffling my short brown hair with his other hand, laughing:

“You bastard! Where’d you disappear last night? I couldn’t find you in that tear gas chaos!”

Releasing my neck, he continued:

“I lost you in the crowd and thought you’d been arrested! But when you didn’t answer your phone, I knew you were fine - same old Stevie!”

He laughed again and, like a commander, urged his small platoon to keep singing.

I freed my wrist from his grip: “I need to get back to Dad’s shop.”

He frowned incredulously: “Don’t joke. It’s unlike you to sit out a day like this...” Then sneered: “Today your mother needs you more than your father does!”

His grin stretched ear to ear. He knew I’d lost my mother years ago - his “mother” meant Scotland.

The last profound thing I’d heard from him was one drunken night when he urinated against a parked car in some dark alley, trying to write with his stream:

“Life’s pleasures can even be tasted through your bladder!”

As I headed back to the shop, he called out loudly:

“Don’t forget we’re practicing tonight at Forrester High! I’ll come pick you up myself!”

I remembered perfectly well where we were practicing tonight. As always, my breath grew restless at the thought of playing that mythical instrument. Where better than Forrester High’s auditorium? Whether practice or performance, it made no difference to me—only the synchronized movement of feet and legs with each note from my bagpipes could thrill me.

Sometimes, in the heat of music and dance, I imagine the nimble steps of those beautiful girls as marionettes, their invisible strings tied to my fingertips. With every movement of my fingers on the bagpipe’s chanters, the direction of those puppet-maidens’ feet changes—lifting me to a godlike feeling, as if destiny’s motions lie within my grasp!

The party had decided to quickly elect a new candidate to replace the deceased, leveraging the heated national mood to more firmly tune the anthem of independence. After announcing the new leader, our band of pipers and dancers would conclude the event. We were to perform a new piece symbolizing Phil Gordon’s spirit reborn in fresh leadership.

The rain had started again as I reached the shop entrance. Inside, Mr. Hamilton was showing shoes to a well-dressed middle-aged man, while my father spoke on the phone behind the counter.

I was surprised anyone would come shoe-shopping amid the current turmoil. For nearly three days, we’d had no orders beyond minor repairs!

Spotting me, Hamilton exhaled in relief and said, “Ah, here he is! Better let him handle the prices,” then retreated to his wooden stool like a soldier given retreat orders.

The customer—clearly affluent—wore a navy suit with subtle blue pinstripes, a tasteful tie knotted tightly at his collar. The Maserati key fob dangled conspicuously between his fingers.

Leaning in so Hamilton wouldn’t hear, he whispered, “I never asked about prices—just wanted to pick a good pair and place an order!”

People have two souls when shopping: one for heaven or hell, and another solely for purchases.

With my usual slight smile, I tried to foster camaraderie while discreetly matching shoes to his attire in my mind. Selecting a semi-gloss chocolate-brown oxford from the top shelf, I angled it in my hands until he grew mesmerized by the light dancing along the premium leather’s seams—deploying that same old trick...

Slowly, I bent the shoe several times at its center like a fresh orchid petal, letting its supple freshness fill his gaze. Then came the final blow to his “second soul” - I brought the shoe to my nose and inhaled deeply, my facial muscles performing the scene of a lover smelling Marilyn Monroe’s skin fragrance.

As I lowered the shoe, his gaze remained locked on it. He took it from me, rotated it in his hands, then - while staring into my eyes - brought it to his own nose and sniffed.

I was certain the unmatched scent of genuine leather would complete the sale systematically.

Hitching up his trouser leg slightly, he said:

“I’ve heard you make custom shoes for each client. Though I don’t usually have time for such purchases, I’d like to try this method just once.”

Showing me his current shoe, he continued:

“I’m a 43 or 44. Could you explain how to order a pair like this?”

Bingo!

The fish had bitten the hook—a new order would soon grace my father’s workbench. My father always says what I do to customers’ souls is exactly what Hitler did to thousands of dead German soldiers...

With a hand gesture, I guided him toward the back of the shop. As we arrived, the automatic halogen lights flickered on with a yellow glow.

Our shop resembles an elongated double-decker bus with an old staircase in the middle. The walls are divided by walnut-colored wooden shelves, not unlike neighboring states that all follow one federal law - a law established by a single principle: authentic handmade shoes!

As he sat on the chair, I placed the specialized measuring stand before his feet. He curiously eyed the wooden measuring tools and immediately removed his right shoe, waiting to see the next steps.

His wide feet suggested he played some specific sport. The high-quality wool socks he wore still had their fibers standing upright - clearly being worn for the first time.

As I positioned his foot on the measuring gauge, his gaze locked onto the framed photos lining the walls - each showcasing notable figures standing beside my father in the shop, their images displayed as prized customers. When his patience finally wore thin, he raised his eyebrows toward one particular frame where Wayne Rooney held a leather shoe in his left hand while resting his right hand on my father’s shoulder.

“Tell me,” he asked, “what’s your secret? How do you craft shoes that made this shop so legendary?”

I smiled and gestured toward my father climbing the stairs:

“Only that sculptor over there knows the real secret!”

His head snapped toward my father. “Wait—he’s actually a sculptor?”

With a grin, I clarified:

“He’s my father. And if you ask him, he’ll tell you the creation of the entire universe is a subset of sculptural art. To him, crafting a pair of shoes is just another form of sculpture.”

The well-dressed man—whose unhurried movements suggested he’d come more for amusement than necessity—glanced back at the stairs with a smirk:

“So your father considers shoemaking an art? Sculpture, really?”

I replied: “Not just shoemaking—he believes all human life and craftsmanship stem from sculpture. Even when you fry eggs for breakfast!”

The man laughed: “Your father must be quite the intellectual. But isn’t this much precision excessive for a simple pair of shoes?”

While jotting measurements in the order ledger, I countered: “What if I told you your true size is 43.5, and no mass-produced shoe can properly accommodate your foot’s width?”

He laughed again, incredulous: “You actually measure foot width for custom shoes?!”

I smiled and replied: “What if I told you my father insists we even measure the curve of an oar with a bag of dough? Would you believe that?”

As his eyes widened in astonishment, the clamor of a crowd running down the sidewalk drew our attention. Suddenly, the shop door burst open, and Peter rushed in with two other young men, frantic and loud.

Mr. Hamilton, seeing their distress, sprinted to the door and shouted to me and my father: “My God, come see how the crowd is scattering!” He then turned to Peter and demanded: “What’s happened, lad? Why’s everyone fleeing?”

Peter, breathless and disheveled—his flag now gone—glanced toward the street’s end and gasped:

“Those bastards charged us on horseback from where we least expected! If I hadn’t dodged, they’d have crushed my skull!”

He yanked down his jacket zipper, pulled aside his collar, and exposed his shoulder:

“Look at my back—see what they did?”

Amid his bizarre tattoos—somewhere between a fire-breathing dragon and SpongeBob SquarePants—his shoulder blade bore a swollen, baton-shaped bruise.

My father hurried downstairs and interrupted: “Stevie—which way did Mrs. Fletcher go?” When I answered, he sighed: “God help her if she’s caught in this.”

The flood of people grew by the second. Soon, the mounted police units had seized near-total control of the street—the crowd now scattered, leaving only the thunder of hooves and fleeing footsteps in their wake.

Ten to fifteen broad-shouldered officers sat astride massive warhorses like Roman conquerors surveying a sacked fortress, their chests puffed with fury as they watched the retreating army of sneaker-clad protesters.

Peter, trembling with helpless rage, glared at the street and ground his teeth:

“Look at those bastard cops’ faces! Have you ever seen any of them before? Everyone says they shipped them in from Ireland—mercenaries brought here to crush us Scots without an ounce of mercy!”

Mr. Hamilton, trying to discreetly observe the mounted police, muttered:

“That’s all nonsense. These are just soldiers who know nothing beyond their commander’s orders!”

As I examined Peter’s shoulder—the bruise darkening by the minute—warm breath against my ear snapped me back to reality. I’d forgotten about our well-dressed customer. He’d leaned in behind us, straining to see Peter’s injury, and remarked:

“Pardon my intrusion, but I don’t believe this is the right path you’ve chosen.”

Peter whirled around at the voice. His face twisted into a scowl at the sight of the man. Adjusting his collar and zipping his jacket with deliberate slowness, he spat:

“These days, every Scot knows you won’t find the right path on some fucking golf course.”

My mind raced for a response—and I marveled at how accurately Peter had guessed the stranger played golf.

Knowing my father’s strict policy on customer respect, I opened my mouth to defuse the tension—when Mrs. Fletcher burst in, pale and already cursing.

My father, ever composed, took her arm gently. Leaning close to her flushed face, he murmured her first name like a calming spell:

“Easy now, Allison. Easy. Tell me you’re unharmed.”

Mrs. Fletcher straightened her dress with trembling hands, her voice raw:

“That bastard cop had no right opening his filthy mouth—to say what only suits his own mother!” A tear streaked through her foundation.

They’d clearly shown restraint—just a few shouted insults—but her antique shoes and that long-handled umbrella were gone. Guilt twisted in me: I’d unwittingly doomed her umbrella to the chaos.

Though thirty years old, this was my first full-scale riot. In minutes, the crowd had shattered—mounted officers battering them with batons and horse flanks, scattering people like panicked geese. For a nation hailed as democracy’s cradle, maybe one riot every thirty years isn’t so strange.

Our humble shoe shop had transformed into a full-fledged political summit—complete with factions:

Mr. Hamilton, the retired bureaucrat

Mrs. Fletcher, the voice of the working class

Peter and his crew, the radical vanguard

The well-dressed man, the elite’s envoy

My father, the living bridge between my past and future

All now huddled under some unseen force’s shadow.

Mrs. Fletcher, steadier now, pressed against the glass door like a war correspondent:

“They’re still out there—yanking their horses’ bridles like they’re challenging the whole damn city! Think this’ll send us home? They’ve drawn steel too late. Look at those fools getting drenched in the rain!”

She turned back to us, her face etched with absolute conviction, and declared:

“Don’t know if you’ve heard, but for two-three nights now, the ghostly drummer’s been heard in the castle - pounding his drum without pause! I’m certain a great war’s coming!”

Edinburgh Castle has enough bizarre legends for tourists that any event can be tied to one. Like the headless ghost of the drummer boy who beats his drum in the castle’s haunted corridors at night - an omen of impending war...

As the rain intensified, the streets gradually quieted. Within an hour, the mounted police had withdrawn. All that remained of Scotland’s independence struggle on Royal Mile and surrounding streets that day were:

Rain-sodden protest signs

Crushed water bottles

Muddy footprints

Trampled lavender sprigs

And of course, horse manure