Eva walked across the floor of her bakery more than seventy times that day. Her small business had exploded ever since the oil industry injected the town with thousands of migrant workers from all parts of the province and beyond. They came in after their fourteen day long rotations on the oil rigs, hungry for pleasure and entertainment and swimming in mountains of disposable cash.
Eva’s bakery had been around for several years before the boom. It was in the centre of town and had large windows behind which cakes in glass cases and small chocolate covered bites lured the eyes, tempted the taste buds and produced violent tsunamis of acid in the stomachs of passers by. Back in those days not everyone could afford to sample the small selection of baked goods. The oil was still deep in the ground and the extravagance that was to accompany its extraction was still unknown to the locals. Eva made a modest income, enough to survive with a lot of hard work and a full exploit of her talents.
Then the price of a barrel went up and stayed up. People rushed in like metal shavings attracted to a magnet - carpenters, welders, administrators, engineers, entertainers. One group followed the other. The town swelled and Eva’s glass display transformed. It now included more expensive and experimental creations. Life-like flowers and bows on top of pastry stuffed with exotic fruit custards were among the few indulgences gobbled up by the busy newcomers. Eva hired a helper and a second one but the people kept coming. She outsourced some of the baking and even with these measures was barely able to keep up with the demand, completing full fledged walking marathons across the floor of her bakery shop every day.
“Those shoes are gorgeous! Are they new?” her young assistant asked one day while rolling out the dough for a fresh batch or croissants.
“Yes. Thank you!”
“Where are they from?”
“I bought them from one of the migrant workers who comes here.”
“I’ve never seen snakeskin leather shoes in the stores around here.”
“She got them from a boutique in the city.”
Eva looked down at her chocolate brown coloured shoes. The toe and heel were made out of patent leather pressed with the texture of snakeskin. The mid section was suede with laces. A small square heel added elegance without taking away comfort. Eva’s favourite part was the tiny golden flower emblem pinned discretely below the ankle bone. It was a hidden treasure for the detailed eye. The shoes were expensive, a rare novelty that Eva had permitted herself. Years ago she could not have imagined spending such money on one single pair. She would have scorned at the vanity of fashion and the wastefulness of wealthy people. Now every time she looked down at her feet on her numerous traverses of the bakery, she wondered how she had lived so long deprived of such comfort and beauty. The heels struck the wooden floor with importance. They changed the way Eva moved about. Her sore feet now seemed refreshed with vigour which carried her across the floor.
The stylish shoes continued to attract the eyes of Eva’s customers. She had just gotten used to the compliments when suddenly one year the price of oil dropped. A crisis swept the town and the migrants began to trickle out one by one. The jobs perished and the streets emptied out. In the centre of town many businesses closed down and shops became vacant. Eva’s friends advised her to sell the business and cut her losses. She agreed but kept postponing. She let go of her helpers and stopped importing exotic ingredients. The business returned back to its original size but it never closed down.
One day after the morning rush, which was a fraction of the size of previous years, Eva found herself sitting in front of her cash register. She glanced down at her chocolate coloured shoes and saw how worn out they were. The patent leather was scuffed and the corners of the heels were rounded. The shoe laces had started to fray. She had worn them incessantly for almost five years. In that time the fashion had changed and no one paid her any more compliments. She felt a surge of defiance bubble up in her chest. That night she went home, polished the shoes, changed the shoelaces and dug up the spare set of heels. From that day on, she cleaned the shoes every morning and continued to mend them when they became broken or worn.
Several years went by and the town’s population swelled again, this time more modestly from the natural growth of families. The bakery became lively. People started going there on romantic dates. Her regular customers saw the place as a sentimental relic of the town’s history. Their children, who were now old enough to spend, liked it because it fed their dreams of supporting local made products. Shipments of imported ingredients started arriving again, not syrups and custard this time but organic spelt flours and rich nut butters.
“Those shoes are gorgeous!” one young girl commented after Eva came to her table to bring a cup of coffee. “Where are they from?” she asked.
“Oh, those shoes,” Eva blushed, “they are very old. I bought them almost fifteen years ago.”
“No way! Retro is back in style. Everybody at my school is trying to get a pair like that.”
Eva smiled. Somehow unnoticeably and under her nose, fashion had come around a full circle. Her once upscale and trendy shoes were now a vintage treasure for youngsters looking to transport themselves back in time. That night she looked up the price of a similar pair on the internet and could not believe what she found. She could not imagine how anyone could spend that kind of money on a single pair of shoes. Fashion had really reached the summits of vanity, she told herself and closed the laptop.
The next day Eva waited for the morning rush to pass before sitting down to read the newspaper. The headlines spoke of a new rush. Foreign investors had committed a large amount of money in order to take advantage of the lucrative oil reserves in the region. Experts were predicting that this time the boom was going to be even bigger than the previous one. Eva smiled and got up to prepare a new batch of croissants. On her way to the kitchen the heels of her shoes tapped the wooden floor like spilled marbles. Her feet bounced off the ground softly and effortlessly. She took out the ball of dough and slammed it on the counter with the power of an Olympic wrestler. Then she grabbed her wooden roller and began spreading the dough.
Comments