A SOLITARY DUEL‘Literature is reality’s dress uniform,’ Major Morelli’s wife said, slipping her foot into a purple velvet shoe.
Reserved and aloof, as though on display in the shop windows, the ladies were selecting their footwear for the New Year’s Eve Ball in Treni’s, the cobbler. Mrs Occhipinti had a golden sandal in her hand.
The cobbler, a ridiculous and repugnant-looking little beast, was sat at Mrs Borletti’s feet. He always struck a gracious pose, light as a pixie. These movements were his exaggerated way of recognizing how ridiculous he looked. There was something pathetic and heartrending in all that ostentatiousness. The ladies were nevertheless drawn to it, as they slipped their feet into the shoe held in his hands, cupped with sensual repugnance.
Mrs Borletti laughed. ‘Ther
