Walenco's Shoes

When I was eight years old I shined the shoes of a boy named Walenco.

Walenco had 24 pairs of shoes, a number I find impressive even today.

It was the 1950’s and we were growing up on a small island, in an agricultural town, two hours away from the main city. There were dirt paths for roads, wooden shacks for homes, and a population of 43 we proudly called a society.

Yet, Walenco owned 24 pairs of shoes.

He had a pair of black and white spectators.

He wore them on Saturdays evenings when the men would gather around the only radio in town to listen to music. Every eye present fell at his feet; not just those of the children my age, but also those of stern men like my dad who would behold this miniature penguin god dancing among men.

He also had a pair of white high-top Converse.

When Walenco first took them out of their long cardboard box they were so white they looked religious. But by the weekend, the city's orange mud had turned that pious white to an irreverent peach that persisted despite the countless baptisms I performed at the river’s edge with my brush.

The boys in the town called him “Two Foot. I guess it was their way to minimize their collective poverty. Reminding Walenco, and perhaps themselves, that even great wealth could be limited. That it didn't matter how many shoes you owned, if you could only wear two at a time.

Walenco's father, Don Ambrioso, owned fertile land that produced anything that carried a seed and was resistant to heat. My father was the steward of his entire property, so Walenco and I grew up like a pair of unequal cousins. I would shine his shoes and he would let me try them on. They were kind to my dad and I; and no luxury was offered to Walenco that was not also extended to me, despite my father’s disapproval.

One day, Don Ambrioso returned from France with two boxes wrapped in gold paper. Inside them, Walenco and I discovered shoes the kind we’d never seen before. They were large, clearly designed for an adult, but every inch just as remarkable. Don Ambrioso explained that the Swiss artisans had begun to use the lower part of the leather. A new design in the world of fashion that greatly impressed the French designers from whom he had purchased them. Don Ambrioso wanted us to have some of the first shoes made with this new technique even if it took us years to appreciate the craftsmanship.

Walenco's were the color of a peacock’s chest. Mine were an emerald green, so vibrant it rivaled the island itself.

It was then that I felt it.

My father's hand squeezed my right shoulder delicately suggesting I reject the gesture.

I ignored it.

He pressed again. This time, the suggested tone of his grip fell silent under the weight of his unspoken command.

“Let's try them on!” Walenco shouted, throwing his moccasins aside.

"Thanks, but he doesn’t need them." My father intervened, snatching the box from my hands and pulling me towards our house.

I cried. I screamed. I learned to hate my father in a bright new way.

My mother came to me. Through the gaps in my sobs I told her how much I hated my dad, how I wished for nothing more than to be Don Ambrioso’s son. She listened, spending most of the night trying to turn my father into a man I could one day forgive. But the strength of my resentment was unyielding.

It was then that she decided to tell me the story of Don Ambrioso.It was a tale whispered over boiling pots in noisy kitchens. A thread of accusation woven into the complaints of envious men.

Don Ambrioso had grown up the poorest child in a town characterized by its poverty. It was rumored that his mother slept with the owners of small farms so that they would allow her to harvest crops at the fringes of their property. Rations she collected to feed her children, of which there were eleven.

Muertecito was the oldest of the group. The ladies of the town nicknamed him “Little Death” because he looked as though he were starving. Muertecito and his family lived near the river. He took care of his brothers and sisters in the way a decent man should have.

Until one day, when a drunkard appeared from among the shadows searching for his mother.

The man shouted Josefa’s name belligerently. Muertecito grabbed the machete and stood in front of the sheet that should have been a door. Hearing the commotion Josefa arose. She ordered him to enter the house but Muertecito refused. The louder the man yelled, the more Josefa begged, the more Muertecito disobeyed. Finally, desperate and terrified, Josefa slapped Muertecito.

This shook the boy. For the sum of his life he had only known her to be tender. This newfound violence seemed borrowed and it confused Muertecito. Recognizing the brokenness in his face, Josefa softened. She leaned towards him and with a voice full of terror she whispered: "I'll be right back."

Muertecito nodded. Understanding nothing other than the fact that he needed to nod. In the morning, he found his mother lying near the riverbank and nursed what remained of her back to health.

“Have you always done this?” He questioned, replaying in his mind all the times he had defended her.

Josefa raised her head, looked at her son and sensing his humiliation replied, “Shame is a luxury only rich women can afford. Do not expect dignity where hunger is present.”

And that was all there was to that. Josefa returned to herself but Muertecito had been altered, permanently. His innocence became a nuisance to him. He deemed prayers unreliable, and instead learned the art of negotiation. Bargaining with entities who only traded in the dark.

The first three deaths were shocking. A drowning, an unfortunate fall, a tangled bed sheet. But when Muertecito’s fourth sibling had been found mutilated by an unknown beast, people began to whisper.

The other prostitutes who lived near the river swore they would hear a strange bell ringing in the dead of night. A sound that terrified their spine. The bravest among them recounted that she had once looked out her window to see Muertecito standing before a pale dog with the shadow of a man.

The bell didn’t always ring but when it did, Muertecito announced the death of yet another sibling with a tearless lament.

Over the years, Muertecito bought more land, planted more seeds, and buried more siblings. By the time the town gathered to bury Josefa’s penultimate child she had wasted away. The dresses that had previously accentuated her curves now hung over her shoulders with a heaviness that seemed unfair.

The town understood that there was no escaping Muertecito. Nothing existed that could appease his ambition. He became a respected man, a feared man. In just one generation the folklore of a little boy was woven into the history of the town, and the once pitied Muertecito grew up to be the famed Don Ambrosio.

That story penetrated my thoughts like an arrow, wounding the admiration I felt for Don Ambrioso while deflating the resentment I held towards my father. I held my mother’s words with caution. They were chilling enough to discomfort me, but far too weak to command my obedience.

When she had returned to her room, I crept out the back door and ran towards Don Ambrosio’s.

As if sensing my return, Welenco emerged from his window with the shoe box under his arm.

“I brought you the blue ones,” he said, “if one day your dad were to find them you can just say you’re cleaning them for me.”

I smiled, understanding, perhaps for the first time ever the meaning of the word brother. I hugged him tightly, grateful to have the shoes though I privately preferred my emerald ones.

That's when we heard it.

A distant ring that moved my spirit in a strange way.

I looked at Walenco. His face mirrored my terror in a way that let me know he too was told the same story.

The bell rang for the second time.

Walenco and I crouched next to each other as we witnessed a large, mist-white dog begin to approach us from afar. A long patch of glistening black hair had been woven into an intricate braid that ran down his curved spine. The light of the half moon gave it the appearance of a mystical animal whose shadow walked towards us in the shape of a man.

Dropping the box of shoes, I covered my mouth with both hands to stop myself from crying.

I looked towards the other side of the property where the roof of my small house could still be seen. I stood up, pulling Walenco by the arm as I attempted to run.

But Walenco stayed still.

“Walenco!” I whispered. "Run!"

Without taking his eyes off the beast, Walenco pulled his arm back and did not return my gaze.

The shadow grew larger, reaching towards us with a gaping mouth, ready to consume. Unable to contain my fear I ran towards my house, leaving Walenco behind.

By the time I thought I heard the third ring I had entered my parent’s room with pale lips and vomit running down my chest. Upon hearing my story, my father beat me mercilessly, leaving scars on my skin that I carry to this day.

The next morning it was announced that Don Ambrioso had died. My father was the one who found him. The funeral was held without a wake, and everyone whispered about Walenco's dry eyes.

After those events my father moved us away from the town. Reports of Walenco's growing wealth reached us but we never returned.

Over time I diminished the details of that night. I grew up, traveled, moved to the United States, and raised a family far away from the reaches of superstition.

In the years that followed, I visited my family in the new city, but never returned to my childhood home. Until one day when my youngest daughter asked me what was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

Suddenly, the years that had been laid upon that memory rose like shifted dust. My mind traveled over long distances of time until I found that night, when, for the only time in my life I saw a dog with the shadow of a man.

After retelling my daughter the story, I kept thinking about my parents, about Don Ambrioso, about Walenco and his 24 pairs of shoes.

I booked a flight home and visited what was left of that small town. Don Ambrioso's farm was unrecognizable. The fruits of the once fertile garden now hung from diseased trees, unnaturally swollen and rotting from within.

At the foot of the once glorious entrance sat an old man with sunken eyes. His gaunt skin draped over his fragile corpse accentuating the hunger he had long carried. He was shirtless and on his feet he wore filthy shoes that once, perhaps, were green.

“Walenco?” I asked in disbelief.

“Call me Two Foot.”