Lipstick

The sun was setting, casting a forlorn golden cast over Main Street, Colombo.  The surrounding buildings looked as if they were studded with rhinestones. Illu collected his shoe-mending tools and deposited them in the dirty wooden box, hoping to call it a day. As he was about to lock the box, he saw a gleaming white 1998 Brand new Prado pull over in front of him. He stopped his work for a while and looked at its massive black tyres, wondering who it might be. He heard the thump of a car door, and in a few seconds, he saw a pair of shining black shoes walk towards him. Illu lifted his head to look at a gentleman in a tuxedo bending towards him. Strong notes of musk and cedar emanated from his clean-shaven face.

“Do you mend shoes? Are you done for the day?” A deep voice asked in a polite tone. Illu gave a vague nod, which could have meant either he mended shoes, or he was done for the day or both. 

“My wife…actually my wife-to-be, broke her shoe. It’s an expensive pair, and we are on the way to a party. I need it amended soon. Can you do it for us? I will pay you well.” The man elaborated on his problem.

Illu watched for a moment and started opening his box and taking the tools out, which gave away the message that he was ready to do it.

“Great. I will bring her here.” The man went to the Prado and opened the door for his lady. Illu saw a graceful-looking foot clad in a red stiletto touch the tarmac. As he looked up, Illu’s eyes beheld the most beautiful woman he had ever seen get down from the Prado. She was a curvy, slim lady dressed in an expensive-looking, shiny, figure-hugging red dress. Black ringlets of hair bounced on her shoulders as she limped towards Illu in her broken shoe. The gentleman moved aside, giving her way to reach the cobbler. A new luxurious fragrance filled the expanse. The woman looked at his man, her coal-black eyes shining.

“Who is this, Oliver? Can’t we find a decent professional to get this done, for God’s sake!?” A husky female voice full of vanity spoke.

“No professional can do a better job like these people do, Lauraine.” The man replied. He looked uneasy in front of the woman.

“Well, let’s see. You better not ruin the shoe, Mr.…whoever you are.” She proffered her foot in the broken shoe towards Illu unceremoniously.

“Lauraine…” The man loudly whispered to her.

“What?” She turned to face the man.

“Let me loosen it for you,” Oliver told Illu and hurriedly bent towards Lauraine’s foot, but she stopped him with her slender arm adorned with a thick gold bracelet embedded with white stones. 

“Let him do it, Oliver. Go ahead, pauper, we don’t have all night.” Her tone was arrogant as she shot a burning glance at her fiancé. 

Illu looked at her face. Beautiful features and flawless skin. Her blood-red lips contrasted against her smooth, white skin. Too much vanity for beauty. Illu thought to himself as he gently unbuckled her shoe, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against her soft, pedicured foot. 

“Cut it, you pervert!” Illu visibly shook at the words as she pulled her foot.

“I’m sorry.” Illu’s voice was barely audible in the night air saturated with the thrumming engines and tooting horns. 

It was a five-minute work. Illu fixed the shoe, wiped it with the cleanest cloth he had and offered it to the lady.

“Here you go, Miss. You can dance all night without fear.” Illu humbly said without looking at either of them. 

Instead of picking up the shoe, the woman again thrust her foot towards Illu. 

“Loraine, no! I’ll do it.” Oliver bent to take the shoe from the cobbler, but again, the woman stopped him.

“Know your place, Oliver.” She clung to the man’s arm and extended her foot harder towards Illu. Illu didn’t speak. He put the shoe on her foot and fastened the buckle.

The man profusely thanked the cobbler and gave him a thousand rupee note.

“It’s only fifty rupees, Sir. I don’t have enough change to give you the balance.” Illu gave a pleading look at the man.

“Oh, no problem. Keep it. It’s a gift for your kindness. Thanks for tending to our need when you were just closing up.” Oliver paid his gratitude more to cover up Lauraine’s rudeness.

“Gift?” The woman gave a loud laugh. “We will make sure you’ll work for the balance. Next time, you will serve us for free. I will send all the broken shoes this way. Let’s go, Oliver. Our friends must be waiting.” She turned to leave but then noticed something that visibly appalled her. The cobbler was sitting on a low wooden bench with small wheels, his bone-thin, wasted legs crossed on the wooden plank.

Lauraine sneered. “So, you mend other people’s shoes when you, yourself, can’t even walk? Oliver, don’t you think that is the best example of irony?” She gave out a sweet laugh while absentmindedly tossing a crumpled ball of tissue smeared with red lipstick. It fell inside Illu’s toolbox. He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath and silently collected his tools.

“Laurain, that is enough!” Oliver dragged the woman to the Prado, stuffed her in and closed the passenger door with extra force. He looked at the cobbler from there and nodded to say thank you. 

As the Prado sped away, Illu watched it intently, his hand inside the toolbox, toying with the crumpled tissue and mumbled to the thin air, “…the best example of irony,” and smiled from the corner of his mouth.

At the party, Lauraine danced through the night and had the time of her life chatting and laughing with their friends. The incident at the cobbler simply slipped off her mind. Other ladies commented on her outfit and her shoes. Some ladies couldn’t hide their envy as Lauraine moved among the crowd, holding a glass of red wine as red as her lips and outfit showing off her figure that was complemented by her rhythmic walk. 

At the same time, while Lauraine was laughing and dancing away the night, in a dark corner of the city, a crippled man sat in a shrine. Oil lamps and smoke lighted the small, cramped inner space. In front of him was a statue of Suniyam Yaka (Suniyam Devil), a fierce local demon of destruction. The blue-skinned, pig-footed demon stood alongside a blue horse, looking at the world with his rageful eyes, holding a trident and pan of fire. His head and body were adorned with serpents, and the lolling tongue in between the white fangs and the skirt made of tiger skin spoke a thousand words of his destructive power. Illu held his gaze at the statue, rolling the lipstick-smeared tissue in his hand. He told the demon about the inhumane humiliation from the arrogant lady in red. His stomach churned with anger and the need to take revenge. Finally, he lit a lamp directed towards the southeast direction and made his pact. Keeping the woman’s lipstick-smeared ball of tissue at the feet of the statue, he made his entreaty. He did not specify what he wanted, but he requested the demon that the haughty woman taste the consequences of her own words. In return, he would make an offering to the demon—a freshly decapitated goat.

When the couple left the party, it was the wee hours of the next day. Lauraine was drunk, and Oliver had to help her into the vehicle and drop her at her apartment in the heart of the city. Lauraine was so tipsy that she didn’t even bother changing her clothes. She just sprawled on her queen-sized luxury bed and drifted off to sleep in a matter of seconds. She had a disturbed sleep full of nightmares where a blue-skinned humanoid figure stabbed at her legs with a trident.

The day broke with the warm apricot hue of the rising sun. The city started a new day filled with gasoline fumes and blaring horns. People went to work, and the streets became busy by the minute. Oliver drove his Prado towards his workplace. He was tired and sleepy, but late-night partying was no excuse. On his way, he passed the spot where he stopped to get the service of the cobbler. It was empty. But as the vehicle moved forward, in the corner of his eye, Oliver saw a familiar figure slowly strolling towards the opposite direction, carrying a box and something like a wooden plank. In his sleep-laden state, he was not sure about what he saw. But as his brain registered, the man was none other than the crippled cobbler he met yesterday. But he was walking. Oliver hit the break abruptly, leading to a line of angry horns behind him. He quickly pulled over, got out of the vehicle and ran towards the man. But Oliver couldn’t find him. In his indecisive state, Oliver walked along the pavement until he came to the cobbler’s spot. There, he found Illu seated on the same wheeled bench, opening the box of tools to start the day. Sensing a panicked arrival, Illu turned his head to look at the first customer of the day.

“Good day, Sir. How can I help you?” Illu did not show any sign of recognition.

“Good day. Do you remember me? I came here last night with my girlfriend to get her shoe mended. The lady in the red dress.” Oliver recalled yesterday’s event, hoping for recognition from the cobbler. 

“Is the shoe all right, Sir? I hope it didn’t break again.” Illu’s answer didn’t show specific recognition but rather a generic statement.

“No…well, not during the night. I hope it is in good shape. But…I need to speak with you. Do you have a minute to have a cup of tea?” Oliver was impatient to shoot out his line of questions.

Illu pointed to a small stainless-steel cup next to him, filled with a light brown liquid. 

“My tea, Sir. Bought on my way to work.” Oliver realised that it was an indirect and polite refusal.

“But…pardon my saying…weren’t you…umm…I mean…” Oliver searched for a polite word that would not offend the mysterious man.

“Crippled?” Illu offered with his brown raised. He was unloading the toolbox and was not even looking at Oliver, who went speechless.

“Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. But… I saw you …walking five minutes ago, so… I was just… curious.” Oliver staggered. “Given… how Lauraine behaved and spoke to you last night. Mr. I’m sorry.” Oliver looked down at his polished black shoes, now covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Illu looked at Oliver.

“You are a good man. It was not your fault, so you don’t have to apologise to me. Give me those shoes. I will polish it for you.” Illu offered.

Oliver smiled through his confusion. He bent and took off his shoes, gave the pair to Illu with both hands and stood on the pavement in his socks while Illu took the shoes and started polishing them.

“I know this is none of my business, but you know, that woman doesn’t suit you,” Illu spoke as he brushed the shoe vigorously. 

Oliver looked down and flexed his toes, deep in thought.

“Here are your shoes, Sir. I don’t need money.” Illu handed him the polished shoes. Oliver was speechless. He opened his mouth to say not to mind Lauraine’s harsh words about the balance yesterday, but Illu held the finger to his lips and indicated not to speak. 

He thanked the cobbler and drove away with a heavy heart and more perplexed than ever. 

In her apartment bedroom, Lauraine woke up past 10 a.m. She tried to roll on her back but instantly felt something was wrong. Her hangover was terrible, and her head throbbed. But beyond that, she felt something was very wrong with her body. She tried to sit up and immediately realised she could not move her legs. Her heart rate rose, and she went into a panicked state in seconds. She touched her thigh and felt an odd sensation as if touching cotton wool. The touch sensation was minimal, and her legs were clearly not working. She felt her breathing become rapid, and she groped the bed to find her phone. She did not know whom to call, so she dialled the first number on her recent call list, which was Oliver’s. As Oliver answered the phone, Lauraine started blurting out her words, masked by heavy sobs and panicked breathing.  

Within an hour, Oliver and Lauraine were at the emergency treatment unit of a private hospital along with Lauraine’s nonplussed parents. Tests were performed, and her history was taken at length, but the doctors could not find a medically explicable cause for her condition. Lauraine was restricted to a wheelchair.

Oliver, confused and scared, drove back to the old spot to meet the mysterious cobbler. He was sure something had happened, and the cobbler was the only key to finding it. But to his utter dismay, he found the cobbler’s spot empty. Oliver searched the whole expanse, asking for the cobbler and describing his looks to all the vendors he met, but nobody could give a helpful answer except for a beggar who sat near the traffic lights.

“His name is Illu, a born cripple. Don’t know where he lives. One thing I know: he is a devil’s child. God forbid, I saw him walking towards his spot this morning.” The beggar put the sign of the cross and planted a kiss on an old and tattered prayer book. 

Oliver felt a chill run along his spine, and he rubbed his arms to calm down the goosebumps. 

Over the weeks, Illu enjoyed his newfound ability to walk. He roamed all the streets of Colombo and even found a small job at a street food vendor for a better salary than being a cobbler. As days passed by, he simply forgot the whole incident and his promise to the demon. He was busy with his job and dreaming of his own business. Three months passed in a bat of an eyelid. Lauraine wandered the whole country looking for a doctor who could cure her, spending hefty amounts of money on quacks and medications that didn’t work. 

As time passed, all of a sudden, Illu started having nightmares of elephants. He didn’t mind. He didn’t have time to waste on nightmares as he had a dream to achieve. Then, Illu started to feel the physical weakness and aches in his legs. He attributed them to the long hours of standing and just ignored them. When the pain was too much, he popped in a painkiller. But his world came to a crashing halt when, one morning, he woke up and found out that he could not walk anymore. Illu was back at square one. But that was not what horrified him. Instead of his old, emaciated legs, there were two hind legs of a black goat, complete with hoofs. Illu screamed in horror, pulling his hair and his eyes popping out, but he was too late. It was only then that he realised the grave mistake he had made. A pact with a demon was no game. He was again thrown to his old, wheeled bench, but this time, he had to throw a cloth over his disfigured and eerie legs to prevent people from recoiling. Distressed and out of his mind, Illu started his cobbler business once again at the old spot.

One day, while he was sitting there without a business, a familiar Prado pulled over. 

“How are you? I just stopped by seeing you after a long time.” It was Oliver. He looked at the cover over Illu’s legs and sighed.

Illu felt his chest drop. He wanted the man to leave.

“Don’t worry. We are no longer together.” Illu knew who he was talking about. 

“But please tell me, what happened? I spent all these months wondering what happened. I couldn’t find you anywhere. I know you walked. And I know Lauraine became…well…her legs…she couldn’t walk anymore. She blamed it all on me and left. Please, I need an explanation.” Oliver begged.

Illu sighed. After some thought, they moved towards a small tea shop, Oliver walking and Illu scooting on his bench. They conversed over a cup of cardamom-flavoured milk tea. Illu confessed, and he slightly lifted the cloth and let Oliver have a glimpse of his bizarre legs.  Oliver’s heart skipped a beat.

“What can we do to make everything right?” His tone was severe. “Anything. I owe Lauraine that much.”

Illu sighed. 

“The only thing I can think of is paying the demon. But have already tried that. It didn’t work.” Illu’s voice was dim.

“How?” Oliver demanded.

“A decapitated goat. But I tried it already and failed.” Illu looked down.

Oliver thought for a moment.

“A goat. Decapitated.” His eyes shone, and a trickle of sweat dripped across his temple. He looked at Illu’s feet and then looked at his face.

Illu’s eyes widened. “No, Sir, please…No…no…no,” He stammered with his hands raised in defence.

Oliver stood up, towering over the crippled cobbler. 

“You show me the way.”

After that day, nobody saw the cobbler around. His belongings lay there in the sun and rain and were eventually stolen. 

Much later, during a drizzle, a beggar at the traffic lights saw a young couple hurriedly crossing the road and getting into a pristine white Prado, hand in hand, laughing. The curly-haired woman was almost running in red stilettos. And she wore blood-red lipstick.

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