The Shoemaker’s Apprentice
Upon leaving school at the age of sixteen, Marvin took up the position of apprentice to Igor von Stockman, the finest shoemaker in Western Europe. Marvin loved that job. When he first started, he didn’t know his left foot from his right, but under Igor’s tutelage, Marvin flourished and soon he had mastered the art of making Oxfords, Loafers, Monk Straps and Brogues. The pay was measly, but Marvin didn’t care. He thrived on the beauty he was creating each and every day. The feeling was intoxicating, and it fed his soul, not to mention the satisfaction that comes from partaking in good, honest toil.
One Monday morning, as Marvin was gathering the leather for the day’s shoemaking, Igor burst into the workshop, almost exploding with energy. Marvin knew that he was either going to announce some good news or some bad news.
“Last night,” began Igor. “I watched A Fistful of Dollars, and I’ve got to tell you that I was blown away by that picture.” Marvin twitched nervously, wondering what Igor was building up to. “Following that,” he continued, “I have decided that we should specialise in making cowboy boots.” You cannot be serious, thought Marvin. Boots were ugly and cumbersome, and Marvin would never sully his hands by making a pair. Taking a deep breath, Marvin swallowed and spoke.
“If I may, sir,” he began. “We specialise in formal footwear, and we live in Cambridge. I’m just not sure if there’s much demand for…” he winced, even saying the words out loud caused him pain. “Cowboy boots.”
“I take your point, Marvin,” said Igor. “But my mind is made up. You have one week to make a prototype and impress me. Go to it.” And with that, Igor left as abruptly as he had entered.
Marvin’s heart sank. He loved making shoes, beautiful, elegant, gentlemen’s shoes, but if he was to do as Igor asked he feared it would stifle the beauty that had given him his purpose in life. What was he to do? He knew very well that there was only one thing that he could do.
The following Monday, Marvin awaited Igor, his newly cobbled shoes on the workbench, covered by a piece of cloth.
“Alright, son, Let’s not make a big deal about this. Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Igor as he strode into the workshop. Marvin removed his cloth and revealed, not a pair of boots, but a pair of finely made, black leather, Grayson dress shoes.
“What is this? I asked for boots!”
“I couldn’t bring myself to make them, sir,” said Marvin.
“And why not?”
“Because… because they are ugly!” he blurted. “I will make the shoes that I want to make, and they will be beautiful!”
“You hold your tongue, boy!” snapped Igor. “You know nothing of shoes but what I have taught you.”
“And you know nothing of beauty,” retorted Marvin. “How could you? For there is no beauty in you!” Igor’s face turned red, and his nostrils flared.
“You mark my words, boy!” screamed Igor. “You will never make another shoe, boot or otherwise, in this town again! Now, begone from my workshop, lest I stick the boot into you!”
Knowing his time was up, Marvin calmly wrapped the Grayson’s in the cloth, placed them under his arm, and walked towards the door. Turning back to Igor, he said, “I pity you, old fool.” Enraged, Igor threw a boot at him, as a final insult. The boot knocked against the door and fell to the dusty floor, but Marvin kept on walking, never looking back. He had the hunger, the insatiable hunger to make good-quality footwear for men, and neither Igor nor anyone else could stop him. He knew then that his days of being an apprentice were over. Marvin was now a shoemaker.
