Often people will drop things. It is one of the hazards of living in a block of flats. Pegs break, especially the new plastic ones, which is why he preferred the old wooden pegs. A t-shirt or one of a pair of stocking socks or a pair of no-nonsense knickers can find their way onto one’s balcony but this was getting ridiculous…
It had been six months since Signor Campobasso, who is a retired porter, started receiving what he described as the “trophies” on his balcony.
“Who do you reckon it is?” he said.
His neighbour, Schino, whose wife had Alzheimer’s, shrugged.
“You think it could be one of the studentesse on the third floor.”
“Not exactly their style, is it?”
“Of course, it could be a practical joke.”
“One of the plumber’s kids?”
“Those little hooligans. What about the Signora on the fifth floor?”
“That old bag? I don’t think she is right in the head.”
“And the daughter?”
“È buona quella,” said Schino.
“Troppo buona.”
They both laughed.
There was no lift in the block of flats. Signor Campobasso climbed the four flights of stairs to the top of the building.
The door was ajar.
“Signora?” he called.
When there was no reply, he pushed the door and entered.
The Signora’s daughter was sitting at the end of the corridor, with her legs astride a kitchen chair.
“Ti dispiace,” she said. “Would you mind putting it on for me?”
Signor Campobasso had no choice. He knelt at her feet with the other stiletto on his back.
*
“There is nothing to compare with a really good pair of stilettos. It brings a woman to life.”
“Do you think women actually enjoy wearing them?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t they?”
“Very expensive, rather uncomfortable and hard to walk in I would say.”
“Nonsense,” said Giorgio. “They are runaway shoes.”
“I thought those were sneakers.”
“It’s not that kind of running away they are doing.”
“What exactly are they doing?”
“Patrizia says that all women are a product of their shoes.”