Louise said she wanted Giaconelli to make a pair of shoes for me. He nodded sagely, and stared at my face for several seconds before turning his interest to my feet. He slid to one side an earthenware dish of almonds and other nuts, and asked me to stand on the table.
‘Please take off your shoes and socks. I know some modern shoemakers measure feet with socks on, but I’m old-fashioned. I want to see the naked foot, nothing else.’
It had never occurred to me that I would ever have somebody measuring my foot in order to make me a pair of shoes. Shoes were something you tried on in a shop. I hesitated, but removed my worn-out shoes, took off my socks and clambered on to the table. Giaconelli looked at my shoes with a worried expression on his face. Louise had evidently been present before on occasions when the Italian had measured people’s feet for shoes, as she withdrew into an adjacent room and returned with some sheets of paper, a clipboard and a pencil.
It was like going through a rite. Giaconelli examined my feet, stroked them with his fingers, and then asked if I was feeling well.
‘I think so.’
‘Are you completely healthy?’
‘I have a headache.’
‘Are your feet in good order?’
‘Well, they don’t hurt at least.’
‘They’re not swollen?’
‘No.’
‘The most important thing when making shoes is to measure the feet in calm circumstances, never at night, never in artificial light. I only want to see your feet when they are in good condition.’
I was beginning to wonder if I was the object of a practical joke. But Louise seemed completely serious, and was ready to start making notes.
It took Giaconelli over two hours to complete his examination of my feet, and to compile a list of the various measurements needed for the creation of my lasts, and thereafter of the shoes my daughter was keen to present me with. During those two hours, I learned that the world of feet is more complicated and comprehensive than one might think. Giaconelli spent ages searching for the theoretical longitudinal axis dictating whether my left or right foot pointed outwards or inwards. He checked the shape of the ball of each foot, and the instep, and investigated to see if I had any characteristic deformations: was I flat-footed, was either of my little toes unduly prominent, were my big toes higher than usual, so-called hammer toes? I gathered that there was one golden rule that Giaconelli followed meticulously: the best results were achieved using the simplest of measuring instruments. He restricted himself to two shoe heels and a shoemaker’s tape measure. The tape measure was yellow and had two different calibration scales. The first scale was used to measure the foot in old French stitches, each one equal to 6.66 millimetres. The other one measured the width and circumference of the foot, using the metric system, in centimetres and millimetres. Giaconelli also used an ancient set square, and when I stood on the sheet of indigo paper he drew a line round my feet using a simple pencil. He talked all the time, just as I recalled the older doctors doing when I started training as a surgeon — constantly describing exactly what they were doing and commenting on every incision, the blood flow, and the general condition of the patient. As he was drawing an outline of my feet, Giaconelli explained that the pencil must be held at exactly ninety degrees to the paper: if the angle was less than this, he elaborated in his heavily accented Swedish, the shoes would be at least one size too small.
He traced the outline of each foot with his pencil, always starting from the heel and following the inside of the foot to the big toe, then along the tips of the toes, and back to the heel via the outside of the foot. He instructed me to press my toes down hard on the ground. He used the word ground, even though I was standing on a sheet of paper on a table. As far as Giaconelli was concerned, people always stood on the ground, nowhere else.
‘Good shoes help a person to forget about his feet,’ he said. ‘Nobody travels through life on a table or on a sheet of paper. Feet and the ground are linked together.’
As the left foot and the right foot are never identical, it is essential to draw outlines of both of them. When the outlines were completed, Giaconelli marked the location of the first and the fifth phalanx, and also the most prominent points of the ball of the foot and the heel. He drew very slowly, as if he were not only following the outline of my foot, but was also relating to an inner process that I knew nothing about, and could only guess at. I had noticed this characteristic in the surgeons I admired.
When I was finally allowed to get down from the table, the whole procedure was repeated once again, with me sitting in an old rattan basket chair. I assumed Giaconelli had taken it with him from Rome when he’d made up his mind to continue creating his masterpieces in the depths of the northern forests. He displayed the same degree of meticulous accuracy, but now he didn’t speak: instead he hummed arias from the opera he’d been listening to when Louise and I had arrived at his house.
Eventually, when all the measuring was finished and I was allowed to put back on my socks and my old, worn-out shoes, we drank another glass of wine. Giaconelli seemed to be tired, as if the measuring had exhausted him.
‘I suggest a pair of black shoes with a hint of violet,’ said Giaconelli, ‘and a perforated pattern on the uppers. We shall use two different leathers in order to present the design discreetly but also to add a personal touch. I have leather for the upper that was tanned two hundred years ago. That will give something special in the way of colour and subtlety.’
He poured us another glass of wine, emptying the bottle.
‘The shoes will be ready a year from now,’ he said. ‘At the moment I am busy with a pair for a Vatican cardinal. I’m also committed to making a pair of shoes for Keskinen, the conductor, and I have promised the diva Klinkova some shoes appropriate for her concerts featuring Romantic lieder. I shall be able to start on yours eight months from now, and they’ll be ready in a year.’
We emptied our glasses. He shook us both by the hand, and withdrew. As we left through the front door, we could hear once again music coming from the room he used as his workshop.
I had met a master craftsman who lived in a deserted village in the depths of the vast northern forests. Far away from urban areas, there lived people with marvellous and unexpected skills.
‘A remarkable man,’ I said as we walked to the car.
‘An artist,’ said my daughter. ‘His shoes are beyond compare. They’re impossible to imitate.’
‘Why did he come here?’
‘The city was driving him mad. The crowds, all the impatience that left him no peace and quiet in which to carry out his work. He lived in the Via Salandra. I made up my mind some time ago to go there, in order to see the place he has left behind.’
We drove through the gathering dusk. As we approached a bus stop, she asked me to pull into the side and stop.
The forest came right down to the edge of the road. I looked at her.