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took him my shoes, he at first told me: “I haven't time. Take them to the other fellow on the main

street ; he'll fix them for you right away.”

     But I'd had my eye on his shop for a long time. Just looking at his bench loaded with tools and

pieces of leather, I knew he was a skilled craftsman  (手艺人).  “No,” I replied, “the other fel-

low can't do it well.”

      “The other fellow” was one of those shopkeepers who fix shoes and make keys “while-U-

wait” -- without knowing much about mending shoes or making keys. They work carelessly, and

when they have finished sewing back a sandal strap (鞋带) you might as well just throw away the

pair.

      My man saw I wouldn't give in, and he smiled. He wiped his hands on his blue apron ( 围

裙), looked at my shoes, had me write my name on one shoe with a piece of chalk and said,

“Come back in a week.”

      I was about to leave when he took a pair of soft leather boots off a shelf.

      “See what I can do?” he said with pride.  “Only three of us in Paris can do this kind of

work.. ”

      When I got back out into the street, the world seemed brand-new to me. He was something

out of an ancient legend, this old craftsman with his way of speaking familiarly, his very strange,

dusty felt hat, his funny accent from who-knows-where and, above all, his pride in his craft.