Hisaye Yamamoto
THE HIGH-HEELED SHOES
In the middle of the morning, the telephone rings. I am
the only one at home. I answer it. A man's voice says softly, "Hello,
this is Tony."
I don't know anybody named Tony. Nobody else in the house
has spoken of knowing any Tony. But the greeting is very warm. It
implies, "There is a certain thing which you and I alone know." Evi–
dently he has dialed a wrong number. I tell him so, "You must have
the wrong number," and prepare to hang up as soon as I know that
he understands.
But the man says this is just the number he wants. To prove it,
he recites off the pseudonym by which this household, Carbo-like,
goes in the directory, the address, and the phone number. It
is
a
unique name and I know there
is
probably no such person in the
world. I merely tell him a fragment of the truth, that there is no such
person at the address, and I am ready to hang up again.
But the man stalls.
If
there is no such person available,
it
appears
he is willing to talk to me, whoever I am. I am suddenly in a bad
humor, suspecting a trap in which I shall be imprisoned uncom–
fortably by words, words, words, earnestly begging me to try some
product or another, the like of which is unknown anywhere else in
the world. It isn't that I don't appreciate the unrapturous life a
salesman must often lead. And I like to buy things.
If
I had the
money, I would buy a little from every salesman who comes along,
after I had permitted him to run ably or ineptly (it doesn't really
matter) through the words he has been coached to repeat. Then, not
only in the pride of the new acquisition, but in the knowledge that he
was temporarily encouraged, my own spirits would gently rise, lifted
by the wings of the dove. At each week's end, surrounded knee-deep
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