“Hey! Do you know where they sell these shoes?”
This question was directed at a man who was seated on a cafe terrace, having a smoke and minding his own business. He saw a hand extended toward his face, holding a pair of high-heeled shoes. Sewed into their arches was a tag with “Lebno Listchaque” embroidered in gold thread.
“Oh, it’s just over there, to the right,” the man replied. “The name is on the front of the store—you can’t…miss it…” The man’s voice petered out as he finally caught sight of the woman holding the heels.
His mouth fell open. The end of his cigarette flared a little. The woman standing before him grabbed an ashtray from the table and quickly held it out to catch the ash in its little brown bowl.
“Thanks for the tip,” she said with a smile, then dropped the ashtray onto the table and strode away. The man remained frozen in the same position, only his eyes moving to follow the woman as she walked away.
Who was that? he wondered. An actress? A model? An angel?
Her back was straight and strong. Her long, wavy hair was such a brilliant orange hue that it almost hurt his eyes, and it shone in the sun like the finest of fruit.
He had no way of knowing that the woman with the orange hair and slender figure was not an actress or a model—and certainly not an angel—but a pirate. This island, with its bevy of high-end shops, was on the frontier of global fashion. Its residents were preoccupied almost completely with becoming style icons, and certainly didn’t bother to brush up on the latest bounty posters. Her true identity undetected, Nami the Cat Burglar ignored the stares of open resentment and jealousy as she strolled down the red brick road toward her destination.
Clack, clack, clack.
Dangling from her fingers, the heels of the pumps she carried clicked together with each step she took. The shoes were extremely chic, embellished with crystal beads speckled across blue satin and boasting bold four-inch heels. On Nami’s feet at the moment were simple ankle strap sandals, with heels that were barely an inch tall, if that.
She found the place she was looking for to the right, just as the man had said. Lebno Listchaque was a luxury shoe brand that every fashionable woman knew about, and this was its only retail store. She pushed the glass door open and walked into an empty interior, as the last customers had already cleared out.
All around her were shoes displayed on elegant pedestals, lit up like works of art. Nami paid them no mind, crossing the spacious store to a counter at the back, where she rang the service bell.
“Yes? How may I help you?” asked a woman around Nami’s age as she emerged from a door in the back. The woman’s hair was styled in precise curls, and she wore cool pink lipstick.
“I’d like to exchange these,” Nami announced flatly, placing the pumps on the counter. “They’re defective. I bought them here this morning, and after no less than ten minutes, my feet started hurting like crazy. Then I took a closer look, and—see? The interior sole isn’t arched to match the shape of a foot. Plus, the top straps don’t fully secure at the ankle, and the heel is too open. Was I sold a display pair by mistake?”
“Let me see.” The woman carefully picked up the shoes. Based on the work apron she wore over her white shirt, and the leather knife, hammer, and other tools contained in its pocket, she appeared to be a craftsperson from the store’s workshop. It seemed she split her time between the workshop and the front desk. On her shirt was a name tag that read “Miucha.”
Oh, good, she should be able to clear this up quickly, Nami assumed. If we can wrap it up soon, I’ll have time to go back to that cafe and have a piece of cake, Nami thought optimistically. But within seconds, Miucha had finished examining the shoes.
“These are not defective shoes,” she said.
What? Nami was astounded.
“The interior arch was removed for budgetary reasons. The heel spacing and top fixture are within specifications. I’m sorry, but this is a perfectly representative pair of this model,” Miucha said, handing the shoes back to Nami in a perfunctory manner.
Nami was tempted to throw them on the ground in front of the clerk, but her practical side won out. She folded her arms.
“Listen, Miucha. These aren’t just any old shoes. They’re Lebnos. Isn’t your entire sales pitch that they’re high heels you can run in?”
A delicate silhouette that elevated a woman’s leg into a work of art, with soles so comfortable and secure that you could run in a pair of four-inch heels—that was the reputation of the Lebno brand, and it was the reason Nami had purchased these heels.
As a sailor, Nami was strictly limited in space for personal belongings. It was difficult to put together a good wardrobe when you knew you’d be rewearing each piece so often. Ordinarily she would never buy pumps with four-inch heels, since there was little chance she’d wear them. But when she found out her ship would be stopping by the island where the world-famous Lebno Listchaque store was located, the urge to have a pair overcame her. She had discarded some of her favorite clothes to make space in her closet, then visited the store by the port and agonized over which pair to buy before finally settling on those royal blue satin heels.