Gloves

Summary

After the gelato we walked to the Leather Quarter and into a shop which specialised in gloves. It was an absolutely tiny shop and it had these glass counters where you were supposed to place your elbow and raise your hands in the air. The uniformed assistants knew your glove size with just one glance, of course, and the customers would point at items they wanted to try and they would quickly unwrap one and place it expertly on your hands. She and I had tried on so many gloves and were laughing because it was baking inside this shop and I had a pile of rabbit-lined gloves by my side and she had chosen soft butter lambskin. The shop reeked of tannin and leather. When we returned to our little guesthouse the woman who managed it asked us about our day in very good English. She passed us a leaflet on Siena and it was then that we noticed that her left hand was missing. In fact a good portion of her arm was missing below her elbow and the skin had been neatly tucked and folded under. She didn't seem at all disadvantaged and managed to type on her keyboard and do her job perfectly well. When we got to our room, I started to get ready for dinner. The gloves were laid out on the sideboard. ‘Did you see that woman's arm?’ she said. ‘I want you to get rid of the gloves. I don't want to look at them or even to share the room with them.’ She walked to the balcony, and took up a position on a chair and wrapped herself with her shawl. I realised it was pointless trying to argue with her. It's beginning to rain. Somewhere there is a soft hum of an engine on a road far from us. I pick up the gloves and head down to the car and when I look up, she's still sitting there in the fine rain, wrapped up in that stupid shawl and she's crying, not caring if the wind disturbs her face.