February 16, 2011 § 1 Comment
Weaving through umbrella soldiers on the footpath, we dawdled by a shop with bars over the front window. My blood crept faster at the sight of 1960’s cameras spilling off cluttered shelves and velvet cases strewn with jewels. Creamy paged novels gripped by curling covers sang their stories in a matinee just for me. Glittering miscellany is my business.
We were swept into the shop by the wet crowds and curiosity in equal parts. Corners wedged with gilded accordions and a Chesterfield couch tucked under an avalanche of fur coats. I stroked them, separating a mink capelet (is it really so different from leather?) from the pile.
“Like this,” the proprietor assists me, linking the buttons over my neck, cradling my shoulders in precious hide. “Now you are beautiful. No man can catch you.” His smile matches an African lilt to his Scottish accent. “You are American?”
“Welcome to Edinburgh,” he is genuinely warm.
“Would I still be welcome if I said I was American?” I am flippant, silly.
“Oh yes,” he is grave, solemn. “Everybody is welcome in Edinburgh. I came here 22 years ago and opened my shop. I can live my dream in Edinburgh. It is the city of my dreams.”
His gratitude shoots up my veins to my heart.
“You and I are lucky to come to Edinburgh”.
His words sound like a prophecy.