Requiem for My Cutarras

Yesterday I lost my cutarras1 on the beach at Guararé. Strictly speaking, I didn’t lose them, since I remember perfectly well where I left them. I don’t usually remember where I leave things. In fact, I have the extraordinary faculty of making my wallet disappear every time I take it out of my pocket, a gift that makes me waste a quarter of an hour every day trying to locate it in my messy house. The case of the cutarras is different, since I clearly remember the spot where I left them resting so I could go play soccer with my friends.

Since I didn’t lose them, I should say that yesterday someone borrowed my cutarras, without my permission and with no return date. I don’t classify it as theft. I cannot, nor do I wish to. Theft is a strong, ugly word: it is a cardinal sin. My cutarras, being so innocent and guileless, cannot be involved, even as victims, in an act so vile. In fact, I don’t consider it to have been theft, and therefore I bear no grudge whatsoever against whoever took them.

I even understand it! I can’t blame a poor soul for having succumbed to the overwhelming temptation of taking my pretty cutarras in his hands, of caressing between his fingers those soft strips of noble leather, of trying them on his feet, and then of walking off down the beach wearing them, pleased, taking with him, while he was at it2, the white undershirt that lay over the cutarras, protecting from the sun their cracked soles and velvety straps.

Those cutarras have their history. They were made with exquisite care by the hardworking hands of Yeyo, the best shoemaker La Heroica Villa has ever had. He was a great friend of my father’s, since childhood, and he had a special charisma, for he was very jovial, practical, and ingenious. He agreed to make me a pair of cutarras at my express request. He had never made cutarras before. His specialty was shoes. The first pair of cutarras he made for me was too small for my size, so my sister Eka inherited them. The second pair fit me perfectly.

That was a long time ago, at least six years. A few years after he made them, good old Yeyo died. But his cutarras went on dressing my feet, and swaddling the pride that my heart feels for this land. They endured with me rain, mud, sand, and asphalt, covering my soles, dignified in their simple, natural beauty. Today they have disappeared. My feet are in mourning, longing for their softness, their perfect fit.

My quiet hope is that the someone who took them on the beach knows how to value those little leather jewels at their true worth. I may soon make a new pair with my own hands: I want to have cutarras to put on whenever my love of country catches fire. But these new cutarras will have their own history. And they will never replace the best cutarras I have ever had: those that Yeyo wove with patience, as a last legacy for my boyhood heart.