I want to run away, as soon as possible, so I turn on my heel.

“I want to see the label with the product details.” He says.

I look at him over my shoulder, confused, then move to hand him the box, which he could easily have taken himself. I stand beside him patiently and wait as he reads very carefully.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“I’m just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“Whether they were made in China.” He says coldly, and then raises his eyes to mine.

Made in China? What an asshole!

“We sell only Italian stuff.” I say sharply.

He smiles, his eyes fixed.

“Oh, look at those claws. I hope you’re well paid.” He speaks in a voice which shows clearly that he doesn’t believe what I say. He’s provoking me, goading me with his smile, his look, and with the way he addresses me. I count to ten, then frown, turning the box upside-down to show him the embossed label: Fatte in Italia.

“Made in Italy’s written on the box and inside the shoe as well.” I speak briskly.

He bends his head lightly, furrows his eyebrows and studies the inscription carefully, examining the letters devotedly and seriously. I lose patience because this seems to be going on for an age.

For God’s sake, it’s as if he were decoding hieroglyphics!

He shrugs, looks at me naively, and says more innocently: “I had to check, since I don’t speak Italian.

He doesn’t… he doesn’t speak Italian? What a jerk!