The President's Hat

by Antoine Laurain

  ‘Coffee,’ said Daniel.

  The young man slung his tea towel over his shoulder, grasped the handle of the filter holder, scooped in a portion of coffee and screwed it into the machine. The steam whistled. He reached up to a shelf above the bar, took down a copy of Le Parisien, and walked over to Daniel.

  ‘Page 21,’ he muttered before turning back to his sink full of glasses.

  Daniel opened the newspaper and held his breath. Page 12, page 18, page 21 … a photocopy of the relevant page from the restaurant diary had been slipped inside the newspaper. He had done it.

  His eyes ran down the list of names. Which of them could be B.L.? The first name written by the mâitre d’hôtel, at the top of the list, was ‘Aslan’, a table for three. Other names followed, none of them beginning with the right letter. What if B.L. had not booked, just as he, Daniel, had not booked on that famous evening when he had sat next to the President?

  The trail would go cold right here, for ever. It would be over.

  Happily, though, between Jacques Franquier, two people, and Robineau, five people, there was a surname beginning with ‘L’, but no first name: Lavallière, four people.

  Daniel folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. Checking that no one was looking, he took out the second half of the 500-franc note and quickly shut it inside the newspaper.

  Sébastien brought him his coffee.

  ‘Page 21,’ said Daniel in an offhand way. ‘Good work, kid,’ he added, because that seemed exactly the sort of thing a real private detective would say.

  Back at home, Daniel dialled 12 for directory enquiries and found only three Lavallières listed in the Paris phone book: a Xavier Lavallière in the eighth arrondissement, an Hélène in the seventh, and a Jean in the greater Paris region. There were others, but they were ex-directory.

  Shut away in his study, he stood at the window, looking out over the city of Rouen with the same brooding air as J. R. Ewing gazing out over Dallas from his high-rise office at Ewing Oil whenever things weren’t going his way.

  Unlike J.R., he had no minibar to pour himself a drink from. J.R. almost always had his best ideas at the end of an episode, sipping a whisky on the rocks. His face would light up with a sardonic smile, the image would freeze and the words ‘Executive Producer Philip Capice’ would flash up on the screen in large yellow letters.

  Daniel sat back in his armchair and sighed. The TV was still on, with the sound turned down, and that bouffant-haired scoundrel Jean-Luc Lahaye was mouthing his love for the whole of womankind. What Daniel grandly referred to as his ‘study’ was also the family TV room, where they enjoyed supper on a tray every week in front of the Saturday-night variety show Champs-Élysées.

  Daniel picked up the remote and turned the television off. Just as he was thinking he had considered every possible way of tracking down the elusive Lavallière whose first name must begin with ‘B’, suddenly the glimmer of an idea sparked in his mind. An embryonic plan, like a tiny glow-worm in the night.

  He took the perfumer’s letter out of his folder. ‘A hat that was identical to yours in every particular,’ Pierre Aslan had written. The same make, thought Daniel, just as his son came into the study, a glass of grenadine cordial in his hand, announcing that it was time for Knight Rider.

  ‘Yes, yes, in a second, mon chéri,’ muttered Daniel, tapping the name of the hatter from memory into his Minitel keyboard. The address and telephone number appeared on the screen.

  ‘Yes, good afternoon,’ said Daniel, airily. ‘It’s one of your clients here, Monsieur Lavallière – just making sure you have my new address for your files.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Monsieur,’ replied a young woman’s voice. ‘I’ll get the file, if you’d like to hold for a second.’

  An interminable minute, or two, went by, during which Daniel had time to loosen his tie and drink almost the whole glass of grenadine left on the desk by Jérôme.

  The young woman picked up the receiver again. ‘Hello? Let me see, Monsieur Lavallière … Bernard Lavallière?’ she asked.

  Daniel thought he would faint.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say, ‘now, what address do you have?’

  ‘Number 16, Rue de Passy in the sixteenth, Monsieur.’

  Daniel banged down the receiver and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I’ve got it …’ and he sank back into his armchair, as if struck by a knock-out blow.

  ‘It’s starting!’ yelled Jérôme, settling himself on the rug about a metre from the TV screen.

  Daniel turned up the volume. In a strange purple desert, David Hasselhoff’s Pontiac Firebird roared towards the spectator from out of the middle distance. Against the catchy, synthesised-drum theme tune, the opening voice-over promised ‘A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist. Michael Knight, a young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless, in a world of criminals who operate above the law.’

  The sequence was intercut with shots of the black car flying through the air in a series of unlikely stunts. The theme tune became hypnotic and Jérôme began bobbing his head to the beat.

  Galvanised by the music and the exploits of K.I.T.T., the car’s futuristic onboard computer, Daniel found himself nodding along, too. Nothing would stand in the way of the lone knight now, he was certain of that.

  The following weekend, the lone knight set out once more for the capital, not at the wheel of a daredevil Pontiac Firebird, but a modest Audi 5000 family saloon. Staking out no. 16, Rue de Passy, he saw a man in a dark coat and a black hat leave the building. Daniel followed him to the newspaper kiosk.

  The man bought a copy of Libération. Waiting for the lights to change, they were just centimetres apart. Daniel stared, eyes wide, at the black felt hat.

  It was his, he would stake his life on it. He recognised the slight signs of wear around the dent in the crown; he knew every detail of that hat by heart.

  He should have reached out, snatched the hat and run off with it, but he found himself incapable of such daring. His legs felt like lead and when he tried to lift his hand, it began to tremble.

  He was so overcome that he could not even step out onto the pedestrian crossing when Bernard Lavallière did so. Welded to the pavement, Daniel had watched him walk all the way back to no. 16, Rue de Passy.

  But now, he had conquered his fear. He had done it. He had got Mitterrand’s hat back. Leaning with his back against the carriage doorway, gasping for breath, he placed the black felt hat on his head and closed his eyes.

  He had triumphed over every obstacle like a fairy-tale hero crossing kingdoms, rivers, forests and mountains in search of the golden apple or the magic stone that would bring them power and glory, or simply the satisfaction of a challenge met.

  His hand trailed over the water. He touched the surface with his finger, drawing a line across the still, green expanse of the Adriatic. The black hull passed silently under one of the city’s 420 bridges, plunging Daniel, Véronique and Jérôme briefly into shadow, before the sun reappeared.

  Daniel had dreamt up the idea of a return trip to Venice, twelve years after their honeymoon, during his quest for the hat. If I find it, he had told himself, we’ll go to Venice. It would mark the end of the search.

  He had decided to stay at the same hotel, with its terrace overlooking the Dogana but this time with Jérôme, who had been fascinated by the prisons at the Doge’s Palace with their iron bars as thick as your arm.

  This was the second gondola ride they had taken since they’d arrived – gondolas were far too expensive to be used as everyday transport.

  Daniel was the first to step ashore, wearing his hat. He held out a hand to Véronique as his son jumped straight onto the quay. It was time for a coffee break at Caffè Florian, in Piazza San Marco. The three of them made their way down Calle Vallaresso, passing under the arches of the Museo Correr, where Véronique had
insisted, yesterday, on returning to see Carpaccio’s celebrated Two Venetian Ladies.

  It had been an opportunity to explain to Jérôme that, yes, the name of the raw beef dish that Papa often ordered at the pizzeria was also the name of a famous painter. Jérôme had asked whether the painter liked raw beef so much the dish had been named after him.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said his father. ‘Carpaccio was well known at his local pizzeria.’

  It was not their first visit of the day to Piazza San Marco. In Venice, all roads lead to that beating heart of the city on the lagoon. Each time it was like a dream, bustling with little figures, pigeons, shadows and sun.

  As they headed for Caffè Florian, Véronique elbowed her husband. ‘Daniel …’ she said, breathlessly, ‘look who’s there.’

  François Mitterrand was crossing the square with a woman, who was followed by a little girl with very long brown hair. He was wearing his usual coat and a red scarf, but no hat. Pigeons scattered into the air as they approached.

  Daniel was not the only tourist rooted to the spot by the President’s sudden appearance. A man smiled at the head of state, who responded with a brief nod. Then he stepped out of the sunlight and walked away beneath the arches of the Procuratie.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Véronique, quietly. ‘At the same time as us.’

  Daniel put a hand up to the Homburg and gently smoothed the brim. The hat and the President had just passed within metres of each other. It was a disturbing thought, and Daniel was still troubled by it as they sat sipping Cokes on the terrace of Caffè Florian.

  It was absurd. Of course François Mitterrand had the means to buy himself another black hat. He had almost certainly done just that, and in fact probably had several hats – perhaps he had even lost hats before or thrown some away because they were worn out. Still, it was as if something was missing from the figure that represented France all over the world.

  By depriving the President of his hat, had Daniel not committed an ultimately very selfish and sacrilegious act, like those tourists who insist on taking away tiny fragments of the Temple of Luxor, or the Acropolis, with the risible idea of displaying them on their mantelpiece? They were making off with sacred relics to which they had no right, and which – most importantly – did not belong to them.

  For the first time, Daniel felt guilty and uncomfortable, like someone who has just broken a treasured possession.

  That afternoon, they visited the Bovolo. The name, meaning ‘snail’, referred to the external staircase of the Palazzo Contarini. The Renaissance masterpiece featured a six-storey spiral staircase enclosed in a tower circled by a corresponding spiral of multiple arches and delicate white columns.

  From the top, there was a fine view over the rooftops of Venice, and a gentle breeze on your face.

  ‘Remember?’ said Daniel, as they began the short climb.

  ‘The little horse …’ Véronique smiled.

  Twelve years earlier, they had climbed the Bovolo after visiting Murano, where a glass-blower had made a little horse for them as they watched and presented it to them as a souvenir.

  That afternoon, Daniel had hidden it at the top of the Bovolo. The staircase was covered by a round roof of wooden beams, which you could reach if you stood on tiptoe.

  Sliding his hand along one of the beams, his fingers had encountered a coin, then another, a key-ring, a souvenir brooch, then more coins, from all over the world. Lovers, and lovers of Venice, had dug into their pockets and left a token of their passing. Daniel had taken out the little glass horse and slipped it onto one of the beams.

  Two young German girls were taking photographs of each other in front of the Venetian roofs, and a man was filming a panoramic 180-degree shot with a large VHS camera.

  Véronique told Jérôme to be careful near the edge, while Daniel looked up at the beams overhead. He removed his hat, placed it on the stone balustrade and lifted his hand. He thought he remembered leaving the little horse in the left-hand corner. He felt a coin, a piece of cardboard – perhaps a plane ticket – another coin.

  ‘You won’t find it,’ said Véronique, just as his fingers touched something smooth and cold.

  He removed the small object from the wooden beam as if he were picking a fruit.

  ‘Look,’ he said, amazed.

  Daniel was holding the little horse in his hand. Jérôme came and stood beside his father, who looked at Véronique, whose eyes were misted with tears.

  She was overcome with emotion at the thought that the little horse had been waiting for them in its hiding place for twelve years. Daniel handed the horse to Jérôme and took his wife in his arms.

  A gust of wind blew her hair across his face and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the black hat had disappeared from the stone balustrade.

  The nightmare was beginning all over again.

  ‘This can’t be happening. It can’t be …’ muttered Daniel, as he raced down the stairs, his heart beating wildly. The Bovolo’s shallow steps seemed endless, like a sequence in a dream, where time and gravity are suspended.

  The hat wasn’t in the street below, nor in the garden at the bottom of the staircase. Perhaps it had skimmed over the rooftops, and the wind had blown it down one of the adjacent alleyways?

  Daniel ran towards one of them. But there was no sign of the hat there either. Tears of rage and anguish welled up in his eyes. He felt he could sit down in the street, right there, and howl. Then he spotted an elderly man with a walking stick, flanked by two women – doubtless his wife and daughter.

  The man was holding a black hat in his hand. On his own head, he sported an elegant cream felt hat with a crimson band. Daniel raced towards him.

  ‘It’s mine! That’s my hat!’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘È francese,’ said the man, smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur,’ he said in French, with a strong Italian accent. ‘I found your little note inside. I do the same myself,’ he added, with another friendly smile. And the old man held the hat out to Daniel.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much,’ said Daniel, clutching the hat.

  ‘Good day to you,’ said the old man. And he lifted his own hat in a gesture of farewell before turning and walking away, resuming his conversation with the two women in Italian.

  Daniel stared at his hat and turned it upside down. He saw the white silk lining the crown, and the leather band with the initials.

  He felt underneath the band with two fingers. When he had felt a little way round, his fingers touched something and his heart gave a lurch. He took out a small piece of paper folded in four and opened it. ‘Reward: with thanks.’ And a telephone number.

  The slip of paper had been there all along. The hat had contained its own SOS message since the beginning. None of the people who had worn it subsquently had thought to look inside and see if the owner had left a message. Only a true hat connoisseur would know that trick.

  The handwriting was familiar – it had been seen all over France during the election campaign, in the form of the signature on pamphlets.

  It was François Mitterrand’s handwriting.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ said Véronique after dinner.

  He let his wife and son go on ahead to the hotel room, saying he needed time to think.

  ‘I’m going to take a stroll,’ he announced.

  Now he was alone in a narrow, dimly lit street. The slap of the water echoed against the ancient stones. With the hat on his head and his hands behind his back, he had climbed to the top of the steeply arched bridge and gazed at the moonlight reflected in the canal.

  Under the black hat, the latest developments swirled about in his brain; Daniel tried to make sense of it all.

  He was here in Venice at the same time as the hat’s legitimate owner, and he had just found the message tucked behind the leather band. Perhaps the elderly Italian who had returned the hat to him was just one element of an overall scheme – even the gust of wind that had blown the hat away seemed
to be part of a scenario whose pieces were falling into place.

  It seemed to him quite clear that an appeal had been made to him, Daniel Mercier of SOGETEC, who, without this hat, would still be in Paris taking orders from Jean Maltard. Because Mitterrand’s hat had changed the course of his life, there was no denying that.

  Mademoiselle Marquant, too, had seen her destiny altered, and that strange fellow, Aslan, had created a new fragrance. What had Bernard Lavallière done? He didn’t know, but perhaps the hat had changed his life, too.

  The presidential election was approaching, Daniel reminded himself, and the President was placing himself – and the nation – in the hands of fate. A motoscafo passed slowly under the bridge. Its lights projected a huge, looming shadow onto the faded plaster façades of the buildings lining the canal. A man in a coat and hat.

  Daniel stepped back in alarm. He knew the shadow was his, but what he saw was the silhouette of François Mitterrand, immense and majestic, facing him for a few brief seconds before the darkness engulfed it.

  That was the deciding sign. He knew now what he must do.

  Back in the hotel room, Daniel declared solemnly, ‘I will call the number tomorrow.’ Then he undressed.

  The last thing he removed was the hat. He placed it on a side table near the window, in a shaft of moonlight.

  ‘Is there a number we can call you back on, Monsieur?’

  Daniel gave the room number, then hung up. That was it. No going back.

  ‘Secrétaire générale, Élysée Palace,’ the voice had said, answering his call. Daniel had explained the story of the hat and the young woman had asked him to wait for a moment.

  The room telephone rang fifteen minutes later. A man addressed Daniel, very politely.

  ‘We must ask you to be discreet, Monsieur Mercier: I suppose you have seen the initials inside the hat …?’