The President's Hat (13 page)

The gallery owner switched on the strip lights which flickered for a while before settling down. Bernard had kept his hat on. He stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting for the owner to get ‘the Basquiats' out for him.

‘Why isn't he in the major galleries?' asked Bernard.

‘Because he's young and black,' replied the owner.

Black, as well, mused Bernard.

‘That's him over there,' he added, pointing to a small photo hanging on the wall.

Bernard saw the face of a young witch doctor with intense eyes and spiky hair.

‘Jean-Michel's a French name.'

‘That's right, from Haiti, where Basquiat's family come from.'

‘Does he speak French?'

‘When he feels like it,' quipped the gallery owner.

Then he produced three canvases, turned so that Bernard could only see their frames.

‘Close your eyes and prepare to see the work of a budding genius.'

The three paintings had echoes of the artwork on the hoardings at the Louvre, yet they carried a force that was at once tribal and urban, unlike anything he had encountered before.

Having been brought up on eighteenth-century landscapes, Bernard was completely unprepared for the impact they had on him. The power radiating off these pictures was almost radioactive. The paint strokes, the figures, the little planes and crossed-out phrases exploded out of the canvas like a jumbled message from a lost civilisation to be uncovered five thousand years down the line;
our
lost civilisation.

Within their frames, they held the story of humanity's primal rituals. The feast-day incantations and mystical elegies of man's beginnings were fused with the noise of aeroplanes and the sirens of police cars. Blackened figures stared mask-like at the viewer, while childlike planes flew across the sky, colliding with words scattered over the canvas like a crazy game of Scrabble.

Bernard stood in silence for several minutes, unable to take his eyes off the paintings, like a mouse transfixed at the sight of a snake.

There was no going back. Tonight, a new Bernard Lavallière was coming to life between the cold, damp concrete walls of a modern art gallery. Whilst his friends and family would no doubt recoil from Jean-Michel
Basquiat's works like a vampire from sunlight, putting
that
on his living-room wall would be a defining act. The mark of a man in the know, with his finger on the pulse.

‘What are they called?' he asked softly.

The salesman introduced them from left to right:
‘Sangre Corpus, Wax wing
and
Radium.'

‘I'd like thirty per cent off if I take all three.'

‘Fifteen …' replied the dealer.

The following week, Bernard began his
grands travaux,
literally and figuratively. The radical change in his outlook coincided with the arrival of a team of painters.

His wife looked on in horror as the cornicing was ripped off and the fabric on the walls torn down to make way for a coat of perfectly white paint. Valuers from the Salle Drouot auction house came for the family furniture and Bernard watched it go without an ounce of regret. Not for the Louis XVI dresser and two Ming vases, or the gilt bronze carriage clock with Diana the huntress and a fawn; not for the Louis XIII cabinet, the six matching Louis XVI armchairs, the Louis-Philippe stool or the desk of the same era.

The eighteenth-century landscapes of ruins filed past, followed by the pastel drawing of the woman gazing upwards, the Aubusson tapestry and even the Charles X crystal chandelier.

With undisguised joy, he had given instructions for the clock-picture to be sold without a reserve. Charlotte Lavallière, née Charlotte de Gramont, removed all her family heirlooms to the safety of her boudoir. Everything else went to the auctioneers.

Only the portrait of Charles-Édouard Lavallière survived this organised apocalypse and it was under his gaze, fixed in oil paint in 1883, that the Jean-Michel Basquiat canvases arrived one morning.

Charlotte threatened to divorce him, but she did not go through with it. Bernard agreed to a compromise: one Basquiat in the living room, the other two in his office at AXA. They were the first in a long line of acquisitions, and Bernard sold a studio flat inherited from his ancestor to fund his newfound passion for art.

‘Supposing the Left get in again in '88,' the voices of the business world began to whisper. ‘Bernard would be a precious asset.'

‘Lavallière's a socialist?' asked some.

‘Of course,' replied others, ‘he's always been a Mitterrand man.'

Bernard's meteoric rise in the art-collecting world had given his career a boost too. At AXA, he was soon considered cutting edge. He was often photographed at private views for the society pages of
Vogue
or
Elle
, which his secretary excitedly passed around the office.

He was sometimes seen, champagne in hand, at the side of Jack Lang or the actor Pierre Arditi. He got on well with Claude Berri too – though the two men never saw eye to eye on Robert Ryman's white monochrome paintings.

The famous filmmaker even took him round to Serge Gainsbourg's house one afternoon where, against all expectations, Bernard came up against a rather rigid character as far as painting was concerned, who lectured him on Cranach's nudes which he ranked above all else in the history of art.

One morning, as he went to buy his copy of ‘
Libé
', one of those sudden, unexpected, absurd and totally out-
of-the
-ordinary events happened, the kind journalists with little knowledge of the basic principles of André Breton's movement like to describe as ‘surreal': Bernard had his hat stolen.

It was all over in a matter of seconds; it happened so quickly he did not even have the presence of mind to cry out, still less run after his assailant. He was left standing on the pavement, dumbfounded and slightly dishevelled.

Daniel Mercier felt as if he had the combined power of the French rugby team. He had never run so fast, for so long, through the streets of Paris, or any other city, for that matter. He stopped and leant against a heavy carriage door to catch his breath. To look at the hat, too, and check the presidential initials on the inside. Everything was fine. It was the right hat, and he had got it back. Even if his efforts to trace it had occupied every waking hour for several months.

After reading Pierre Aslan's last letter he had been able to piece together what had happened on the evening the perfumer had lost the hat at the brasserie. A man with the initials B.L. had left with Mitterrand's hat. Daniel had the address of the brasserie and the date of the dinner.

There was just one thing missing: the brasserie's list of reservations for that evening. Customers who telephone to book a table have to leave their names. The relevant page in the restaurant's diary might hold the key to the
identity of the mysterious B.L. Daniel had confided his conclusions to his wife.

‘That hat will drive you insane if you're not careful,' she had warned.

‘I can't give up now. I have to follow up any lead that might help me find the hat,' he had retorted.

So one Saturday morning, Daniel had driven to Paris and headed for the address given him by Aslan. When he got there, it struck him that all brasseries look the same with their big red awnings, the oyster bar outside and waiters in white aprons. The maître d' had opened a big, rectangular book bound in claret leather.

‘Daniel Mercier … Ah yes, table 15. Waiter! Please take Monsieur to his table.'

The maître d' who held the object Daniel desperately wanted to consult was grey-haired and about fifty. He didn't look as if he would be easy to coax information from, still less like he would be open to bribery.

On the motorway coming to Paris, Daniel had run through all the ways he might be able to consult the restaurant's diary, from the simplest – looking through it discreetly when the mâitre d' left it next to the cash register – to the riskiest: snatching it out of his hands and making off with it as fast as his legs could carry him.

Daniel had mused on the possible outcome of the latter solution, imagining himself being pursued by a pack of brasserie waiters, like the speeded-up chase scenes at the end of each episode of
The Benny Hill Show
.

He had also considered bribing the mâitre d' and had withdrawn a 500-franc note from the bank to that end. But
judging by the look of the man now greeting a couple of English diners, he would never take the bait. The claret leather book passed in front of Daniel's table several times, as though taunting him: Look, I'm right here with the head waiter and you'll never get your hands on me.

To calm his nerves, Daniel ordered a dozen oysters, a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and a plate of salmon with dill. He drank his first glass down in one. The chilled wine eased his anxiety. He would find a solution.

What that was, he had no idea, but he would not leave this place without the information he needed. As the spoonful of shallot vinegar spread over the surface of a slightly milky oyster, Daniel held his breath. He worked the mollusc free with the small, flat fork, lifted it to his mouth and closed his eyes.

No sooner had the combination of marine saltiness and vinegar touched his tongue than the President's words rang out once more, as clear as when he had heard them for the very first time: ‘As I was saying to Helmut Kohl last week …' Since his dinner
en compagnie
with the head of state, the same thing had happened each time he ate vinegared oysters.

Daniel swallowed his last oyster and looked towards the bar. Customers not eating lunch were drinking coffee, or kirs, or glasses of Sauvignon, reading the capital's daily paper,
Le Parisien
. Some were obviously regulars.

The young barman, a blond chap with very short hair who looked no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, shook their hand when they arrived or left. When he wasn't
putting fresh glasses of white wine in front of the regulars, he was busy preparing coffees for the dining room at large and filling pitchers of water or carafes of wine.

He must be a beginner in the business, thought Daniel, probably not that well paid, since he wouldn't share in the tips left for waiters serving at the tables. He's the one, thought Daniel, fixing his gaze on the young man. He'll take my 500 francs. He will be my Trojan Horse, my way into the claret leather book.

Daniel paid for his lunch, left a ten-franc tip in the chrome dish on the table, got to his feet, took a deep breath and headed for the bar, where only two customers were left, one finishing a kir, the other a glass of beer. Daniel perched on a stool and made a show of opening
Le Parisien.

‘What can I get you, Monsieur?' asked the young barman.

‘Coffee, please.'

Daniel made his espresso last while he waited for the two men at the bar to clear off, hoping that others would not take their place. The one with the beer drank up and left without a word, closely followed by the kir drinker, who shook the barman's hand.
Voilà
, Daniel was alone.

‘I'll have another coffee,' he said to the barman.

Deftly, the young man detached the filter holder from the machine, scooped in a portion of ground coffee and replaced it, pulling the handle sideways to pack it tight. Daniel slipped his hand inside his jacket and and took out his wallet.

‘How much do I owe you?'

‘Two coffees, eight francs, Monsieur.'

Daniel fished out the right money in coins, subtly taking out the 500-franc note at the same time. The young man placed the coffee on the bar in front of Daniel and collected the cash. Daniel chose his moment and unfolded the note on the marble counter. The barman glanced at the note, then looked at Daniel, who fixed him with a penetrating stare.

‘There's something else you can do for me,' he said, in tones as intense as his expression.

‘Really, I don't think so,' replied the young man, heading back to the coffee machine.

‘Five coffees on twelve!' called a waiter.

The barman set out the cups, then walked back to where Daniel was sitting, and leant across the bar.

‘Listen, I'm not a poof, OK?' he said, in a low voice.

Daniel had anticipated everything but this. Horrified that his approach had been mistaken for an attempted pick-up, he struggled to find a way to retrieve the situation as rapidly as possible. An idea – truly a stroke of genius, he was to reflect later – crossed his mind.

‘Me neither,' he heard himself reply. ‘I'm a private detective.'

The young man turned to look at him. A surprised, intrigued smile lit his features. Daniel knew he had won. The barman's head would be full of images from films and TV series, he thought. And clearly, it was. The barman abandoned his row of coffee cups.

‘Are you serious?'

‘Deadly serious,' said Daniel. ‘It's about the restaurant bookings diary. Help me and the note's all yours.'

‘Go on,' said the barman, moving nearer.

‘Where are my five coffees?' called the waiter.

Unconsciously, Daniel had taken inspiration from his favourite fictional detective, Parisian gumshoe Nestor Burma and from
Mike Hammer
on Canal +. Véronique never missed an episode. Whenever he told someone that he was a private detective, Hammer, played by Stacy Keach, always got their full attention.

And as it turned out it worked like a charm in real life, too. What's more the fictional Frenchman and the American tough guy both sported Homburgs, which Daniel took as an excellent omen.

‘I'll see what I can do; come back at seven,' said Sébastien – his name was printed on his silver-plated identity bracelet.

Getting further into character, Daniel tore the note in two, saying that he would be back that evening with the other half.

He spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around Paris, even visiting Parc Monceau where Mademoiselle Marquant said she had left the hat on a bench. Daniel sat down on a similar bench and thought back over the short story that had won the Prix Balbec. Here was the sequel, though Fanny would never know it.

At seven o'clock sharp, he pushed open the door of the brasserie and headed for the bar. Three men were sipping
drinks, while Sébastien wiped glasses. Daniel and Sébastien glanced at one another.

‘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.