The President's Hat (14 page)

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 …?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘Then I suppose you understand whose hat it is?'

‘Yes.'

‘And so I can count on your discretion …'

‘You can indeed,' said Daniel, ‘though I do have one request.'

‘Yes?' said the man at the other end of the line.

‘I should like to hand the hat back to the owner myself.'

‘That is precisely how the owner of the hat would like to receive it, Monsieur Mercier. He suggests meeting at Caffè Florian at five o'clock, in the first room on the left as you come in.'

At 4.40 p.m., Daniel put Mitterrand's hat on one last time, kissed Véronique and Jérôme, and left them on the steps of Santa Maria della Salute.

‘I have an appointment with François Mitterrand, I'll be back shortly,' he announced loudly, in front of a group of tourists who turned round to stare.

Then he walked off in the direction of a gondola. He didn't quibble over the fare for the ride to San Marco, nor did he sit on the little red leather seat, but remained standing in the middle of the boat with the hat on his head and his face caressed by the warm salt air of the Adriatic.

At the entrance to Caffè Florian, he was approached by the Brylcreemed Italian head waiter, a rotund man with a slender moustache.

‘I have a meeting with François Mitterrand,' said Daniel, taking off his hat.

The maître d' inclined his head and led the way silently to the small room off to the left. Beneath a fresco of an angel, the President of the French Republic was sitting at a small white marble table. He was wearing a dark coat and a claret-coloured scarf. He got to his feet.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Mercier.
' He shook Daniel's hand.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Président
,' answered Daniel.

Then, at the President's invitation, he sat down next to him. François Mitterrand ordered a coffee, which was brought immediately on a silver tray.

‘There is a reward, as indicated on the slip of paper,' announced the First Frenchman.

‘No,' said Daniel, quietly, ‘I don't want a reward.'

François Mitterrand gave a partly amused, partly resigned smile.

‘Since you do not want a reward, I will tell you a secret … This hat … I did not lose it in Venice, but in Paris, some time ago.' He paused. ‘It must have had quite a few adventures before ending up on this table,' he added, stroking the felt, ‘but we shall never know.' He stared at Daniel, smiling enigmatically.

‘No, we'll never know,' said Daniel, transfixed by the President's gaze.

There was a further silence, and then François Mitterrand bent forward to take small sips of his coffee. Through the half-open window, Daniel glimpsed the sunlit Piazza San Marco and the crowds passing beneath the arches of the Procuratie.

‘Do you come to Venice often?' asked the President.

‘I hadn't been since my honeymoon, but I've come back now with my wife and son.'

‘You are right to come back. I come whenever I can.'

‘Yesterday, we climbed to the top of the Bovolo,' said Daniel.

‘You are a man of taste, Monsieur Mercier. The Campanile is for tourists, but only those who truly love
Venice climb the Bovolo. There's a beautiful cloister just near here, too, the only example of Romanesque art in Venice. Very few people know it. I will show you on our way out.'

‘Thank you,' murmured Daniel.

‘When I think that there are people who say Venice is a melancholy place …' the head of state went on, blinking.

‘I'm not one of them,' said Daniel. ‘For me, Venice is uplifting … and Venice is beauty.'

‘Yes, beauty …' agreed François Mitterrand.

Daniel was living his reward, right here, right now. Beyond any material recompense, his wish, his dream, his heart's desire had been granted.

He had become the fourth guest at the President's table.