The President's Hat (4 page)

That very evening, Fanny Marquant boarded the train at Le Havre heading for Paris Saint-Lazare. She put her suitcase on the rack above seat 88.

Directly opposite her in seat 86 was a young man with long hair, wearing mirrored sunglasses and a Walkman. The badges all over his leather jacket showed rockers with spiky bleached hair, also in black leather. Through his orange foam-covered headphones, Fanny could make out the ‘The Final Countdown', Europe's hit single. Fanny personally preferred listening to a new singer on the block, a redhead with anxious eyes by the name of Mylène Farmer whose kooky style and romantic lyrics appealed to her far more than the electric guitar solos of some
bleach-blond
rockers. You could tell Mylène Farmer was well read; she knew her Edgar Allan Poe and Baudelaire, which Fanny, herself a keen reader and writer, approved of.

Fanny took out a pink Clairefontaine notebook where she had written the first three pages of a story called, simply, ‘Édouard'. The Prix Balbec short story competition was
offering a prize of 3,000 francs and publication in the local supplement of
Ouest-France
. The prize was to be awarded in March at the Grand Hôtel de Cabourg. Fanny had been writing for as long as she could remember, first diaries in little locked notebooks, and later pieces of creative writing she kept to herself until she finally plucked up the courage to send one in to a competition. ‘The Bouquet' was the winning entry; there was no prize money, but she had never before felt such a sense of recognition and pride. ‘Change of Address' came third in another local contest and ‘An Afternoon at the Harbour' was read out at Le Havre Theatre Festival.

The theme of this year's Prix Balbec was ‘A True Story' and Fanny was attempting to record for posterity how Édouard had come into her life.

Fanny, a secretary at the tax office in Le Havre, had been having an affair with Édouard Lanier for two years, five months and two weeks now. Édouard Lanier worked in Paris as an executive at Chambourcy, the famous yogurt brand splashed over billboards and TV screens everywhere. Édouard was also married with children.

Early on in their relationship, he had been careless enough to tell Fanny: ‘I love you. I'm going to leave my wife …' A moment of madness in the first flush of romance when he was still young enough to believe life would turn out just as he wanted. Realising the dizzying implications of his words, he had been saying ever since that he just needed time. It was his eternal refrain: ‘I need time … you need to give me time … all I need is time.' He went through every possible variation. Over the last two
years, Édouard had become more obsessed with time than the most meticulous Swiss watchmaker. He needed time to speak to his wife, time to make her understand and accept him starting over with someone else – and it was turning their sweet love affair sour.

These days, in the hotel room in the Batignolles district of Paris where they met once, sometimes twice, a month, when the fun and games were over, Édouard would tie his tie in the light from the closed shutters, looking wary and waiting for Fanny to ask timidly: ‘Have you spoken to your wife yet?' His face would fall and he would emit a barely audible sigh. ‘You know how it is, I just need time,' he would mutter, shaking his head.

And still Fanny went on loving Édouard. She had loved him from the moment he put down his briefcase in the compartment of the Le Havre–Paris train. Tall and slim with salt and pepper hair and a dimple on his chin, he ticked all Fanny's boxes in the looks department. The wedding ring on his left hand had not escaped her attention, but she was even more struck when it was slipped off shortly afterwards. It left behind an imprint, a little circle running around his third finger which faded over the course of the journey from Normandy to the capital.

All it had taken was a magazine falling to the floor, Édouard bending down to pick it up and handing it back to her with a smile, to seal the start of a passionate affair. If Fanny closed her eyes, she could go back to that one moment which had changed the course of her life. It was like an advert for cologne: man gets on train, pretty woman sits in carriage reading magazine, train starts
moving, woman drops magazine, man bends down to pick it up, meaningful looks are exchanged, manly odours mingled with the scent of cologne waft towards her, woman swoons. Life had handed her one of those cheesy moments usually seen only on TV screens and girl-
meets-boy
American romantic comedies.

Since then, Fanny had come to know the Le Havre–Paris route by heart, along with the occasional detour for a brief encounter in Rouen or Trouville. An average of
forty-five
trips a year, always paid for by Édouard and always taking place outside the Easter, summer and Christmas holidays which, it goes without saying, he spent far away from her, with his family. At the age of twenty-seven, Fanny had achieved the status of mistress. The question of whether she might one day be promoted to official wife was still up in the air, as was the possibility of promotion to executive secretary at the tax office. Her application for that position was ‘under careful consideration'. The recruitment process for her life role was at the same stage, ‘under careful consideration' by Édouard, whose inertia was thus on a par with that of the civil service.

‘You're perfectly happy with the situation. You'll never leave your wife, I know you won't,' she'd once said angrily.

‘That's not true,' he had objected. ‘I love you and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life with my wife, I just can't do it. We've stopped making love. There's nothing between us any more.'

‘Well, leave her then!'

Édouard had shaken his head, looking stricken, and uttered his favourite phrase: ‘You need to give me time.'

Fanny had fallen back onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling of the hotel room. This is going nowhere, it occurred to her, looking at him – and not for the first time. The history we share is a chance meeting on a train, our life together now is confined to a hotel room, and we have no future.

Fanny was right. It was difficult to go anywhere but the bedroom with Édouard. There was no way they could walk down the street holding hands or go round the shops
together. The one time they spent a whole weekend in Trouville, Édouard had convinced himself that everyone he knew was going to appear as if by chance at any moment. A work colleague, a friend of his, or worse, a friend of his wife's might be having a day out in the Norman fishing village. What if someone saw them? It was the same with restaurants. They had never ventured beyond the confines of Batignolles, where Édouard knew no one. But even there, the idea that some acquaintance might decide to dine at the same place made him turn round every time the door opened.

When they were together in Paris, Édouard would tell his wife he was on a business trip to another part of the country or abroad. This meant swotting up on train timetables, airport strikes and any local festivals he might be expected to know about, having supposedly been in town for them. Fanny understood that the pressure to stay on his toes was a burden on him; she, on the other hand, answered to no one. There was no one waiting up for her but her Minitel screen, on which she and Édouard planned dates and sometimes exchanged messages during the night. It was as if the machine had been invented with illicit lovers in mind.

It was impossible to call Édouard at home and difficult to get hold of him at the office, so they met by dialling 3615 Aline. Their aliases popped up a few times a month among the names listed in flickering columns on the left of the Minitel's black screen. Édouard was ‘Alpha75' and Fanny ‘Sweetiepie'.

Whenever Édouard found a gap in his diary, he would leave a message for Sweetiepie.
Free 22nd–23rd, how about you?
to which Sweetiepie would reply,
I'll be there, same time, same place
. Less often, they would meet virtually during the night. Édouard would creep out of the marital bed (taking great care to avoid creaky floorboards), turn on the screen, wait for the dial-up tone and meet Sweetiepie at the agreed time. They would exchange sweet nothings and promises. ‘You have a message,' it would flash at the top of the screen.

Sometimes, Sweetiepie found her correspondent wasn't Alpha75 after all but someone making obscene proposals she chose not to take up. As for Alpha75, he was occasionally contacted by men asking if he was free that night and up for real-life action or just a chat. Romance found a way through the murky new world of electronic connections.

Fanny had been sucked into a bittersweet ‘relationship' which revolved around seeing her loved one for a quickie a few times a month. She wished she could find the courage to end it with Édouard the next time she saw him, but she knew she didn't have it in her. This was not the first time she had felt so unsure, both of the situation and herself. If nothing changed between them, it could carry on like this for years.

She could find nothing to write in her pink notebook, so Fanny put the lid back on her pen and dozed off. Two hours later, she opened her eyes. She would soon be in Paris and the rain was lashing against the window. She sighed, remembering she had not brought an umbrella,
when her gaze fell on a black hat on the luggage rack. She looked around. There were only five passengers left on this late train, all of them sitting a good distance away from her. The felt hat could not belong to any of them. Fanny stood up as the train braked, took down the hat and put it on. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. The hat suited her, and it would be just the thing to keep the rain off her hair.

The black felt brim acted like a visor, compressing the space around her and marking out a distinct horizon. In Batignolles, a man did a double take as he passed her. What kind of image was she projecting, walking along in the moonlight in her denim mini-skirt, high heels, silver jacket and black hat? That of a hip eighties girl, young, free and sexy, perhaps a little bit forward … She stopped to look at herself in a mirror in the window of a boutique.

The hat gave her jaw line a new air of distinction; she had put her hair up in a bun to help keep it in place. Perhaps she should always wear it up like this and put on a man's black felt hat every time she went out. Donning the new accessory had made her feel somehow powerful; it had the same effect as the designer clothes she so rarely treated herself to. Take her Saint Laurent skirt and Rykiel heels, for example. All she had to do was put on the YSL skirt and she immediately felt more attractive. The same went for the shoes, which had cost her almost a quarter of a month's salary: as soon as she slipped them on and
did up the little straps, she felt taller, straighter and more significant. She walked completely differently, strutting along with confidence, and only she knew it was down to the hidden powers of the Rykiel shoes.

The rain had stopped and Fanny took off the hat. She noticed two letters embossed in gold on the leather band running round the inside of the hat: F.M. Could fate really have meant the hat for her? Here were Fanny Marquant's own initials.

‘Well, then … I'm not letting go of you, my friend, no way', she murmured, stroking the hat.

Then she tied her hair up, put the hat back on and set off down the road with an even more determined stride.

The Batignolles district was deserted but for a few indistinct figures far off in the distance, disappearing into the shadows of apartment blocks. The hotel was not far from here and Édouard would be waiting for her in their room. He would be watching TV or else lying on the bed reading
Le Monde.

As she walked through the lobby, she passed the receptionist. He nodded at her with a knowing smile. Fanny could not stand the man, who knew all the ins and outs of her love life. With his leering smile and creepy nod, she could imagine him roaming the corridors after dark, listening out for the sighs of lovers forced to meet at this crappy hotel. She began climbing the stairs, dragging her case after her, convinced he was looking at her legs. Second floor, room 26.

As she reached the door, she could hear the television
was on. A fierce debate was raging, a chorus of voices speaking all at once. It could only be
Droit de réponse,
the talk show Édouard liked to watch. The guests sat around the set smoking, shouting and getting worked up; as things got more and more heated, the host, Michel Polac, simply looked on in amusement, puffing on his pipe and narrowing his eyes. Fanny knocked on the door just as the round-up of the week in pictures was starting: Siné, Plantu, Wolinski and Cabu had drawn cartoons to illustrate the news. The actress Monique Tarbès provided the ironic commentary, rounding off with a jaunty ‘See you next week!' worthy of a market trader.

‘Come in, it's open.' Édouard was lying on the bed in his open shirt and boxers, and as Fanny came in he propped a pillow behind his back and stared at her. ‘What's with the hat?'

‘Nice to see you too,' she replied, bending down to give him a kiss.

Édouard kissed her tenderly, stroking up and down her neck the way she liked to be touched. He was about to move up to her hair and brush the hat off, when she stepped back sharply.

‘Hands off my hat.'

‘Your hat?
' he said, emphasising the possessive with a note of sarcasm. ‘Where did you get it from anyway?'

‘It's a secret, but it is my hat.'

On the television screen, a man with a cigar hanging from his mouth was busily stating the obvious. In protest, a small, bald man leapt out of his chair and appealed to Michel Polac, who once again appeared delighted to sit
back and watch his programme sliding into chaos.

‘It's a man's hat,' Édouard pointed out. He got up to turn the volume down.

‘So?' said Fanny, readjusting it over her hair.

‘So that means a man gave it to you,' continued Édouard, staring straight at her.

Fanny gave him a strange little smile. ‘Are you jealous?'

‘I might be. You come into our room wearing a present from someone else …'

The mood in the room had suddenly shifted. Fanny studied Édouard carefully. She loved his body, his hands; she loved his face, his voice, his hair. For the last two and a half years, she had loved all of that. She had been jealous of a phantom wife she had never laid eyes on and whose existence meant she could not be with Édouard. He, on the other hand, had never been jealous, yet this evening she could see the signs of it appearing on his face. How far could she take this little game with the hat Édouard took to be a gift from another man?

All the way, she realised in a burst of lucidity, surprising even herself. In the space of a few moments, the felt hat had emerged as the source of strength she had waited so long for. All at once, the cowardice which had prevented her talking to Édouard, perhaps even breaking it off, had vanished. Now she understood Michel Polac's approach: push it as far as it will go until the whole thing explodes, then sit back and survey the damage. Fanny shivered with fear and excitement. She took a step back, perched on the table and tilted her head to one side, all the while keeping
her eyes on Édouard. She was about to leap into the unknown and it was a delicious feeling, more satisfying than any sexual position.

‘Yes, the hat was a present,' she said softly.

‘Who gave it to you?'

The question opened a gaping hole at Fanny's feet. ‘A man,' she heard herself reply. ‘A man I met on the train.'

‘Like me?' Édouard instinctively pulled the white sheet up over his chest, as if literally to protect his feelings.

‘Yes, like you.'

‘How old is he? It's an old man's hat!' cried Édouard, too loudly for the time of night (though no sound came from behind the walls of sleeping Batignolles).

‘He's older than you, it's true,' began Fanny, gazing off into space, ‘but it doesn't matter. He's not handsome the way you are; he's beautiful in a different way. He's thoughtful and considerate, he loves me and he wants to live with me. I borrowed his hat – it's a little game we play – and I wore it all round Le Havre. I even wore it once when we were making love – I put it on and got on top …'

Édouard stared at her, rooted to the spot.

‘So he bought me one of my own, just like his. He got my initials put in it and gave it to me to remind me of him.'

Fanny took off her hat and smoothly passed it to Édouard, who turned it over to read the gold letters inside.

‘You'll never leave your wife and I'll never be anything more than the girl you meet in hotels at weekends, so I'm going to leave you, Édouard. Like that Gainsbourg song:
“Je
suis venu te dire que je m'en vais.”'

The words had come out of her mouth perfectly calmly and yet, inside, Fanny was in turmoil.

Édouard breathed deeply, keeping his eyes on her, trying to decide how to react – though since Fanny appeared to have made up her mind, his options were somewhat limited. He had lost. He had lost her.

‘Fine,' he said crossly. ‘You could have saved me a wasted weekend coming here. You could have just told me by Minitel.'

He got off the bed and grabbed his trousers. Fanny watched as though from a distance, as if Édouard were no more than a silhouette moving in the sunlight at the far end of a beach. He put on his trousers and angrily buttoned his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.

‘Waiting until half past midnight to tell me that …' he grumbled, scowling at her. ‘You want to leave me but I'm the one who's getting out of here!' he announced before kneeling down to look for his loafers under the bed.

It was as if the floor was on fire, as though the whole room was about to go up in flames. Yet in spite of his fury, he was surprised to find himself feeling a sense of relief. All the questions about his wife would finally come to an end now, along with his terse replies about needing time. He was tired of trotting out the same old empty excuses. OK, he had been dumped, but the truth was the
break-up
took a weight off him. As he put on his jacket, he was ashamed to admit he was both mortified and glad. Perhaps that was the most painful part of it.

‘Aren't you even going to try and stop me?'

‘No,' replied Édouard breathlessly. ‘No. You're cheating on me, you're leaving me, I'm going.' He did up the metal strap of his Kelton quartz watch and stood in front of Fanny. ‘Goodbye,' he said coldly, ‘you can keep the room until midday tomorrow.' Then he picked up his overnight bag.

‘Where are you going?' she asked gently, though the answer mattered little to her.

‘Maybe Lyon. That's where everyone thinks I am,' he replied, opening the door and slamming it behind him.

Fanny leant against the table, listening to Édouard's footsteps fading along the corridor, and closed her eyes. Her head was spinning. She slowly took off her jacket, then her skirt, her bra and shoes and finally her knickers and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, naked save for the hat on her head.

She took her perfume, Solstice, out of her bag and sprayed it over the pillows to mask the smell of Édouard. She took off the hat, laid it on the bed and turned out the light. She slid under the sheets and closed her eyes. Sitting beside her on top of the bed covers, the hat was caught in the moonlight. Fanny brushed her fingers over the soft felt before falling asleep.