Read Online The President's Hat by Antoine Laurain - Free Book Online Page B

forty-two, whereas, with my beard, I looked my age … Or perhaps it means I looked sixty with my beard.’
    â€˜I would have said you looked sixty,’ declared Fremenberg.
    It was so rare for his psychoanalyst to speak that each time it happened Pierre felt his heart beat faster. Once he’d got over that, he turned towards his analyst.
    â€˜You thought I looked sixty?’ he asked drily.
    Fremenberg looked at him unblinkingly until Pierre looked away. And they didn’t exchange another word for the whole of the rest of the session.

 
    In the solitary days that followed, Pierre maintained his convalescent rhythm, rising at ten o’clock in order to shave with the greatest care. Then it was time for the television news with Yves Mourousi, followed by the lunch that Maria prepared for him. The rest of the day was happily spent reading magazines, or going out to buy various things like batteries for the remote control, spare light bulbs for the lamps, or new soles for his shoes.
    The owner of Renovex, the chemist’s on Rue de Levis, thought he was looking better and told him so. She also said that it was a good idea to get rid of the beard and that his hat was very elegant.
    These unexpected compliments made him feel as if he had a new lease of life in the eyes of others. He was no longer that palely loitering and silent figure that no one ever spoke to. The subtle transformation had begun when he had started to wear a hat again. Wearing an accessory which recalled his glory days made him feel as if the old Pierre Aslan was reaching out to the disillusioned man he had become.
    The felt hat was the only thing that he had taken possession of in a long time; it was something he had chosen, unless the hat had chosen him. Left on a bench, it could have been picked up by anyone. How long had it been there anyway? Even though he would never know who the official owner of the felt hat was, the mysterious F.M., from now on it was his hat.
    Â 
    The arrival of the hat in Pierre’s life was responsible for a second change to his daily wardrobe. He discarded his old sheepskin jacket. One Sunday, after watching an episode of
Magnum
with an interest that surprised him, Pierre decided to go for a walk in the park. This broke his pattern of only going to the park on Friday before his appointment with Fremenberg.
    It was so cold it felt as if it was about to snow; in fact Yves Mourousi had warned that it would probably do so on Monday. He walked with his hands in his pockets and the hat on his head. The park was almost deserted. The only people he passed were a pack of flushed joggers, jaws clenched and all wearing Walkmans.
    He was passing the roller-skating rink where reckless children raced round, hanging on to the handrail to stop themselves from falling, when he noticed
kérakac
– the smell of burning wood. He followed the smell to a part of the park that was out of bounds to the public. He saw a column of smoke rising behind a bush.
    Â 
    Pierre walked over and found a gardener burning deadleaves and dry wood, turning them over with a pitchfork. The gardener looked at Pierre.
    â€˜You’re not really supposed to be here,’ he said.
    â€˜I’m sorry, it was the smell of burning wood that attracted me.’
    â€˜You like it too? Well, in that case, you can stay. There’s no one here anyway, and tomorrow it’s going to snow.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    The gardener nodded and put his hand on his lower back. ‘I can feel it here. It’s my personal barometer.’
    Then he used his fork to scoop up a pile of dead wood and throw it on the fire. The two men stood there lost in thought in front of the crackling fire with its white smoke rising in curling plumes.
    â€˜Can I ask you something?’
    â€˜Go ahead,’ said the gardener.
    â€˜Could we burn my jacket on the fire?’
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜My jacket, do you think it would