The President's Hat Read Free

behind the brass bar that ran around the top of the banquette. He took a leather notebook from his coat pocket, put his glasses back on and leafed through the pages.
    â€˜The last name at the bottom,’ he said, handing the notebook to Dumas, who took it, silently copied the name and number into his own diary, then passed the book back to François Mitterrand, who put it back in his coat pocket.
    Michel began another anecdote about a man whose name meant nothing to Daniel. Dumas looked as if he wasenjoying the story and François Mitterrand smiled, saying, ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ but he said it jokingly, encouraging the speaker to continue.
    â€˜I assure you it’s true, I was there!’ the large man insisted, spreading the last of his pâté on a piece of bread.
    Daniel listened to the story. He felt as if he were sitting in on a private, rather risqué gathering. The other diners in the brasserie counted for nothing. It was only the four of them now.
    â€˜And what about you, Daniel, what do you think?’
    Daniel would have turned to the head of state, and uttered things of great interest to François Mitterrand. The President would have nodded in agreement, and then Daniel would have turned to Roland Dumas and asked his opinion. Dumas would have nodded, too, and Michel would have added enthusiastically, ‘I agree with Daniel!’
    â€˜That woman is remarkably beautiful,’ said François Mitterrand, quietly.
    Daniel followed his gaze. The President was looking at the brunette in the red dress. Dumas took advantage of the arrival of the main courses to turn round discreetly. The large man did the same.
    â€˜A very beautiful woman,’ he concurred.
    â€˜I agree,’ murmured Dumas.
    Daniel felt a sense of communion with the head of state. François Mitterrand had ordered the same wine as him, and now he had spotted the same woman. It was quite something to have the same tastes as the First Frenchman. Indeed, the convivial exchange of half-expressed appreciations of womenkind had cemented many a masculine friendship,and Daniel fell to daydreaming he was the fourth man at the President’s table. He too had a black leather diary from which the former Foreign Minister would be delighted to copy out contacts. The fat man’s cellar held no secrets for him, indeed he visited it regularly, savouring
saucisson
and lighting up the finest Havana cigars the world had ever seen. And of course, he accompanied the President on his Parisian walks, along the quaysides of the Seine, past the
bouquinistes
’ stalls, both of them with their hands clasped behind their backs, discoursing on the way of the world, or simply admiring the sunset from the Pont des Arts. Passers-by would turn back to look at their familiar silhouettes, and people he knew would murmur,
sotto voce,
‘Oh yes, Daniel knows François Mitterrand very well …’
    â€˜Is everything all right?’
    The waiter’s voice interrupted Daniel’s reverie. Yes, everything was very good indeed. He would make his seafood platter last as long as was necessary. Even if he had to stay until closing time, he would not get up from his seat on the banquette before the President left. He was doing it for himself, and for others, so that one day he would be able to say: ‘I dined beside François Mitterrand in a brasserie in November 1986. He was right next to me, this close. I could see him as clearly as I can see you now.’ In his mind, Daniel was already rehearsing the words he would use in the decades to come.

 
    Two hours and seven minutes had gone by. François Mitterrand had just disappeared into the night, flanked by Dumas and the large man, after the maître d’ had ceremoniously held the door for them. All three had finished their meal with a crème brûlée. The large man had removed a cigar from a leather case, telling them he would light it outside and