The President's Hat. Antoine Laurain

capable of defending their interests better than the most radical union representative, the best, most articulate lawyer. They praised his calm demeanour, his air of assurance, the extraordinary way he had of saying the unpalatable with the utmost tact.

      ‘True class,’ said Michèle Carnavan.

      *

      Back in his office, Daniel settled into his swivel chair, stroked his hat, which he had placed on the desk in front of him, and savoured the quiet of the room. He closed his eyes. He had got through the meeting without being assailed by one of the waves of anxiety that had plagued him since early childhood. On the contrary, he had experienced a sense of serene calm. Just a few days ago, the very idea of a confrontation with Jean Maltard would have raised his blood pressure and brought on an attack of heartburn with the last bite of lunch. Tense as a bowstring, he would have played back their exchange over and over again in his mind, castigating himself all afternoon for some clumsy phrase, some word or point that had, unquestionably, caused him to hand the argument to Maltard. Daniel would have emerged ashen and drained at the end of the day.

      Not so now. He felt fine, as one might at the seaside, walking in the sand, late on a summer’s afternoon. This new state of affairs came as no great surprise. It was as if the real Daniel Mercier had finally stepped out into the light of day. The earlier model was just some unfinished prototype, a work in progress. He raised the Venetian blind on his office window, letting the winter sunshine stream in, and immersed himself in his SOGETEC files once more.

      It was well past seven o’clock when Jean Maltard pushed open his deputy’s glass door, without knocking.

      ‘Staying the night?’ he asked drily. ‘There’s no overtime for deputy departmental managers …’

      Daniel looked at him, unruffled. ‘I’m just finishing the SOFREM file, then I’m going home.’

      ‘Finish it tomorrow,’ Maltard cut him off. ‘Close of play. Department’s all cleared off home. You do the same.’

      Without a word, Daniel put the top back on his Parker pen, engraved with his initials, a present from Véronique on their fifth wedding anniversary. He got to his feet, switched off his computer and his Minitel terminal, and put on his felt Homburg. Wearing a hat gives you a feeling of authority over someone who isn’t, he thought to himself.

      Sure enough, Jean Maltard suddenly looked a great deal smaller. He seemed to be shrinking before Daniel’s very eyes. A bug shrinking down into the pile of the carpet, buzzing furiously. Daniel had only to tread it underfoot …

      ‘You’re not going to get away with this!’ said Maltard suddenly. ‘You’re waiting for a call from Desmoine, aren’t you?’ he added, with a venomous smile.

      ‘He’s already called actually.’

      That was a shock to Maltard, who stared at Daniel dumbfounded. ‘He’s already called you?’ He pronounced each word slowly and carefully.

      ‘Yes,’ replied Daniel evenly, putting on his coat.

      ‘What did he want?’ demanded Maltard.

      ‘Breakfast. On Friday.’

      ‘Breakfast with you,’ said Maltard under his breath, as if muttering a spell that must not be spoken aloud for fear of the consequences.

      ‘Yes, that’s what he said.’ Daniel bent down to slip a folder into his briefcase. There was a long silence, then he shut the clasps, the metallic snap signalling that it was time to leave.

      The two men rode down in the lift without speaking, and parted in front of the entrance without shaking hands. Maltard watched as Daniel walked away, then went into the nearest café and ordered a double rum. The departing figure of his deputy in his coat and black hat haunted him for a good part of the night.

      The secretary brought croissants and eggs which looked as if they were wearing woolly winter hats. Daniel supposed the crocheted accessories were there to keep the eggs at the right temperature. I’ll have to tell Véronique, he thought. Jean-Bernard Desmoine sat opposite him. Both men were installed in large white leather armchairs near a window on the eighteenth floor of the SOGETEC building, overlooking Paris. Having such an elevated office must surely give its occupant a feeling of superiority.

      ‘Tuck in,’ said Desmoine, snatching the knitted hat off his egg. ‘I’m very particular about how my eggs are cooked,’ he added, smiling.

      So that was it, thought Daniel, remembering at the same time that the correct way to break the top of a soft-boiled egg was with the back of a spoon, not a knife, as he did at home. He lifted the hat from his egg and rapped the top of the shell.

      ‘Daniel, I won’t beat about the bush. I was very impressed by your analysis of the plans for the finance department.’

      Daniel embarked on a suitably humble reply, but was interrupted before he could finish.

      ‘No need to say anything,’ said Desmoine. ‘No false modesty, please. I’m not one for false compliments. Coffee?’

      The director poured him a cup. If someone had told Daniel, just a few days before, that Desmoine himself would be serving him coffee, he, Daniel, the man who stood in line at the seventh-floor coffee machine, waiting for his plastic cup to drop …

      Desmoine dipped the tip of a croissant in his coffee and chewed, at the same time proceeding to outline Daniel’s future with wondrous precision and clarity: ‘You see, I know a thing or two about people,’ he announced with the confidence of those who have their own offices on the upper floors of tall buildings. ‘People and business,’ he mused. ‘You don’t get many surprises in our line of work. People are judged on their first year in the post; after that, they either develop or they don’t. But no surprises. Do you get my drift?’

      Daniel nodded, his mouth full of croissant, indicating that he did indeed get Desmoine’s drift.

      Desmoine took it upon himself to pour Daniel another cup of coffee. ‘Important to drink coffee,’ he added. ‘Balzac drank litres of the stuff. You’ve read Balzac, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ Daniel confirmed, never having read Balzac in his life.

      ‘You really are a resourceful fellow. Why hasn’t SOGETEC got you in a more important post? You should have a position better suited to a man of your quality.’

      ‘A position …’ muttered Daniel. ‘You mean …’

      ‘Maltard’s a complete arse,’ interrupted Desmoine. ‘Anyone can see that. But for reasons that are no concern of yours and which give me very little pleasure, I can assure you, I am obliged to keep him where he is. On the other hand, I want to promote you to director.’

      Daniel stared at him, his croissant suspended over his cup.

      ‘Daniel, I’m offering to make you director of one of SOGETEC’s regional finance departments. I know you’re based in Paris, but it’s all I can offer you. Pierre Marcoussi heads the Rouen department, but he’s leaving for health reasons. It’s not official for the moment. You’ll start in January.’

      The hat. It was the hat that was responsible for the events that had turned Daniel’s existence on its head in the last few days. He was convinced of that. Since he had taken to wearing it, the hat had conferred on him a kind of immunity to the torments of everyday life just by being there. Better still, it sharpened his mind and spurred him to take vitally important decisions. Without it, he would never have dared speak to Maltard as he had at the meeting. He would never have found himself on the eighteenth floor sharing a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs with Desmoine. In a strange way, he felt that something of the President was there in the hat. Something intangible. Some microscopic particle perhaps. But whatever it was, it had the power of destiny.

      ‘Thank you,’ Daniel muttered, addressing the hat as much as his superior.

      ‘So you accept?’ asked Desmoine, swallowing his last mouthful of croissant.

      ‘I