Free The President's Hat by Antoine Laurain Page B

pubowned by Renault, the police headquarters on Île de la Cité, and Rue de Rennes.
    November – Action Directe assassinated the head of state-owned Renault, Georges Besse, at point-blank range outside his house. That same month, TV impressionist Thierry Le Luron also died.
    And this evening, 31 December, the French taken hostage in Lebanon, Marcel Carton, Marcel Fontaine, Jean-Paul Kaufmann and Jean-Louis Normandin, had still not been freed.
    Aslan fetched some champagne, a dry Canard-Duchêne, the official supplier to the higher echelons of the army, popped the cork and poured himself a glass. He saluted the television with it and, as was his habit – one which caused Esther to roll her eyes – declaimed the motto of the French cavalry: ‘To our wives! Our horses! And those who ride them!’
    As he swallowed the first fizzy mouthful, the television showed the illuminated courtyard of the Élysée Palace at night. Classical music played and ‘Best wishes from François Mitterrand, President of the Republic’ appeared on the screen in yellow letters.
    The image then faded gracefully away and the head of state appeared, sitting at his desk in front of the gilt of the Élysée Palace, the French flag in the background and a very beautiful golden inkwell in the foreground.
    â€˜My dear compatriots, I am grateful to the tradition that allows me for the sixth time to wish you a Happy New Year’ – at that moment the camera zoomed slowly in on the President – ‘and to send, in your name, expressionsof friendship to those living in hardship from poverty, unemployment, illness, solitude or from the long anguishing wait for the return of a loved one. The good wishes I send you are the same as always,’ he went on with easy charm: ‘that France unites when it is important, that France protects and develops its democracy, that she survives the challenges of the modern world.
    â€˜The events of 1986 have shown how crucial it is to stand together without faltering against terrorist threats; they have shown that more than ever we must work to reduce unemployment; they have shown we must …’
    The President’s voice was gradually lost to Pierre as a thought took shape. He was no longer listening. As he remained immobile on the sofa, his eyes were running slowly round the room. Vanilla and
kérakac
… but also jasmine. He looked up and closed his eyes … sweet myrrh … but also the subtlety of leather … a new perfume hung in the air. A combination of scents that corresponded to nothing known. It was incredibly subtle for a smell found in an apartment, an unusual coming together of notes which were balancing and adjusting themselves with each passing second.
    Pierre opened his eyes. The perfume wasn’t in his head, it was here in the room. He turned towards the radiator. The hat was drying on the heat of the metal. That was what it was.
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    He rose slowly and carefully so as not to disturb a single molecule of air and approached softly. The Eau d’Hadrien and Solstice had mingled in the moisture of the snow anddrawn in a hint of burning wood from Parc Monceau.
    â€˜My dear compatriots, when I see what so many French men and women are capable of, in so many spheres, leaders in the fields of science, the arts, industry and sport, when I see the quality of our workers, our managers, our farmers, when I look at the role that France has played in international affairs, I am sure that we have everything it takes to succeed. All we need to add is the determination to succeed, and to do it together. Happy New Year, long live the Republic, long live France!’
    The three smells were mingling and complementing each other in the heat. The perfect fusion, the ideal marriage. Pierre held his breath, then brought his face close to the hat. Time stood still. When it happened he thought he would faint. Sublime, divine, the perfect