Читать книгу The President's Hat - Antoine Laurain - Страница 10

Two men sat down opposite the head of state. One was large and stocky with glasses and curly hair, the other slender, with grey hair swept back in an elegant wave. The latter bestowed a brief, benevolent smile on Daniel, who summoned what remained of his composure and attempted to smile back. He recognised that face with its piercing eyes and narrow lips. And then he remembered who it was. It was Roland Dumas, who had been the Foreign Minister. Dumas had handed over to a successor when the Socialist Party had lost its parliamentary majority eight months ago.

I am dining next to the President of the Republic, Daniel kept repeating to himself, trying to convince himself that, irrational as it might seem, it was really happening to him. He barely noticed the taste of his first oyster, so preoccupied was he by his new neighbour. The strangeness of the situation made him feel as if he might wake up any moment at home in bed and find that it was all a dream. Around the restaurant, other diners were pretending not to gaze in the general direction of the table next to Daniel’s.

As he picked up his second oyster he glanced discreetly to his left. The President had put on his glasses and was reading the menu. Daniel took in the famous noble profile, seen in magazines, on television and every New Year’s Eve for the past five years. Now he was seeing that profile in the flesh. He could have put out a hand and touched François Mitterrand.

The waiter returned and the President ordered a dozen oysters, and the salmon. The large man chose mushroom pâté and a rare steak, while Roland Dumas followed the President’s lead with oysters and fish. A few minutes later, the wine waiter appeared with a silver ice bucket on a stand containing another bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé bathed in ice. He uncorked the bottle smoothly and poured a little into the presidential glass. François Mitterrand tasted it, approving it with a brief nod.

Daniel poured himself another glass of wine, and drank it down almost in one, before taking a teaspoon of the red shallot vinegar and dressing an oyster.

‘As I was saying to Helmut Kohl last week …’ Daniel heard François Mitterrand say as he ate his oyster. Never again, he told himself, would he be able to eat oysters with vinegar without hearing those words: ‘As I was saying to Helmut Kohl last week’.

A waiter placed a small carafe of red in front of the large bespectacled man who immediately poured himself a glass, as another waiter brought the starters. The fat man tasted the pâté, which he said was good, and launched into a story about wild mushroom terrine. The President swallowed an oyster while Daniel removed a pin from the cork covered in silver paper, ready to make a start on the winkles.

‘Michel has some wonderful wines in his cellar,’ confided Roland Dumas, with a knowing air.

The President looked up at him, and Michel continued with an account of his cellar in the country, where he also kept cigars from all over the world, and dried saucisson. He was as proud of his saucissons as he was of his cigars.

‘How original, to collect saucissons!’ said François Mitterrand, squeezing his lemon.

Daniel swallowed his tenth winkle and glanced once more to his left. The President had finished his last oyster and was wiping his mouth with the spotless white napkin.

‘Before I forget,’ he began, addressing Roland Dumas, ‘our friend’s telephone number …’

‘Yes, of course,’ murmured Dumas, reaching into his jacket pocket.

The President turned to his coat, picked up his hat and placed it 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.

‘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 was enjoying the story and François Mitterrand smiled, saying, ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ but he said it jokingly, encouraging the speaker to continue.

‘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.

‘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!’

‘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.

‘A very beautiful woman,’ he concurred.

‘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 …’

‘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.