WHERE IT'S HATS 2007-11-25 We ate a very good dinner ; we drank some good wine. The conversation rolled from films to oysters and helicopters. It was very pleasant. The epileptic dog the other guests had brought with them behaved well and managed not to have a fit. A good dinner is light enough to enable you to walk to the sea-front for coffee, in the warmth of an August night. The wind had died down. One of a few perfect days in an otherwise rather rotten summer. Sandy is sitting in front of me, with a décolleté looking like quick sands, a blonde with a black dress and a black bra to take care of the equipment. I behaved well and did not have a fit either. She is an American who lives in Paris, doing research work for documentary films. She has an interesting face too. I thought she was very Parisian when she said that the steamed courgettes were the best she had ever had. Admittedly they were excellent. Alan writes biographies, sells books which are collector's items on Internet, and has an exceptional memory for what he calls trivia. He has a wealth of anecdotes on anybody who is anybody in any part of the artistic world, and a natural talent to tell a good story. A “raconteur”, as they say. Only the three of us decided to go out for coffee. The others had to talk shop a little longer. They said they might join us later. We understood they probably wouldn't. So we showed Sandy the local boardwalk, carousel, sweet stands, jazz band, game arcade... Everything looks as if it has always been that way : there is certainly a sense of permanence in the atmosphere. Does it go back to the 1900s? The damage from the very severe winter storm is unobtrusive. The turn of the century houses with gables still stand proud with their funny names. The lights are slightly shimmering on the islands across the sound. We do not feel there is magic in the air, being too pragmatic, but it could be a night like this. A tattoo artist is working next to the café. Alan has done a radio program on tattoos in Australia and interviewed a man who had tattoos all over his body. Really all over. When he asked him if his penis had been tattooed, the man answered that yes he had Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, may be a few other cartoon characters and a fish "on the knob". Alan felt he was expected to ask "why a fish ?" - "It's for catholic ladies who do not eat meat on Friday", the man answered. Alan told this in a much better way. I wonder why I remembered this one. Something like that would come right out of the blue from the starry sky. There are some strange people in this world, as we all know. Not everybody gets to meet them though. It was eventually getting a little early in the morning and we headed back at a leisurely pace. I picked up the hat I had forgotten at their place. The other guests were gone. I walked on back home on my own. My straw hat comes from the Tunisian island of Kerkenna, a fisherman's hat, with a hole burnt through by a candle. I tell people it was a bullet. I sometimes wear it on my boat, but it tends to get blown away. Although it was night I figured I would not look any more stupid wearing it than holding it in my hands. It would protect me from moon strokes. I do not walk so often these days. It is nice feeling. I was in no hurry. I could develop the sense of movement that I liked. It got to be somewhat like a slow motion of my mind. The wall of the cemetery kept the tombstones out of my view and did not bring the slightest morbid thought as my well-worn docksides took me past it. I don't trust docksides if I have to walk some ways, but this was all right so far. Further down the road the street lights were a bit brighter. There were tall trees and longer shadows. Suddenly, I saw myself on the ground in front of me. With my hat I looked like a gaucho straight form the pampa. I felt like an actor. Was this a Texas ten gallon hat on John Wayne's head ? I kept growing taller, more like Lucky Luke really. But, I know I can't shoot. I vanished. And bumped into life again.. Maurice Chevalier and his canotier, or Fred Astaire, if not Paul Auster. An advertisement for Porto with a silhouette. I am not sure about the brand name. It was like walking up and down on a levelled pavement, a roller coaster of the mind. I fell into the sewer manholes, into the nether world. They wanted to welcome me. I plunged into my ever moving shadows as they came, mutated and went. Yes, this long one I have seen before. A hieratic posture with a knight's long vertical spear. Where is the horse ? Where are the windmills ? I will fight before the wind comes. I will take up the challenge. I had heard so many stories during the evening, or was it the mellow digestion of spiced peaches marinated in wine with a raspberry coulis ? An exquisite dessert. The Bordeaux bottle had had "Claret" on the label. I was getting confused. Double-entendre? So many suggestions. I am a simple man. I had not been drinking too much. It must have been the kinetic effect. Like these early projectors, or these cut paper figures form the East. Where was I ? Was I really myself ? Could I have been the tattooed man ? I had to make up my mind or get lost in an unknown dimension. I must say I chickened out. I decided not to dissolve. I wanted to remain with my feet on the ground. The world of shadows was not for me, yet. I remembered a Roger Rabbit blonde in the real world of toons. Wasn't that worth getting back to basics, back to earth. Or was it Sandy ? I am hopeless. I always fail to catch on when I get a wink from true adventure. I try to develop my skills though ; may be someday I will succeed. Life can be a long story, and you have to walk past many a lamp-post. Beware of dogs urinating, and of Greeks carrying torches. Pascal Legrand Visiteurs : 264 Back to home