Daniel Mercier went up the stairs at Gare Saint-Lazare as the crowd was pouring down. Men and women hurried distractedly past him, most clutching briefcases but some with suitcases. In the crush, they could easily have knocked into him but they didn''t. On the contrary, it seemed as though they parted to let him through. At the top of the steps, he crossed the main concourse and headed for the platforms. Here too it was crowded with an uninterrupted tide of humanity flowing from the trains. Daniel forged his way through to the arrivals board. The train would arrive at platform 23.
He retraced his steps, and stood next to the ticket-punching machines. At 21.45 train number 78654 creaked into the station and released its passengers. Daniel craned his neck, looking for his wife and son. He saw Véronique first. She waved, then described a circle above her head, finishing her gesture with an astonished look. Jérôme meanwhile made a bee- line for his father, flinging himself at his legs and almost tripping him up. When Véronique reached them, slightly out of breath, she stared at her husband.
''What on earth is that hat?'' ''It''s Mitterrand''s hat.'' ''I can see it''s Mitterrand''s hat.'' ''No,'' Daniel corrected her. ''I mean this really is Mitterrand''s hat.'' When he''d told her at the station that it really was Mitterrand''s hat, Véronique had stared at him again, her head on one side, with that little frown she always wore when she was trying to make out if he was having her on or not. The same frown as when Daniel had asked her to marry him, or when he''d first asked her out on a date to an exhibition at the Beaubourg. In other words, the frown that was the reason, amongst others, that he had fallen in love with her. ''What do you mean?'' she had asked incredulously.
''Have you got Mitterrand''s hat, Papa?'' ''Yes I have,'' Daniel had replied, grabbing their bags. ''So you''re the president?'' ''Yep, that''s me. President of the Republic,'' Daniel had answered, delighted by his son''s suggestion. Daniel had refused to divulge anything further as they drove back. ''I''ll tell you all about it when we get home.'' Véronique had pressed him, but he stood firm. When they got up to their sixteenth-floor apartment in the fifteenth, Daniel announced that he''d made supper. Cold meat, chicken, tomato and basil salad and cheese.
Véronique was impressed - her husband rarely made dinner. First they had an aperitif. ''Take a seat,'' said Daniel who had still not taken off his hat. Véronique sat. And Jérôme snuggled up beside her. ''To us,'' said Daniel, solemnly clinking glasses with his wife. Jérôme copied them with his Orangina. Daniel removed his hat and held it out to Véronique.
She took it carefully, running her finger over the felt. Jérôme immediately did the same. ''Are your hands clean?'' his mother asked anxiously. The she turned the hat upside down, and her eye fell on the band of leather running round the inside. The two gold letters stood out clearly: F.M. Véronique looked up at her husband. The evening before, Daniel had stopped his Golf at the junction.
He''d turned off the radio, cutting off Caroline Loeb as she droned on about liking cotton wool. The hit song with its slow, insistent refrain was now stuck in his head. He had massaged his aching shoulder, trying unsuccessfully to get the crick out of his neck. He hadn''t had any news from his wife and son since they''d gone to spend the holidays in Normandy with his parents-in- law. Perhaps there would be a message on the answering machine when he got home. The tape was starting to wear out and hadn''t been rewinding properly for the last few days. He should really buy a new machine. How did people manage before answering machines, wondered Daniel? The telephone rang and rang, no one answered it, and then they rang back later, that''s how.
The idea of shopping on his own then making supper for himself in the silent flat was unbearable. He had started fantasising about going to a restaurant - a really good brasserie, perhaps - at about four o''clock that afternoon as he was checking the last of the expenses submitted by the SOGETEC auditors. He hadn''t been to a really good brasserie for at least a year. The last time had been with Véronique and Jérôme. His son, only six at the time, had been very good. They had ordered the seafood platter royale, a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, and a hamburger with mashed potato for Jérôme, who had declared, to his father''s great disappointment, that he didn''t want to try the oysters. ''Not even one?'' ''No,'' said Jérôme, shaking his head. Véronique had defended her son, ''He''s got plenty of time.
'' It was true. Jérôme had plenty of time. It was eight o''clock now, and the early winter cold was already gripping the city, muffling its sounds and the noise of the passing traffic. He had driven past this particular brasserie several times before. Now as he drove tentatively from the boulevard to the next street, he finally spotted it. That was definitely the one, with its big red awning, oyster bar outside, and waiters in spotless white aprons. A meal all on his own, with no wife and no child, awaited him inside. A meal like he used to enjoy occasionally before he was married.
Back then his salary hadn''t extended to anywhere as smart as this. But even in the modest establishments he''d frequented, he had always eaten well, and never felt the need of company as he savoured andouillette , a decent cut of beef, or a dish of whelks. The fading light held the promise of a bachelor evening. What a pleasing phrase. ''A bachelor evening,'' he repeated, slamming the door of the Golf. Daniel was experiencing the need ''to find himself,'' as the one of the guests had said on a recent programme on Antenne 2. The guest was a psychotherapist who''d written a book about stress at work, and was on the programme to promote it. Daniel found the concept appealing.
This gourmet interlude would allow him to get back in touch with his true self, to throw off the stress of the day, and to forget about accounts and figures and the recent tensions caused by the reorganisation of the finance department. Jean Maltard had taken over as director, and Daniel, who was deputy director, couldn''t see anything good about the appointment. Nothing good at all, not for the department as a whole, nor for him personally. Crossing the boulevard, he was determined to put his worries right out of his mind. When I push through that big door, he told himself, there will be no more Jean Maltard, no more SOGETEC, no more expenses slips, no more VAT. Just me, and a seafood platter royale. The white-aproned waiter had walked ahead of him down the line of tables where couples, families and tourists sat chatting, smiling or nodding their heads, their mouths full. Along the way, he spotted seafood platters, entrecôte steaks with pommes vapeur , faux-filets with Béarnaise sauce.
When he had first entered, the headwaiter, a rotund man with a slender moustache, had inquired whether he had booked. For a moment, Daniel thought his evening was over. ''I didn''t have time,'' he answered tonelessly. The headwaiter had raised an eyebrow and peered closely at the evening''s list of reservations. A young blonde woman came over. ''Twelve called to cancel half an hour ago,'' she said, pointing to a name on the list. ''And no one thought to tell me?'' The headwaiter was visibly annoyed. ''I thought Françoise had told you,'' the girl said offhandedly, wandering off.
The maître d'' had closed his eyes for a moment, his pained expression suggesting the full extent of the self- control required not to explode with fury at this latest blunder. ''Allow us to show you to your table, Monsieur,'' he said to Daniel, nodding to a waiter, who immediately hurried over. All brasseries have brilliant white tablecloths that hurt the eyes, like snow on the ski slopes. The glasses and the silverware really do sparkle. For Daniel, the characteristic glitter of tableware in the best brasseries was the embodiment of luxury. The waiter returned with the menu, and the wine list. Daniel opened the red leatherette folder and began to read. The prices were much higher than he had imagined, but he decided not to worry about that.
The plateau royal de fruits de mer was framed in the middle of the page, in elegant calligraphy: fines de claire creuses et plates de Bretagne , half a crab, three different kinds of clam, prawns, langoustines, whelks, shrimps, cockles and winkles. Daniel took the wine list and looked for a Pouilly-Fuissé or -Fumé. This, too, was more expensive than he had anticipated. Daniel ordered his platter, adding a half- bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. ''I''m afraid we only have bottles,'' said the waiter. Daniel didn''t want to appear miserly. ''A bottle will be fine,'' he said, closing the wine list. Couples, on the whole.
Tables of men in ties and grey suits like his own, except that theirs were clearly from the best designer labels. They might even have been made to measure. The four fifty-somethings seated a little further down must be celebrating the end of a tough day and the signature of a decent contract. The quartet sipped at glasses of no doubt excellent wine. They each wore the calm, confident smile of a man who has succeeded in life. At another table beneath the large mirrors, an elegant brunette in a red dress was listening to a grey-haired man who Daniel could see only from the back. She was half- listening, in fact; from time to time her gaze wandered around the.