A Treatise on Shelling Beans

13

Did I not tell you? I thought I told you already. I went and bought it. Not to the nearest town. The nearest towns were backwaters, they might not have had anything like that there. I wanted a brown felt one. I walked all over before I found a hat shop. I might have passed it by, the display window was no bigger than my window here, and it contained nothing but caps and berets and a single drab-colored hat. Luckily, a bit further back, behind the caps and berets, kind of hidden, I spotted a brown felt hat. I perked up and went in. The store was dark, it long and thin like a hallway, the only light was what came from the display, and right at the far end, behind the counter, was the clerk. He looked to have been dozing, because when I came in he raised his head, yawned, and said quickly:

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a hat,” I said in an apologetic tone, as if for having woken him up.

“What kind?”

“A brown felt one.”

“We don’t have anything in brown felt. There aren’t any in brown. Generally speaking, what you see is all we have, young man.” He gestured toward the shelves behind him. There were peaked caps, other caps, berets, and no more than a handful of hats, most of them the same dull color as the one on display, plus two or three greenish ones, as far as I could make out in the gloom that reigned at that end of the store. “I bet you thought you’d walked into a shop, didn’t you, young man?” He grew so animated he sat up on his seat. He was a short man, but all of a sudden he seemed a lot bigger to me. “But this is no shop. And certainly not a hat shop. Before the war I had a hat shop. Now if you’d come to me before the war …”

I broke in:

“What about the one on display?”

“I can’t take anything down from the display.”

“Why not?”

“I’m only allowed to take things from the display when the display is changed.”

“When will that be?”

“Who can know. Who can know, young man. There has to be a new shipment so there’ll be something to change.” He seemed unwilling to forgive me for having interrupted his nap. “Besides, the one in the display is too big for you. You need the next size down, I can tell. Or even two sizes, if you got a haircut. Where did this taste for big shocks of hair come from? Everything evidently has to be changed. Everything’s all wrong.”

I figured my hair must have set him against me, since he himself was bald. At the time I had a full head of hair, and it made me embarrassed next to his shiny head.

“At least let me prove it to you,” he said unexpectedly in a milder tone. He took a tape measure, came out from behind the counter, had me stoop down, and measured my head. “Like I said, too big. I’ve been in this line so long I don’t even need to take measurements. One look at a client and I know right away, they’ll need such and such a size. And what style will suit them. What’s the right color for them. Before the client tries anything on I know all there is to know. If you want to give good advice you have to sense everything. Sometimes a different style or color might be better, but I take one look and I know which one the client is going to like himself in best, so I advise them accordingly. And which one they’ll like themselves in, that requires a lot more knowing than size and style and color. You might say that every client is a mountain, and on the summit of the mountain you need to be able to see the right hat. Though why am I even telling you this? As far as the hats are concerned there is what there is here, and there aren’t any more clients either. All of us, we’re just the ‘working people of city and country.’ As for brown felt ones, I don’t remember when I last had anything.”

“Do you expect to be getting any in?”

“Who can tell. Who can tell anything these days? You can tell that the sun will rise tomorrow, that much we still know. I put in an order. Way back. Including brown felt ones. Personally I like brown felt hats the best. I have one from before the war, it still does the job. These days, putting in an order means sending the thing off then just waiting and waiting. And even if it finally comes, it’s not the styles you asked for, or the colors, or the sizes. You’re lucky if the number of items matches up. Numbers still count some. Numbers fulfill the plan, so to speak, not styles or colors or sizes. It’s another matter that no one buys hats anymore nowadays. These aren’t good times for hats. It’s as if people are afraid to be too tall. Because hats make you taller. That extra two or four inches, depending on the style, it adds to your height. There was a time, everybody wanted to be taller. There were even special styles for shorter clients. I’ve worked in hats all my life, and in my old age I don’t understand any of it. You’d have thought that someone like me, who had a shop before the war — and not just any old shop, I even imported hats from abroad — that I ought to be able to read hats like you’d read the book of wisdom. But evidently that book doesn’t include present times. Before the war, if you’d come to me I’d have had just the right hat for you. What kind was it you wanted again?”

“Brown felt.”

“I’d have had a brown felt one, yes indeed. Would you prefer darker or lighter brown? Wide or narrow brim? By all means. Higher, lower? You’re quite tall, I’d suggest something a little lower. By all means. The client was actually a client. And the hats — you could tell a person from their hat. These days, though, big industry comes first, producing hats is a sideline. What about this one? It’s your size.” He took one of the dull-colored hats from the shelf behind him. “Try it on, go take a look in the mirror.”

“No thank you,” I said.

“Then perhaps this sort of greenish one? For a young face it’s even better. And it’s also the right size. I’d not suggest brown. Brown ages a person. Especially felt. There’s no reason to hurry toward old age, even in these times. It’ll come of its own accord. Oh yes, it’ll fly here on wings. You expect it, but still you’re taken by surprise. People aren’t able to come to terms with old age. You, you’re young, you don’t need to understand how painful old age is. Though at times youth is painful too. That’s how life is, there’s something painful at every age. The worst pain comes from inside a person. There was this one client before the war, I’d order the very best quality hats for him … I’ll never have clients like that anymore.” All of a sudden he seemed to remember something. “Wait a moment, I have just the thing for you. It’ll be perfect.” He started rummaging about among all the caps and berets and hats on the shelf, and from somewhere deep down he produced a cream-colored hat. He straightened it and said with pride in his voice: “This is from my old shop. Try it on.” When I said thank you but no, that wasn’t what I was looking for, he actually begged me: “What do you have to lose. Please, try it on. Maybe it was just sitting here waiting for you. That’s how it is sometimes, that a hat is waiting for a particular client. When the client finally shows up its destiny is fulfilled, so to speak. And not just the hat’s. Unfortunately, the client I mentioned probably won’t be coming back. Now there was a client. Simply brimming with life. He changed hats like he changed women, so to speak. I always knew he had a new woman when he came in for a new hat. The last time, he happened to be looking for something youthful, in cream. The color of desert sand in the glare of the sun, he said. In a whisper he added, there’s going to be war. You have to enjoy life before then, right up to the final minute, because this may be the last time. I told him I’d have something in a month, please come by. But he never did. And this is the hat. The color of desert sand in the glare of the sun. Please, do try it on. That way I’d no longer have to … Especially as I hide it under the other hats. This is a state-owned store, and here I am selling my own merchandise. From before the war. What if they found it during an inspection? Luckily there’s nothing to inspect here. They usually just have me sign a form that there was an inspection, the inventory was such and such, no discrepancies noted. Sometimes they try and reprimand me, saying the orders I put in are evidently too small and don’t include every kind of headwear, because the plan includes all different kinds and so I ought to have more in the way of merchandise. Sometimes they ask if I have any particular requests. But what kind of requests can you have in a state-owned shop, in a state job, when requests have also been placed under state control, so to speak. I mentioned that it would be good to have more hats. Of course they wrote it down. Had me say what different styles, colors, sizes, they wrote all that down too. Now I’m waiting for those requests of mine to be granted. One request I had was that they fix the lamp in here. For the last month, when it gets dark I’ve had to light a candle, because I mean I can’t shut up shop early. It says on the door that I’m open from such and such till such and such a time, and that has to be. When a client comes in I have to go up to them with a candle, how can I help you, because I never know if they can even see me here behind the counter.”

“What happened to the light?” I asked, all set to leave, especially since he’d given me no indication that he might take that hat from the display and at least let me try it on to see if it really was too big.

“The usual — it went out and it doesn’t work anymore. I checked the bulb and the fuses. They’re fine. There’s nothing more I know how to do.”

“Is it just in your shop?”

“As if out of spite, they have power in all the neighboring stores. Upstairs too, on all the floors. Throughout the whole building. The only problem is in here.”

“Do you have any tools? A screwdriver and pliers at least? I could take a look. Maybe something can be done.”

“You?” he said in surprise.

“I’m an electrician.”

“An electrician?” He was even more amazed. “Who’d have thought? Who’d have thought? I reckoned I could tell every client’s line of work. Your line of work is your character, and everyone’s character is written on their face. In their movements, their walk, their posture, their way of being. I was convinced … See what happens to a man when he works in a state-owned shop. These days it’s getting harder and harder to know people.”

“Do you have pliers at least?” I reminded him. “If need be, ordinary pincers might do.”

“Sorry, no.” He shrugged helplessly, as if he were confessing to some misdemeanor. “Wait a minute though, there’s a tool shop a couple of doors down.”

He scurried out. And before I’d had time to take a good look around — though truth to tell there wasn’t a whole lot to look at, except maybe for the mirror, which reached from the floor to over halfway up the wall — he was back with an armful of various tools. Screwdrivers, flat-blade and crosshead, pincers small and large, pliers; wire-cutters, a small hammer, a wrench, a roll of insulating tape, even rubber gauntlets.

“Why did you bring all this?” I said with a laugh. “It won’t be needed. First I have to take a look.”

“Just in case,” he said, visibly excited. “In the store they said that electricity is serious business.”

“Luckily I know that already,” I said.

He put it all on the counter, removing the hats he’d been offering me, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

“Who’d have thought. How can anyone not believe in serendipity. And serendipity is precisely destiny. Even in a state-owned shop. I mean, if I’d had a brown felt hat in your size, I’d still be without light.”

“That remains to be seen,” I said, trying to calm him down a little. But he ignored me.

“You’d have tried the hat on and bought it, and I’d still be sitting here by candlelight.”

“This switch is working,” I said, screwing in the clips that attached it to the wall. “But it would be good to replace it. It’s from before the war. The box has perished. I’ll check the lamp now. I just need to push the counter into the middle of the room, I won’t be able to reach it from a chair.”

“Of course, of course. Do whatever you need.”

I climbed onto the counter, took off the lampshade and unscrewed the bulb. The bulb was still good, but the socket was on its last legs, plus it was dangling by a single wire, the other one had broken off deep inside the line. I wrapped the socket in insulating tape to prevent it from falling apart completely, and cut away part of the line. I also had to cut a piece of it by the ceiling rose, because the insulation round the wiring came away in my hand. It was a fiddly job, it took me a long time. Meanwhile, the other guy seemed unable to settle down. He dropped onto a chair, but he couldn’t sit still for longer than a moment, he stood up again right away. He tipped his head back and watched what I was doing. He was suddenly overcome by doubt:

“Maybe I was getting ahead of myself?”

“No, we’ll figure something out,” I said, “so long as the wiring in the walls is still good. But it all needs to be replaced. And I wouldn’t put it off.”

He sat down again, jumped back up, went into the storeroom and came back. The he started rearranging all the caps and berets and hats on the shelves.

“I’m looking for someplace to hide this hat, since you’re not interested in it. Though I could already picture you in it, so to speak. On the street, in the park, walking along with the lady of your heart. You saying hello to people, smiling. Everyone looking back at you, wondering where you got a hat like that. The color of desert sand in the glare of the sun. And you got it from my shop from before the war. Could anyone ever describe the color of a hat in a deeper way? Desert sand. And a perfect fit. It’s like it was custom made for you. It’d stay on, I guarantee it. Because a hat ought to stick to your head like a soul to its body. It shouldn’t be too tight, because then it leaves a mark on your forehead when you take it off. And it shouldn’t be too loose, because that’s even worse, the hat goes one way and the head another. The hat ought to be obedient to the head, when you turn it left or right the hat should turn left or right with it. You tip your head up toward the sun, it shouldn’t slide forward; you lean down, it shouldn’t fall off. And in general you shouldn’t even feel you have something on your head. That’s what it means to have a hat that fits. Hats I know like the back of my hand, so to speak. My whole life has been spent with hats. Trust an old hatter. Who are you going to trust, what you see is all that’s left of hats, and before long it may all be gone. Then no one will ever be able to tell you anymore what hats once were. And that’s a big thing to know. In other kinds of headgear a person shrinks, disappears, loses their uniqueness. Of a Sunday, when I’d go into town, so to speak, wherever I looked there were hats from my shop. It goes without saying I carried all the accessories that go with hats: scarves, neckties, bow ties, gloves, even umbrellas. And the clients would always follow my advice. Naturally I gave it subtly, tactfully, so he’d be convinced it was his own taste guiding him. It’s common knowledge that not every person has the best taste. And taste is an important thing. Taste, so to speak, is more than just taste. Your taste determines how you think, feel, imagine, act.”

I decided I had to find something for him to do after all, because my hands were starting to shake. Even standing on the countertop I could barely reach the ceiling rose — it was a pre-war building with a high ceiling, and with my hands stretched up the whole time the job wasn’t going as well as I’d have liked. Plus there was his endless chatter down below. He’d evidently gotten carried away with the hope of having light, and perhaps out of gratitude to me he hardly even paused for breath.

“After all, isn’t life a question of taste, so to speak?”

I thought he was talking to me and I said:

“Pass me that flat-blade screwdriver, please.”

He handed it to me mechanically, and went right on.

“Some people like it, they’re glad to be alive, others live because they have to. I’d never have come to know people if I hadn’t had them as clients. Truth is, every one of us has the soul of a client. In that respect all souls are alike. It makes no difference who buys something and who doesn’t. Or whether you carry what he’s looking for or not. Excess or want, they both equally reveal the client in a person. Unfortunately, they don’t do much else.”

I asked him to go wash the lampshade, it looked like no one had cleaned it since before the war, it was blocking the light. He took it, but he didn’t leave right away. He spun the lampshade in his hands like a hat. I had to remind him that it wasn’t a hat, that he’d break it. It was only then he went into the back room. When he came back, I complimented him on doing a good job:

“It looks good as new.” I started talking about lampshades, saying that these days you never got shades like the one in his shop, and telling him what kinds people put up now. But he took advantage of a moment when I had to hold a screw in my mouth, and he picked up where he’d left off:

“Generally speaking hats are headgear, as they say. But it’s a different matter when it’s on the head of a particular client. Then, when that client stands at the mirror, it’s another matter again. Because who really sees themselves in the mirror at a moment like that? No one, let me tell you, no one. Who do they see? Exactly, who do they see? Maybe they themselves don’t know who they see, even though they’re standing in front of themselves. And that, so to speak, is the fascinating secret that makes it worth devoting your whole life to selling hats.”

“Pass me the file,” I said. “I can’t reach down, I have to hold this up.”

He started rooting around among the tools on the counter.

“It’s in your hand,” I said.

He gave it to me automatically.

“Now hand me those pliers.” I reckoned if I kept him busy passing me this or that, he might stop talking. “Take the screwdriver from me. Now give it back again.” Pass me that, take this from me. Pass that, take this. Instead of making the repair, it was like I’d succumbed to him, and I kept repeating: Pass that, take this, take this, pass that.

In the end I had him climb up on the countertop, stand next to me, and hand me tools or take them from me, because it was hard for me to reach his outstretched hand when he was standing on the floor, and I couldn’t always bend down. He pulled up a chair, climbed onto it, stood next to me, but not even that prevented him from talking.

“There were times that from the first glance you could tell the hat wasn’t right for the face, but the client said he thought this one looked best on him. You’d wonder who he was seeing that he’d chosen that particular one. Unfortunately you couldn’t say, That one doesn’t suit you, because it might sound like you were questioning not the hat but his face. What am I saying, face, it was as if you were questioning the image of himself that he carried. And after all, that’s something everyone has a perfect right to, everyone bears that image within themselves …”

“I dropped a screw. Could you climb down and find it?” Once again I was trying to interrupt him.

He popped down almost like a spring, he was agile for his age. And wouldn’t you believe it, he found the screw at once. You or I would have hunted all over for it. All he did was step down from the chair, lean over and pick it up. He climbed back just as quickly.

“Maybe it was like you were questioning his own unsatisfied need for himself, his thirst for himself, his longing for himself, because each of us allows ourselves something like that, it helps us to live. And you have to respect that in a client. Profit isn’t the most important thing when you’ve been dealing with hats as long as I have. Besides, you outgrow the desire for profit, especially when you’re nearer rather than further from the boundless place where profit counts for nothing at all. When you start to measure out your life with all the hats you’ve sold. When you’re visited more and more often by doubt about whether everyone was satisfied with the hats they bought. If I’d been certain of that I would have said, All praise to the hat. Unfortunately, I’m not. Despite the fact that even before the previous war, when I was more or less your age, I worked as a clerk in a hat shop. I began life with hats, so to speak, and I’m ending it with them. That includes two world wars. You might think that when it comes to hats I know everything. It turns out though that I don’t. And please believe me, young man, I learned this wise lesson only when my shop was taken over by the government. Though it is what it is, as you can see. In this way I was punished for daring to believe that I knew anything. Whereas in reality, what on earth do I know, as it turns out. The more so if you take as the highest measure of knowledge that you don’t even know that you don’t know, however much you know.”

This time I told him an untruth, saying I’d dropped another screw. And imagine this, he got down, found it, climbed back up and handed it to me. After that I stopped trying.

“Pass me the bulb and the lampshade, then you can step down.”

I replaced the shade and screwed in the light bulb.

“There’s nothing more can be done here,” I said. “Now it all depends on what the wiring’s like. Turn the switch.”

He turned it, the light came on. No, he didn’t explode with joy. He simply said:

“Oh, the light’s working.” He turned the switch again, the light went off. He turned it on again, off again, on, off. All at once he was gripped by a kind of anxiety:

“When you leave, will it still come on?”

“Sure it will,” I reassured him. “But all this is a stop-gap measure. You need to replace the fittings, the wiring, everything. And don’t delay.”

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, holding me back, because I was getting ready to leave.

“Nothing.”

“But I have to give you something for your troubles. Wait a minute,” he said, pausing to think. He suddenly went up to the display and took down the brown felt hat. “I can’t sell you a hat from the display. But at least try it on. You’ll see yourself that it’s too big for you. I wouldn’t like you to go away unconvinced.”

I put it on and looked in the mirror, while he put one of the dull-colored hats in the display.

“See? It’s too big, like I told you. And brown felt makes it look even bigger next to your young face.”

The hat fell down over my ears. Plus, when I saw my reflection in the mirror I started wondering if that was me with the hat on my head. Have you ever had those kinds of doubts about whether you are you? I’ve had them all my life. I always felt as if I was divided within myself into one person who knew it was him and another person who felt no closeness with himself. Into one person, shall we say, who knows he’s going to die, and one person who rejects the idea that it’s him and thinks someone else is going to die in his stead. I’ve never been able to be together long enough even just to sympathize with myself. Let me tell you, a person shouldn’t think too much about himself, or even more go probing himself. He is the way he is, and that ought to be enough. And whether he’s himself or not, let that be resolved in due course.

Standing in front of the mirror, with the outsized hat on my head, staring at my own reflection, I became painfully aware of that division inside myself.

“Are you shaving already?” he suddenly asked. I was taken unawares, and over there, in the mirror, I went red as a beetroot.

“Of course,” I said, though I don’t think it came out very confidently.

“How often a week?” He wouldn’t let up, as though he had some purpose in mind.

“It depends.”

“Don’t take offense, young man. I’d guess at the most once a week, on Sundays. I’m asking because brown felt isn’t a good match for a face that’s only shaved once a week. Actually, it’s the worst match. Aside from the fact that this one is too big.”

He caught me off balance with that remark, and I pulled the hat further down over my eyes, hoping it might not look quite so big.

“Not like that. Why hide your face?” He came up and tipped the hat back. “While your face is young it should be exposed, let the youth in it shine. It won’t be able to shine when it’s furrowed with wrinkles. Before the war it was mostly government workers that bought brown felt hats. In that respect nothing’s changed. Whenever they come to do inventory, there’s always one or another of them will ask if by any chance I have a brown felt hat. I don’t, how could I? Never mind that, they pick out another hat or a cap, usually forgetting to pay. And that’s the difference. Obviously I’m not going to say anything. I have to pay for it out of my own pocket. Though how can I do that when a month’s salary doesn’t cover a month’s living expenses. Those guys ignore the fact that it’s all state-owned, whereas me, I have nothing on my conscience. I mean, what could I have on my conscience in a place like this, you can see for yourself. This is all there is. Except that, unfortunately, it depends on them whether you have something on your conscience. Your conscience is state-owned too. There’s no longer any need for God to remind us about our conscience. Hang on, maybe a bit further back, so your hair shows a little in the front.”

He moved the hat so the brim pointed way up. And though I didn’t think I could wear it that way, he said:

“There, like that. That’s better. A lot better. Take a closer look in the mirror.” He pulled it down again slightly. “No, it’s too big after all. Too big. There’s no way of arranging it so you can’t tell.” Then, stepping back from me, as if he was disappointed: “Anyway, why are you in such a hurry to get a hat? You’ll have plenty of time to wear hats. You’re young, maybe you’ll live to see all sorts of different sizes, styles, colors. Someone has to have hope that someone else will live to see it. And who should have hope if not you young people. I’m too old now for hope, too old for this new world. That’s what the government people told me, that this is a new world and that I don’t understand it because I’m too old. I’d gone there to ask why the state was taking over my shop, they should just buy it from me. I wouldn’t be crazy about selling it, but I’d do it. It was then that one of them told me I don’t understand a thing. This is a revolution, citizen. I asked him, What does that mean? Revolution is revolution, the point is you have to believe in it. Don’t ask any more questions, citizen. Just sign here. No need to read it. Of course I signed. I even thanked him for being so kind as to tell me I don’t understand anything. Perhaps you’d like a peaked cap?” He went behind the counter and started taking peaked caps down from the shelves, one two, three. “Here, maybe this one. It’s even your size. Or this one. Or perhaps this one. This one’d suit you better. Of all kinds of headwear, peaked caps bring out youth the most. Though maybe you don’t want to look young? If that’s the case, when are you going to be young? Now is your only chance to look young. There isn’t all that much youth in a person’s life. Especially if their life goes on and on. And it can’t be put off till later. It’s another matter that the present times are not too favorable for youth. These days even the young don’t know they’re young.”

“Come on, things are not so bad,” I said, daring to disagree, because as I stood in front of the mirror there was no doubt in my mind that at least on the outside I was young.

“Appearances, appearances, young man. It’s dangerous to trust yourself so readily, especially as you can only see yourself in the mirror. You should think carefully about the brown felt hat, all the more since it’s too big. The moment you came in, there was something in your face that troubled me. I mean, I know faces. My whole life I’ve been finding hats to match faces. And for that you need both experience and distrust. With every face, you have to ignore its vulnerability and first expose separately the eyes, the forehead, eyebrows, nose, mouth, cheeks, the whole thing, in minute detail so to speak. Then piece it back together again in all its fuzziness or excessive clarity, reduce it all the way to indistinctness, so nothing prevents you from seeing its special mark that’s hidden, hidden deep as can be, but that exists in every face. Yes indeed, the face reaches deep inside a person. And each one needs a different kind of hat. Then it’s much easier to pick the right hat. Though at the same time you have to remember that in the process of choosing we also have to deal with the other side of the equation, since hats can be fussy too, crabby even. At times they can mislead you so badly you forget what you’re trying to match to what, the hat to the face or the face to the hat. Let me tell you, it hurt when a hat rejected a face but the client liked the way he looked in it. I felt sorry for every rejected face, though I ought to have been on the side of the hat. Not just because hats have been my whole life, that everything has revolved around them. Each new day would rise from behind my hats and go down again behind them at the end, so to speak. Hats swirled in my thoughts, my desires, my longings, my ideas. To the point that whenever I tried to imagine humanity to myself, it was always as an infinity of hats. There were times I started to wonder whether I wasn’t a hat myself. Though on whose head? On whose head? So I admit that when the state took over my shop I felt a sense of relief, young man. It was as if someone had released me from some duty. More, that I’d been set free. I won’t deny there was also regret, maybe even despair, but above all it was relief. Take the hat off a moment.”

I removed it, he took it from me and went behind the counter. He bent down and vanished from view, as if he were looking for something stowed away somewhere deep. I could only hear his voice from under the counter:

“There should be a newspaper down here someplace. A client left it one time. I don’t read the newspapers. Ah, here it is.” He reappeared. “Step up closer, please. And watch carefully. Fold the newspaper more or less to the width of this inner lining. Not too thick, or it’ll end up being too small for you.” He slipped the newspaper under the lining of the hat and pressed it flat, working his way around the whole circumference. “Here, now try it on. At least it won’t wobble about on your head. Or fall down over your eyes. If you take it off, just make sure you never set it upside down. The same when you hang it up, make sure the inside of the hat never shows. And most important of all, when you raise your hat to greet someone, never do it from too far off. The newspaper could fall out before you pass the person you’re greeting. And for goodness’ sake never ever lift the hat too high. You only need to raise it just above your head, or even just lift it up a little. It can be a big gesture, but the hat itself should only just be tipped upward. Let’s give it a try. I’ll give you a different hat and put yours on, I’ll show you.”

He gave me one of the dull-colored ones and had me step back by the display. He put the brown felt hat on and retreated to the counter.

“Oh yes, we should put the light on, since we have light now. It’ll be easier to see. All right, so we’re walking towards one another. Really slowly, like in a slow-motion film. There’s no reason to hurry. You’re approaching me, I’m approaching you. I’m the one who’s supposed to say hello first, and you’ll return the greeting. What I mean is, you’re not you, I’m you, as I’ve got the hat with the newspaper in the lining. Pay careful attention. We’re walking. I don’t greet you yet, we’re still too far apart. Only now, when we’re almost passing each other. And you don’t greet me, I greet you. You have to return my greeting. Don’t snatch the hat off your head like that, the newspaper could fall out. Never mind that I’m wearing the brown felt hat, you’re the one who’s practicing. You raise your hand over your hat, like this. Slowly. Or like this, in a big broad gesture, depending on who you’re saying hello to. It looks as if you’re going to lift your hat almost to the height of your outstretched arm, but in fact as you pass one another you don’t remove your hat at all, or you only raise it up very slightly. Sometimes a gesture alone can serve as a greeting. But don’t forget to look back after you pass, just in case. Because if it turns out the other person has looked back as well, you can make an additional motion with your hand as if you were just replacing the hat on your head after the greeting. Let’s try it one more time. This time you have the hat with the newspaper, and I’ll take yours, and we’ll switch roles. We’ll see how you manage. Come over here, to my place, I’ll go over by the display.”

We practiced several times, and each time he corrected something in my greeting. Then in the middle of one of the practice runs, before we’d had time to greet each other, it was like he suddenly woke up, he came to a halt, winced winced a little as if from shame and said:

“Hand me the hat, please.” He took the newspaper out. “Honestly, what am I teaching you here!” He put the hat back in the display, taking out the dull-colored one he’d put there in its place. “I’m going to the dogs. I’m not myself. What I’ve been showing you is an embarrassment. A hat lined with newspaper. At one time that would have been unthinkable. A greeting was a greeting, a ritual so to speak. You’d think I was trying to deprive you of all the pleasure of wearing a hat. I find it hard to even imagine you greeting a lady with a hat lined with newspaper. It’s another matter that there are no ladies anymore either. They’ve all died off or flown away. Times aren’t good for ladies either, so to speak. And if you walk down the street, you can see what’s happened on the street also. You get elbowed, trodden on almost, and no one even apologizes. I rarely go out these days. Just to and from the shop. Not to mention what people wear on their heads. I try not to look. Have you noticed how ugly the world has gotten? So what that it exists? I’ve always been drawn to the beauty of the world, not just its existence. It’s too big for you, it’s too big. Not to mention that it’s rejecting your face.”

He opened a drawer under the counter, took out a thick notebook and almost tossed it over to me at the end of the counter.

“Please, write that you’d like a brown felt hat, in your size.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s the requests and complaints book. Though I’d not use my own name if I were you. Just sign it: A client. I tell everyone the same.” He picked the notebook up and turned the pages fretfully. “It’s almost full. What people haven’t written in here. See, there’s a poem. And a picture, though it’s dirty, very dirty, don’t look at that page. OK, here’s an empty page. Please. Please. You really must.”

“What am I supposed to write?”

“Whatever you like. If you don’t want a hat, you can write whatever you’d like to have. Clients write all sorts of things. Not just about hats. I never tell anyone what they should write. Either way I’ll never show it to the inspectors. For them I have another book. This one, see.” He took another notebook out of a different drawer. He flipped the pages and put it in front of me. “This one’s empty, as you see. Nothing but stamps and signatures to say it’s been checked. Whereas in that one, anyone can write anything they want. Because who are the clients supposed to write to? God? What if God doesn’t know our language? Because if He did, if He did …” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, his nose, his forehead. “I’m so sorry. In the midst of all this I forgot that it’s thanks to you I have light.” He stuffed one notebook into one drawer, the other into the other. “I’m thinking about it … But no, no. It’s too big, it really is too big. I knew the moment you walked in that it wasn’t your size. I was even worried, because not only was it on display, but that would be the one you wanted, a brown felt hat, I could tell right away. At first glance, so to speak. The first glance usually tells us the most about someone. When that first glance of ours strikes against their face, and for a split second it becomes sort of dazzled, fully open, so to speak. So the moment you came in, my first glance told me everything about you. What could it possibly have said? Well, it told me your coming here was the kind of coincidence that sometimes turns malicious and changes into destiny. That’s right, that’s right, young man, destiny is no more than a particularly malicious coincidence there’s no longer any getting away from. You came in here despite the fact that I don’t have any brown felt hats in your size. You may not have known I didn’t have any, true. But you’re not aware of why you’re so set on brown felt. It’s not that you want something that isn’t there. Though young people have the right to want what isn’t there, even things that are impossible. Nor is it important that a brown felt hat wouldn’t be right for your young face. That’s not the point. The point is that you’re passing yourself by, so to speak. You’re walking past yourself and you don’t recognize that it’s you. I’d hoped you might go for the cream-colored one. But you scorned it. Against your own best interests. In discord with yourself. Then who are you? An electrician, you say. You work on a building site. You fixed the light in here, so that would confirm your story. Let it be so. I can see you have a young face, not fully hatched, so to speak. Let it be so. True, young faces are usually the hardest, in that a young face virtually by its nature is still unfinished. It’s in constant flux, it brightens and darkens in turn. You think you’ve managed to grasp something permanent in it, then all at once it evades you, vanishes, the face you see before you keeps changing. But I’m absolutely certain that in your face I was able to grasp something. Namely, that in you nothing quite fits, so to speak. That you’re the wrong size for yourself, in yourself even. And you’re the wrong size for the one brown felt hat in the shop — not the other way around. Being the wrong size is your calling, so to speak, the hallmark of your existence, as revealed in the oh-so-malicious coincidence that there’s only the one brown felt hat, and it happens to be on display, and I can’t take it down from the display. Plus, it’s too big for you. Everything in you is the wrong size that can possibly be the wrong size in a person. Which is to say, it’s too big. To put it simply, you feel strange within yourself, you bump up against yourself inside, so to speak, you don’t match up with yourself. The thing is, though, that you can’t line yourself with newspaper, young man. Although who knows, who knows, these days the impossible sometimes becomes possible. In a word, in yourself you feel like that hat on your head, but in reverse. As if something were carrying you along and giving you an ever-changing shape, sometimes even blowing you away in the wind. I don’t know why I’m saying all this to you. I’ve always been touched by younger clients. Especially since the state took over the shop and I’ve had a lot more time to think about things. Believe me, I can stare at a young face the way you stare at a painting. And even when no one young comes in for weeks on end, I can imagine such a face. The barely marked features that won’t firm up enough to reveal the still distant shadow of death. Because death is the most exact measure of youth, old age doesn’t need any measure. Youth is a state of weightlessness so to speak, the only one in your whole life. How can it be measured then, if not with death. There is no other measure, since a young person needn’t even be aware of the fact that they’re young. True, awareness always comes too late, regardless of age. That’s the nature of our fate as humans, that it’s always too late. Always when everything’s already over. Because it’s awareness that is our fate, not life. Whether our life was worth the living or whether it really might not have been — that’s only decided by fate. Life is what goes on disconnectedly, without purpose, day after day, most often at the whim of chance, that since we’re here we have to be here. Whereas people have made fate out to be a kind of validation of life. And it’s only the short time of youth that allows us to see what a happy eternity could look like. So many years, so many years among these hats, and youth still awes me — me, an old hat seller. Especially when a young person is buying a hat for the first time in their life. This is your first hat, right? I thought so. I knew it the moment you walked in. Pardon me for asking, but how long have you been an electrician?”

“Since right after I left school. I first started work during the electrification of the countryside.” I was getting ready to leave, my fingers were already on the door handle, but I was held back by his question.

“I see,” he said.

I didn’t have the courage to ask what he could see, because it seemed to me there wasn’t anything to see.

“Why did you leave that job?” he asked.

“The pay was bad,” I said. But there was something else in his question. It was like he knew I’d left because of the saxophone. To mislead him, I went on: “Rain or no, frost or no, you had to sit perched up on those poles —”

He didn’t let me finish.

“How long have you been at your present site?”

“I just got my first wages.”

“OK, now I understand everything.” There was a clear note of dejection in his voice. “At such a young age, at such a young age a brown felt hat …” He went up to the display, took down the hat and said as he handed it to me: “Try it on again.” Then he went behind the counter, sat down, rested his head on his hands and didn’t say another word.

The hat was much too big. It seemed to fall even further over my ears than before. When I shook my head it wobbled. When I went up to the mirror, it looked too big. When I stepped back, it was still too big. All the same, I stood in front of the mirror waiting for him to confirm it: “See, it’s too big. Too big. You must have finally realized it yourself.”

But since I heard no word from him, I took the hat off and put it right by him on the counter. At that moment he asked unexpectedly:

“Will you wear it, or shall I wrap it for you?”

No, I wasn’t pleased, as you might think. I’d realized I had no choice. And I said:

“Wrap it, please.”