A Treatise on Shelling Beans (41 page)

“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.