Albert Camus in a funny hat

Albert Camus in a funny hat.

Albert rode in the taxi like it was on fire. It was September, and
Paris was charmingly uncomfortable again. The frequent and vicious
potholes that bucked the ancient taxi were a character trait of this
metropolis. A city like Paris, one that combined immense cultural
wealth with an arrogant blindness of basic needs, often saved its worse
disdain for the humans who insisted on travelling the banal outer
roads, out of sight of the ministry buildings and the more expensive
hotels.

Albert the passenger braced himself just above the grimy seat, and
gritted his teeth in preparation for the next painful drop in the road.
The lugibrious taxi driver merely shifted his cigarette from one side
of his mouth to the other, he had no reason to react to anything
anymore, not since his beloved Lucie had died at the Tuilirie Gardens
last year. This passenger, wearing that ridiculous easter bonnet, with
the flock chicks and the crudely-cut garlands, was just another
fare.

Albert had forgotten about the easter bonnet, it had never occured to
to him that he should remove it,once the ceremony with the policeman
had been completed. It had now become a matter of pride, that he should
take a taxi ride to the furthest hinterland of Paris and walk the six
miles back into the city centre, wearing an easter bonnet.

After handing over the very last of his money to the taxi driver,
Albert started the long walk back to the Rue de Rivoli. It was there
that he would later be meeting Mireille, she with all the right
connections. She filled his thoughts to such an extent that he didn't
notice the pointing and giggling from by-passers. His walk had a motive
energy, a kinetic aplomb, and he weaved like a centre forward he had
once known called Regie.

The laughing increased with each new crowd that Albert moved through,
this furrow-browed dark paletted man, with that ridiculous hat in the
September afternoon. This was all the research he needed to complete
his next novel, a measured and elegaic treatise on the essential
alienation of modern european life. It would be called, " A hat is not
death ". Albert caught sight of himself in a shop window and stopped.
He looked old, the lips that tightened around the cigarette had thinned
considerably since his fecund youth. The mid-walk posture was shot to
pieces, his shoulders cowered into his neck like cowards at a
bullfight. The hat really did look ridiculous. The acid yellow chicks
had once seemed anarchic and full of jouissance, now they simply looked
bewildered, out here on the Paris street. The ziggaratesque garlands
looked tired. The sky blue cap on which they sat had cost a hundred
francs from Justerini et Broliere, a Captain's wage. Now that the cap
had been glued and pinned with a collection of dusty easter
decorations, it's cheapness came through.

Albert Camus and his funny hat arrived an hour and a half later on the
Rue de Rivoli. His footsteps stammered to a halt when he espied
Mireille. She was standing on the pavement, talking to an older thin
gentleman who wore american sunglasses. When she saw Albert
approaching, despite his face falling into that irresistible boyish
repose, she let out a scream of horror. The older thin gentleman
stepped forward with a look of complete and abject horror at the sight
of easter bonnet. Mireille recovered to laugh coquettishly and hold a
delicate hand against her pure throat. Albert swivelled to allow them a
further examination of his bonnet, with camp embellishments using his
hands.

" Albert, you darling fool. Let me introduce you, this is Jean Paul
Sartre. Jean, this is Albert Camus in a funny hat. "

The end.