1 Mr. Big Hat On The 16th Street

At 7:37 a.m. every morning, Mr. Big Hat passed in front of the bakery. Not that he has a specific shape or image, no. The only difference between him with the rest of the people who passed in front of the bakery was that every day, without exception, he wore a big black hat. Except on Sundays, when he wore a gray-colored serge suit and a long woolen ochre-colored overcoat over it, and there was no sign of that so-called hat; It seems to be a kind of Eucharist ceremony.

Every morning at 6:46 a.m., the clock on the oak colored coffee-table beside the bed rang three times, and I woke up with exactly the third bell; It's as if my brain is used to this repetition.

The small attic above the bakery was large enough to accommodate me. Not that I want to live in Four Seasons Hôtel George V or the Champs-Élysées or anything like that, no. But to be honest, sometimes you will fall into temptation! Youth and callowness and a thousand colorful wishes!

I was the only bakery apprentice, and my salary was enough to cover my living expenses. The name of our bakery was: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. It could not be stranger than this. Jesus Christ! Tchaikovsky and the Bakery? Maybe the great Mr. Tchaikovsky, prominent Russian musician, and composer loved French bread very much, I don't know! But one thing I was sure of, and it was that the owner of the bakery, Mr. Rochester, was from Poland and loved Tchaikovsky. Every day from 7:17 a.m. when the bakery gets opened, until 5:15 p.m. when the bakery gets closed, Tchaikovsky pieces from the only gramophone in the shop that was a souvenir of Mr. Rochester's maternal grandmother were played: Swan Lake Ballet, The Sleeping Beauty Ballet, The Nutcracker Ballet, Concertos, Symphonies, Operas, and even overtures. Fresh Tchaikovsky-flavored French bread!

Mr. Big Hat, with his same big hat, would walk past the bakery at 7:37 a.m. every morning and go straight to the newsstand across the street. In the rain, in the snow, in the winter, in the summer, in the autumn, or the spring, he did this, every day. It was as if he wanted to put his name in history. Maybe he was just suffering from dailiness! I had no idea how old he was or where he came from. The big black hat he wore covered his whole face. Maybe he was running away from the people of the city, maybe he was tired of seeing his face every day in the colorless shop windows. Sometimes humans hate themselves, let alone others!

Mr. Rochester was a Christian and had strong beliefs. Every Sunday, without exception, he went to the cathedral of the city and prayed. For the prosperity of the bakery, for the good fortune of himself, and the happiness of his two children. He had a 9-year-old son named Larry and a 5-year-old daughter named Marie, that was also the name of his late mother. His mother was very fond of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He was also a believer Christian. His painter wife had separated from him three years ago and was pursuing his destiny. And he, now was in his thirties, manage the bakery alone, and his older aunt caring for his two children. He was a good man and a better baker!

Mr. Big Hat sat in a faded green chair next to the newsstand and read the entire newspaper for exactly 23 minutes. He would get up, straighten the brim of his hat, cross the street, and head for the bakery.

Mr. Big Hat sat in a tacky green chair next to the newsstand and read the entire newspaper for exactly 23 minutes. He would get up, straighten the brim of his hat, cross the street, and head for the bakery.

Every day at 8 a.m. my heart beats fast. It is as if the great Tchaikovsky is singing inside me! Every day I waited for him to come to the bakery after reading his morning newspaper and order the same thing as usual: two croissants and a cup of espresso without sugar.

The man in the hat on his head, would come into the bakery six days a week, put his index finger on the croissants in the back of the shop window, choose espresso from the menu, and during the whole time he was in the bakery not say anything, even a single word. He did not take his hat off of his head even when he ate his bread and drunk his coffee! He was a strange man! A strange man in a hat on his head!

He always chose the table by the window. Every morning except Sundays, he would sit there, sipping his coffee, and look out the half-open window of the bakery at the street and the people. With the same big black hat on his head! I do not know what was going on in his head! But to be honest, I wanted to go and sit next to him and ask him what he thinks of himself every morning when he wakes up. Or what comes to his mind when Tchaikovsky's songs from the bakery's only gramophone played and a piece of croissant bread moves in his mouth and a sip of coffee goes down his throat? But I was not one of those people who disturbing the privacy and loneliness of a mysterious man in a hat on his head!

Every Sunday at 9:9 in the morning, Mr. Big Hat would pass in front of our bakery without any big hat. It was only one day a week that the bakery was closed. And I peeked out of the small, dusty window of my attic; stealthy! Honestly, his face was not clear at all from above, only a faint image of his silhouette could be seen. I was a young boy who was almost twenty and just a simple apprentice with a pittance paycheck. Jesus Christ! Mr. Big Hat and Me? humans were alive for the sake of dreams and my dream was talking and seeing the charming face of Mr. Big Hat!

In my mind, his voice was bass and deep. And when he spoke, his voice was a little wheezy. He may have smoked cigarettes for years, and he may have worn a black hat in grief over the death of his late wife, who died of tuberculosis at a young age and they loved each other deeply since childhood like Romeo and Juliet. Sundays? Maybe their wedding day was a Sunday in May. Maybe he was just used to wearing that big black hat! Human even gets used to dying!

Today was Sunday. A beautiful rainy Sunday in May. The bakery was closed. I woke up at 8 in the morning. I washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth. Then I swallowed half of a baguette with a cup of tea and hurriedly going to downstairs and waited by the bakery. Today was my 20 birthday. Today I must have discovered the mysterious puzzle of Mr. Big Hat!

that worn beige-colored raincoat that I was wearing was baggy on my body, and my short brown hair was not friended with me, and each one went to one side as if it had been hit by a tsunami! I lowered my head and counted the wet street's cobblestones in my heart.

One, two, three... four, five, six... he coming, not coming, he coming, not coming... he coming...

And the man in the hat on the head came at 9 a.m. And he stood right in front of me. I held my breath. My heart was pounding in my chest with tremendous speed. I did not even dare to raise my head. My mouth was locked and I forgot the words. I had lost my sanity!

Mr. Big Hat was standing right in front of me and was silent as usual. Maybe he was waiting for me to start talking. I said stammeringly:

- Bonjour...

- Bonjour Jeune Homme! (Hello young man!)

His voice was as I had imagined. Bass, hoarse, deep...

I was speechless. Sweat was drip from my head, and my hands were trembling in such a ridiculous way. I slowly raised my head. Today, Mr. Big Hat was still wearing the same big black hat on his head, and there was no sign of that gray-colored serge suit and that long woolen ochre-colored overcoat, and he was wearing only a dark blue colored raincoat on his white shirt, which fits well on his body. He had a bright smile on his face and his row of white teeth was flaunting among his red lips. He had gray color stubbles and a few small wrinkles in the corner of his mouth. Mr. Big Hat stretch out his hand and said:

- je suis content de te voir. (I am glad to see you.)

I stared straight into his eyes, where his eyes were probably, under that hat. I paused for a moment. And I took a few deep breaths. Then I slowly raised my hand and shook hands with the man and said mutteringly:

- Moi Aussi... (you too...)

Mr. Big Hat smiled again. Then he took off his big black hat and his face appeared. My heart stopped for a moment. If charm had a name, it could be said that he was charm himself! Maybe something beyond the word charm!

His eyes were jade-colored, his eyebrows were broad and thick, and his nose and forehead were long and wrinkle-free. His skin color was bronze and he was probably not more than 40 years old. Twice my age? I bit my tongue so that I would not have thoughts about those stupid thoughts anymore!

Mr. Big Hat patted on my left shoulder several times and said:

- Qui vivra verra! (Time will tell!)

Then he smiled faintly, put his black hat back on his head, turned his back on me, and mumbled in the same hoarse deep voice:

- En espérant se rencontrer, jeune homme. (hoping to meet you, young man.)

Mr. Big Hat, with the same mysterious big black hat that he wore six days of a week, one Sunday morning, at 9:9 a.m., at the end of Sixteenth Street, under the spring rain of late may, disappeared forever.