The Magic Beanie

In this account, I will give my friend the borrowed name of Andrea. His modesty matches his generosity, without an ounce of pride or vanity, as though the world's darkness never quite managed to reach him.

He rarely confides in anyone, almost never about his own troubles, out of a kind of politeness of the soul that refuses to burden others.

His rebellion, when it comes, two or three times a month, in the late afternoon, boils down to a single sentence after a day without a break: "Let's go for a drink!" Since Coke remains his drink of choice, it is never a matter of alcohol, but always a moment of joy set against a darker stretch of time.

It was at the Dorian, his beanie set on the table, that he told me this story.

Andrea travels a great deal, and always with perfect order: only the essentials, and never anything lost along the way.

That day, a flight from Geneva to Venice, then the coach to reach his beloved Ferrara. Customs behind him, he heads for the bus station. The Venetian breeze reminds him of his beanie, and that is when he realizes he has lost it, he who never loses anything. A feeling of panic overtakes him: once through customs, there is no going back, no way to make it back to the plane. He can only retrace the few dozen meters from the checkpoint, which he paces up and down, a Camel smoked almost in one breath to the rhythm of his pacing, and nothing.

Reader, I can sense you smiling. Such agitation over a beanie?

It was the last gift from his mother, who had passed away not long before. Since then, it was no longer quite a beanie, but a kind of talisman, an unconditional protection, the sort that only a mother knows how to give, and that no practical use could ever fully explain.

Stunned by the loss, he mechanically resumes his path. At the foot of the coach, on the ground, a pale object, made of wool. The same logo. His beanie. He picks it up, overjoyed, and sits down.

He could have stopped there, content, but during the journey he tries to piece together what happened. The beanie had been lying in a spot he had never come anywhere near.

Easy enough, though, to imagine an explanation: someone, in the crush of passport control, must have found his beanie fallen to the ground. They must have picked it up, then, distracted in turn, dropped it a little further on, right where Andrea would find it.

Andrea smiled, seeing in it a sign, a wink from providence. He turned the beanie over in his hands, delighted, then set it on his head. It no longer fit snugly the way it had a few hours before. Impossible, he thought. Examining it again, the brand and the colour were the same. The size was not. An L, where his own had always been an M…