It's mid-November in Buchy, not far from Rouen amidst a crisp, sunlit region of SouthernFrance. Carved leaves of slivers of purest amber are kissed with almost imperceptible crystals of dewfrost at the rise of the sun, but over day's leisurely course transform into damp, crushedsilks underfoot on the cobbles. Two brothers are approaching along the humble tributary of the boulevard which branched from bridge across the canal. They share the intent to lavish their morning together with a pleasantstroll exploring the locality whilst they stop off en-route back to their home on the East Sussex coast, Angleterre.
Each of the couple seem wearied by the lengthytimeliness of their journey from Paris, but not so utterly exhausted by their adventures as to dismiss an opportunity for furtherexbidition to follow. Onward, therefore, they trudged. Handcrafted brogues rhythmed the streetsurface as they walked in merry conversation. Their demeanour was one of a lighthearted nature ofcourse but in life we cannot suppose that the nakedeye of any givenperson would ever be able to judge the souls of the strangers they encounter. Few possess the cursedgift of perception which allows an insight into another's deepest woes and joys. No-one should ever have to assume that there maywellbe a familiarity with true pain beneath their smiles - memories of loss, of years of corporealsuffering, of the ultimate tormentofheartbreak. Those these understandings are not unknown between the two, their sensivities are never so much as to alter their spiritedstride. Step after step the two take, one assisted by the brotherly arm readily hooked for its counterpart, given that legs so sparrowed by the degenerativeimplications of relievingandresorative medicine can sadly never hope to parallel the span of the sturdier limbs in play. It was not until these men had lost sight of the anticipation of anyother ounce of evidence that human life continued to exist in the area, that uponaglance they happened to distinguish a door amongst the terracedhouses. Certainly, there was nothing remarked about garnetvarnished entry besides its mutedcomplexion; no, it was besideswhich: it was the gaze of the figure behind oysteredlace curtains, the bibliotheque's 'Peeping Tom' incarnate that, barely even halfnoticed by Norman and Roger, remained the most noticed of all. They were nearly passed the wooden gateway before the slightest creak expressed amidst the laughterpeppered silence that another secretsoul may have mustered the courage to make itself known.
The pair greeted the decrepit gentleman with all the semicoherent courtesy of English (and scarcelyfluent) citizens in a foreignregion but not without occasionalglance at the gnarled and stained nails stemming from fingers like roots exposed within the terrain beneath an ancient oak - thus not offering outstretched hands for him to shake.
Though behind the must dusted windows to the front of the shop were abundant in their array - hats of all shapes, sizes, colours: from the rim of the most extravagant of which flourished blooms of seasonal flora or the plumage of fine pheasants; others of a more modest nature including plaid flat caps or sober black trilbies - the shop was clearly closed. It was almost as though the passions of its holder had not yet expired but now, after the years of wear and weight of time no longer possessed the youth of vitality required to expose oneself quite fully to the burdensome energies of the outside world. Nevertheless he greeted the brothers and devoted the best part of an hour at his front door passing them hat after hat to try. The travelers were acquiescent to the recluse's efforts, gratefully accepting each item that was passed in their direction and taking endeavours accentuated with boyish delight to position each upon their heads. They followed polite nods at the aged orchestrator of the performance and muttered 'Mercis' by expressively glancing and smiling at one another as they displayed and adjusted their new accessories with such due tentativeness. Needless to say the caution remained whilst being handed each hat: the convenience of the communicativebarrier rendered by the players' divergence in language allowed one brother to deftlyutter 'Careful R, those fingernails look like they could have been anywhere,' to the other who chuckled under breath at the curious notions of the filthiest possibilities in such a suggestion.
It's the hidden gems that make life precious. Finding an obscure hat boutique tuckedaway amongst the cobbled streets of Buchy; that tarnished coin left unnoticed by passersby, oblivious to the fortune said to be blessed to the discoverer of the smallcopperedwealth forgotten upon the stoney terrain at the harbour in the eveningtime; the faint suggestion of a smile upon the countenance of the sober streetwoman as she hangs out her children's and her grandchildren's and perhaps even her greatgrandchildren's laundry from various suspensions around the front garden with an apparent bitterness - or at least melancholy - that one would assume might betray any glimmer of warmth left in such a heavyheart. These are the things which lift the soul. As such was this mysterious character's undusted emporium. Though hardly refined like the sparkling shopfronts amidst the main streets in the town, even its inhabitant so seemingly weathered by time, the place sung of a rare authenticity and true, avid spirit which almost suffused through the thick mist of alabastersoot which threatened to billow in clouds at any sudden movement. Even the old man's beard, tinged still with the slightest russet hue within the curlmatted wires of silver, grew thick and nearlyaslong as his waist as though inviting the lateautumn leaves fluttering in the breeze (on the remarkable occasion that he opened his frontdoor) to become entangled in unbrushed mane and remain there for perhaps more than weeks before detected by the fellow. There was even the most bizarre conviction prowling within N's mind that the gentleman had surely died forsometime and had only momentarily awoken from his mortal stupor in order to settle his culturallyenthused visitors before returning to his deathbed for his final and eternal rest. Perhaps these jewels of age were the source of its Gothic charm. The indeterminable light fused with its gloomy opponent that its breathed thick, unilluminated heaviness in every corner caressed by shade. The touches of the ornate, of the sublime, of nature's fruits and delights - from the pages endowed with reams of scrawled calligraphy or musicalphrasing which spilled from the mahoganyleather spines of gold leafed folios, leaving only the scarcest glades of woodenfloorboard underfoot; to the vast landscape prints of the oilpaintings by Turner and Monet and Boudain adorning the farthest walls in obscurity; to the greyfaceted glass in solitude on the windowsill beneath its accessorial accompaniments, from which bowed a withering neck nearly bowed nearly double under the weight of its wiltingcrimsoned head; to the liminal atmosphere rendered by the ghostly presence of the landlord. There is something almost strangely romantic about deathshadowed aspects, a certain enticingflavour to the scents through which they've breathed. A Freudborn thinker might suggest that the appeal lies in the bittersweetfaith that death remains the one certainty, the absolute nonpareil that we all in time will grasp without exception or mercy from life's feeble clutches - its irrevocableness, though sobering, remains a higherpower that we can rely on withoutanydoubt. Fear may tincture our pansophy at the inevitability of our fates but there can be nosuspicion that in this we can wholeheartedlybelieve; for the truth of our prophetic prediction is proven manytimesover each flittering second of everyday. We are born, and from that very moment we all experience an incongruous process of growthanddecay until the hands of the clock coalesce and finally chime at their eleventhhour, when we will expire at last. Some, too intune with the pathetique melodies which pur beneath their lifeblood, a dissonant, flattenedseventh humming on the footpedals of the cathedral orchestra as some exultant hymn is playedabove by the choirboy, can do little else but be prematurely crushed by the prospect of their demise. The fragile yet feeling of those few may even unconsciously expedite their finale - seeking an end to suffering such a ceremonial affair that remains inarguably brief amidst the infinitude of time in which we are born, in favour of the groundingstate of satisfiedpermanence. Death is the lover upon which we can always depend. Indo-European mythology's Grim Reaper will never be the seducer to whisper sweetnothings in the crookbetweentheneckandthe ear one night before fleeing in advance of sunrise. Though chosen walkers of this earthly realm may glimpse him round a dark corner, perhaps even greeting him directly in his menacinglybewitching eyes, or even coming close enough to brush his icyfingertips or closer, or closer still. No-one will evade this childsnatcher's embrace eventually. There is something perpetually comforting in the things that we know.
Evening's sultry imminence swooning toward those standing impressed that headway must be made and swiftly if the misfortune of a missed ferry departure was to be avoided. Twilight's glowing affection upon their inklyfelted hats was enough to indicate that it was time for hats were due to be gratefully returned to their owner, sincerest yet mispronounced thanks given, and obsoletely though notimmodest merchant's offers to be declined with a register of utmost respect. After incomprehensible attempts for his impassioned last sale and stuttered farewells the door was drawn oncemore with such poignant finality that the solely quiet tone of the closingclick might shed a tear in an outsider to the event, let alone the brothers who had seemed to learn and love so much in that brief instance. With that sound the chapter was complete, and the artists parted. As the immemorial fellow gathered his mostdelicate curtains to impart their finishing tapestry, the brothers went on their way to conclude the coda of the piece. Gentle, hearttouched steps upon the cobbles round the last of the street until the detour would lead them to rejoin their original path toward their everpatient vehicle at the port. Then, home.
