The Man in the Top Hat

a short story

I once met a man who was very adept at slight-of-hand tricks when I was touring the various back alleys of Rome. I remember I was searching for something odd; nothing in particular, really. Just something odd.

He asked if he could accompany me just after hustling all of the money I had saved up for train ticket to Venice. I had a gambling problem back then, but I’ve recently been cured of it. I first declined, but when he offered me my money back in exchange for accompaniment, I could not refuse. I had thought it a simple, generous offer. I was sorely mistaken, but not displeased.

We had boarded the train, my things placed delicately in the overhead apartment; his, somewhat askew. He settled down quickly and went to sleep in the compartment. He was an odd man, which might answer why I was eventually keen to have him around me. He never took off his dingy black top hat and wore clothes suited for a lavish dinner. However, he had pulled a violet bathrobe over the ensemble making him look somewhat ridiculous. He had very dashing features and I was led to assume he had once been a very rich man.

You might find it strange that I was merely a teenager then, and he a middle aged man. But he traveled together anyway. At one point I would pass off to be his son, but that’s a story fit for another day.

As the train bumbled along the tracks and out the window, grassy mountains could be seen at the fine edges of fields, the man mumbled something. At first what he had said had been gibberish, but I tried to work the sounds out in my head and refine them into words. If I was correct, he was searching for his long lost love.  It made warming up to him a bit easier.

We arrived in Venice, only to be greeted by sirens in the canals. A political figure had been assassinated, I was told. I don’t remember the man’s name, but he was quite important. This man and I made reservations at a hotel and stayed there for a while; about three days. We separated on the third day. I journeyed to the famous square, while the man made for some bridge I had heard of once in a story. I wanted to see it, but the square seemed more important to me. There were no cars in Venice so one could get to nearly anywhere he wanted simply by walking. As it turned out, our hotel was only three blocks away from the square which shortened my journey considerably.

In the square, I was taken by police. Mistaken for their wanted killer, I assumed. The prospect of being a murderer seemed idiotic for a teenager, but the politzia would have none of my excuses. My Italian wasn’t fantastic, and they spoke with unreasonable speed. I was thrown into a boat and taken away.

After I was tossed into a dank jail cell that appeared to have gotten stuck during medieval times, I had a sudden epiphany, or rather a dream.

In the dream, I was entering a house, the one I had lived in as a boy. My mother was there, along with a few figures I couldn’t quite make out. More importantly, the man was there. His bobbing top hat was the very first thing I saw.

My mother was looking through pictures, and changing her appearance like a shape shifter; her face growing old, then young, then old again, depending on what picture she was gazing at. The man offered me a hand into the house because for some reason I had spawned right on the front door. He told me something that I don’t remember, but it made me feel happy.

My mother couldn’t understand why she was changing, or why she couldn’t stop looking at pictures, so I grasped her hands with my own and explained it to her: she looked the way she pictured herself looking. She whispered that I looked different now, too.

Indeed, I had grown very young - only about ten years old, if even that. The man was by my side all that night.  I remember looking out the window and seeing snow. I hadn’t seen snow for what felt like years.

My mother was by the candlelight and I was next to her. She looked up at me with worried eyes and asked again why she was changing. Even as she said it, the wrinkles on her face faded away.

For whatever reason, my mother couldn’t hear me. I tried to tell her again and again, shouting even, but her look didn’t change, as if she couldn’t even see that I was talking to her.

I ran out the house in a terrible frustration, stepping onto the cobbled street just as a carriage trundled by, nearly running me over.  The driver shouted angrily.

 I wandered, drunkenly, through the streets, at last falling into icy heap of snow. There, the man bent over me, once again offering a hand. I took it, allowing him to lead me to my feet.

Why is it, my young friend, that the more often you run away, the more often I follow you?

I had no answer for him. He removed his top hat and placed it on my head. It was warm, or at least, that was how I remembered it.

 

That is it. I am choosing to end my story here because that is where I want it to end. But do not be afraid, my child. I am an old man now, and I can tell you with absolute certainty, that stories never truly have endings. Only beginnings.   

 

Author's Note

Based loosely on a dream I had. Johnny Depp was the man in the top hat.
NOTE: this story has no plot. No antagonists. No reason to exist, really. It's rough on purpose and I will have it no other way. But please, enjoy it.

Reviews

[Joy2daWorld]

I really, really enjoyed this story. Dreams can get pretty crazy (I know, mine are so bizarre that I've disturbed people by telling them) and you transitioned your story perfectly with the flow of the mind. Very well done.

[A Lone Creative Nomad]

This is nice. While most people would think you should add a more distinct and definite ending, I like that you left it open. I would love to have more stories told by this old man. Maybe with more conversations between the man in the hat and the boy. I love how when you read this, it really just feels like an old man telling stories of his past. I know you said that this has no reason to exist, that doesn't take away from the beautiful images revealed through this writing. Nice job.

[livinglifeloud]

I love your descriptions, but you lose focus near the end. I like how you leave so much of the story for the reader to interpret. Very well written.

[Miss Coral]

Interesting piece, though it seems a bit aimless. The whole "getting out of jail thing" confused me- is he still dreaming at the end?
I would also describe the relationship with the man in the top hat a bit more in depthly; he seemed to just be there, and the only eccentric thing we're exposed to is his manner of dress. What about his speech- I automatically imagined him with a kind of drawl, rambling all the time and a somewhat dazed look. But it was never confirmed.

The tone/voice was very nice in this; distinct and clear, and you developed the character nicely. And I know that this was based on a dream, which aren't always lucid (almost never are), but I would think about clarifying the plot a bit.

Overall, a nice piece. :)

-Coral-