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‘DO YOU KNOW the Borsalino hat test?’

‘The what?’

‘The Borsalino hat test. It is the test that reveals whether a hat is a genuine Borsalino, or an inferior imitator. You know about the Borsalino, non?’

‘No, I can’t say I do.’

‘Aaaaah,’ Didier smiled. The smile was composed of one part surprise, one part mischief, and one part contempt. Somehow, those elements combined in an effect that was disarmingly charming. He leaned slightly forward and inclined his head to one side, his black curly hair shaking as if to emphasise the points in his explanation. ‘The Borsalino is a garment of the first and finest quality. It is believed by many, and myself included, to be the most outstanding gentleman’s head covering ever made.’

His hands shaped an imaginary hat on his head.

‘It is wide-brimmed, in black or white, and made from the furs of the lapin.’

‘So, it’s just a hat,’ I added, in what I thought to be an agreeable tone. ‘We’re talking about a rabbit-fur hat.’

Didier was outraged.

‘Just a hat? Oh, no, my friend! The Borsalino is more than just a hat. The Borsalino is a work of art! It is brushed ten thousand times, by hand, before it is sold. It was the style expression of first choice by discerning French and Italian gangsters in Milan and Marseilles for many decades. The very name of Borsalino became a synonyme for gangsters. The wild young men of the underworld of Milano and Marseilles were called Borsalinos. Those were the days when gangsters had some style. They understood that if you were to live as an outlaw and steal and shoot people for a living, you had a responsibility to dress with some elegance. Isn’t it so?’

‘It’s the least they could do,’ I agreed, smiling.

‘But of course! Now, sadly, there is all attitude and no style. It is the mark of the age in which we live that the style becomes the attitude, instead of the attitude becoming the style.’

He paused, permitting me a moment to acknowledge the turn of phrase.

‘And so,’ he continued, ‘the test of a real Borsalino hat is to roll it into a cylinder, roll it up into a very tight tube, and pass it through a wedding ring. If it emerges from this test without permanent creases, and if it springs back to its original shape, and if it is not damaged in the experience, it is a genuine Borsalino.’

‘And you’re saying…’

‘Just so!’ Didier shouted, slamming a fist down on the table.

We were sitting in Leopold’s, near the square arch of the Causeway doors, at eight o’clock. Some foreigners at the next table turned their heads at the noisy outburst, but the staff and the regulars ignored the Frenchman. Didier had been eating and drinking and expostulating at Leopold’s for nine years. They all knew there was a line you could cross with him, a limit to his tolerance, and he was a dangerous man if you crossed it. They also knew that the line wasn’t drawn in the soft sand of his own life or beliefs or feelings. Didier’s line was drawn through the hearts of the people he loved. If you hurt them, in any way, you roused him to a cold and deadly rage. But nothing anyone said or did to him, short of actual bodily harm, ever really offended or angered him.

‘Comme ςa! That is my point! Your little friend, Prabaker, has put you through the hat test. He rolled you into a tube, and dragged you through the wedding ring, to see if you are a real Borsalino or not. That was his purpose in taking you on the tour of the bad sights and sounds of the city. It was a Borsalino test.’

I sipped my coffee in silence, knowing that he was right-Prabaker’s dark tour had been a kind of test-but not willing to give Didier the trophy of conceding the point.

The evening crowd of tourists from Germany, Switzerland, France, England, Norway, America, Japan, and a dozen other countries thinned out, giving way to the night crowd of Indians and expatriates who called Bombay home. The locals reclaimed places like Leopold’s, the Mocambo, Café Mondegar, and the Light of Asia every night, when the tourists sought the safety of their hotels.

‘If it was a test,’ I did at last concede, ‘he must’ve given me a pass. He invited me to go with him to visit his family, in his village in the north of the state.’

Didier raised his eyebrows in theatrical surprise.

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. A couple of months, I think. Maybe more.’

‘Ah, then it is so,’ he concluded. ‘Your little friend is beginning to love you.’

‘I think that’s putting it a bit strong,’ I objected, frowning.