“Choosing a hat is no random act, as you might suppose; it is governed by a metaphysical principle. Do not think that a man who buys a hat does so freely and voluntarily; the truth is that he is obeying an obscure form of determinism. The illusion of liberty is deeply embedded in the purchaser’s psyche, and shared by hatters, who, after watching a customer try on thirty or forty hats, then leave without buying a single one, imagine that he is merely searching for the most elegant combination. The metaphysical principle is this: the hat completes the man; it is an extension of his head, a combination decreed ab eterno and that no man may put asunder without committing an act of mutilation. This is a profound question that no one has yet considered. Wise men have studied everything from asteroids to worms, or, in bibliographical terms, from Laplace—you mean you’ve never read Laplace?—well, from Laplace and his Mécanique Céleste to Darwin and his curious book about worms, and yet they’ve never thought to pause in front of a hat and study it from every angle. No one has noticed that there is a whole metaphysics of hats. Perhaps I should write an essay on the subject myself. However, it’s now a quarter to ten and I really must go, but do think about it and you’ll see what I mean. Who knows? Perhaps it’s not even the hat that complements the man, but the man who complements the hat.”

Mariana finally wrested back her independence and got up from the table. She had not understood a word of his barbed terminology, nor his peculiar theory, but she sensed his sarcasm and, inside, she wept with humiliation. Her husband went upstairs to get dressed to go out, came back down a few minutes later, and stood in front of her with the infamous hat on his head. Mariana really did think it made him look seedy, vulgar, and not at all serious. Conrado ceremoniously bade her good day and left.