Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  'Come on, let's try this place.'

  'But I thought you said it looked too poor to bother with.'

  'Yes, well I've changed my mind. And anyway, what do you suggest? This is the end of the road and it's almost lunchtime. They're dead hospitable, country folk – we might get a free bite to eat.'

  Not content just to rip people off, he wanted them to feed him too. I was unfamiliar with French rustic customs but it was past noon and since I'd been living and working in France my stomach had been trained to start rumbling automatically at midday. And we were a long way from any village cafes or shops. Maybe he had a point.

  We parked the van and started up the track across the field. The old boy was still watching us as if he couldn't quite believe we were actually about to enter his life. But as we drew level something galvanised him into action. He raised his arm jerkily and set off towards us, hobbling slightly as if his feet pained him. As we waited I found myself drinking in the simple beauty of the surrounding countryside, savouring the tranquillity and the scent of freshly cut grass. This place was about as idyllic as you could get. I knew people back in Britain who would kill to own a little cottage like this one far from the stresses and strains of modern life.

  It reminded me of the dream-like period we spent when we first moved out to France. A kind of floating between two worlds. The summer of hazy mornings when the brume (mist) swirled up from the River Dordogne to be dispersed by the steaming heat of the afternoon sun. Magical evenings with an unearthly bloated moon hanging low over a landscape that echoed with the constant chirruping of cicadas.

  The monastery we had bought was positioned perfectly, standing alone looking over long fields that led to the deciduous woods covering the surrounding hills. You could stand in these fields and hear the sound of rain approaching, hissing in the leaves of the evergreen oaks as it drifted in. It had been so protected there was seldom any wind, just now and then a gentle, balmy breeze. There were wild boar, or sanglier, in abundance. On early morning walks we would happen upon herds of them in the clearings. A massive old boar would fearlessly root through our fields. Rutting stags would come down the hillsides bellowing out a challenge.

  Our grasp of the language had been so tenuous – rusty, barely used French O level – that when the local farmers pointed out something we didn't understand we passed it off as 'something to do with the war'. Now, from working the markets and hanging out with Serge, I was learning to speak colloquial French like a barrow boy.

  The old chap was on the track now and I was slightly taken aback to see that he had no shoes on. His bare feet were nut brown below the frayed bottoms of his overalls. No wonder he was hobbling.

  Serge nudged me and waved a welcome, reaching out to grasp the old fellow's hand.

  'Good day, sir, good day. What a beautiful day.' He was effusive, pouring on the charm.

  The old chap seemed slightly reticent, but perhaps he was overwhelmed by the sheer power of Serge's greeting. When he came to shake my hand his grip was firm and warm, but I felt hard calluses on his palms and fingers.

  My heart went out to him. I felt as if we were carriers of some horrible disease about to infect his simple world.

  'Sorry to burst in on you like this, Papa,' said Serge cheerily, 'but my colleague and I have been asked to carry out a

  special survey of the commune by the mayor. He wants us to record who lives where and check out their living accommodation. Simple stuff, really, but vital for the upcoming national census. We just need to take a look around and make a few notes. It won't take long and we don't intend to inconvenience you in any way.'

  This was a spiel I hadn't heard before, and the old boy appeared to accept it at face value. It was unbelievable. Mentioning the mayor worked like a charm every time.

  'There's only me and my sister here,' he said. 'But come in. Maybe you'd like an aperitif before you begin your work.'

  Serge made an 'O' shape with his finger and thumb (his equivalent to the thumbs up) behind the chap's back as we followed him towards the house.

  We were ushered into the little cottage which was clean and fresh with a spotless tiled floor and white, lime washed walls. The old fellow seated us at a table covered with a brilliant yellow plastic cloth and fetched glasses and a bottle from a glass-fronted kitchen cabinet.

  Serge nodded at me and beamed as the old boy poured him out a generous helping of Ricard and invited him to add the amount of water he required from a jug. I chose a glass of the strange syrupy strawberry cordial that comes in a metal tubular bottle, and is a popular non-alcoholic drink. It was sickly sweet, but refreshing none the less after a hard, fruitless morning driving about in the van.

  The back door was wide open and I could see out into the yard. There was a red rooster strutting about and a few scraggle-necked hens pecking among the pebbles. I sipped at my cordial and was surprised to see a little hunched-over woman duck out from behind a stone shed and scurry across the yard. She looked like a tiny witch with a prominent hooked nose and craggy face. She wore a gloomy robe, with a dark shawl pulled over her shoulders and a scarf tied round her head. She peered through the back door as if trying to get a furtive look at us. And then she was gone, disappearing out of sight behind a barn.

  Serge had finished his Ricard. He plonked the empty glass down on the table and sat waiting expectantly for it to be replenished.

  'Sorry to bother you at lunchtime like this, but we seem to have got slightly stranded. Do you know anywhere we could get a decent bite to eat?'

  The old chap pondered this for a moment. 'There's nowhere really. But my sister would be pleased to cook something for you. You're quite welcome to eat here.'

  'That's very kind of you,' said Serge, 'but we don't want to put you to any trouble.'

  'It's no trouble at all. It would be our pleasure.'

  'Well, if you insist,' said Serge. 'Thank you so much.

  The old boy poured himself a second glass of red wine. He knocked back over half of it and his eyes began to twinkle.

  'So it's just the two of you live here then?' said Serge.

  'That must have been your sister I just saw out in the yard,' I offered.

  'She's very shy, not used to meeting many people.' He took another swig of wine. 'She's had a lot to cope with what with one thing and another.'

  'Really?' said Serge, disinterestedly. He was scanning the room for valuable furniture or worthwhile bits and pieces.

  The farmer was starting to grow garrulous under the influence of the drink and the company. I wanted to stop him. I didn't want him to reveal all the secrets of his personal life to Serge. He might be able to use them against him in some way.

  But Serge had his mind on other matters. 'Putain, that aperitif, it's given me an appetite. When were you thinking of eating?'

  'Of course,' said the old chap, 'I'll go and fetch my sister.'

  He got up and went out into the yard.

  'See, they may be poor,' said Serge, 'but they live like kings, these peasants.' He slapped his rounded belly. 'I'm just about ready for some home-cooked grub.'

  The farmer reappeared with the little hunched-over woman bobbing behind him. She began to bustle about in cupboards, head down, barely glancing in our direction. She emptied a clear glass jar full of a yellowy white viscous liquid with grey lumps in it into a heavy iron pan, sprinkled it with herbs and began to fry the lot up on the stove.

  Serge rubbed his hands together. 'Mmmm, that smells like gésiers if I'm not very much mistaken.' He nodded at me. 'But not much interest to you, eh, Johnny? I don't think you're ready for a nice plate of chicken gizzards just yet.'

  He turned to the old boy. 'My friend here is from England where they've got some very strange ways. He refuses to eat meat, would you believe it?'

  The farmer looked at me with renewed interest. 'We have some pork if you don't like gésiers,' he said kindly. 'We don't meet many English people round here.'

  'If you've got any bread and maybe a piece
of cheese that would be fine,' I said.

  'Estelle, did you hear that?'

  The little old woman half-turned and smiled at me before fetching a big country loaf and some Brie which she placed on the table. Then she served up the gésiers, which Serge attacked like a ravenous wolf.

  'Putain, you don't know what you're missing, Johnny. This is delicious.' He poured himself a glass of red wine and washed down a mouthful of gizzards.

  The old woman put a pot of coffee on the stove, produced a large cherry flan and cut us each a piece. Serge ate his with gusto, licking his fingers and slurping his coffee. When he'd finished he burped loudly and pulled out his well-thumbed notebook.

  'Now, to get things sorted out properly for the survey. It's just you and your sister living here, is it?'

  'Yes, just the two of us.'

  'And you are M'sieu…?'

  'Perrier… Jacques Perrier.'

  'Ah, yes, and your sister is?'

  'Estelle Perrier.'

  'Good, good… excellent,' said Serge, scribbling away.

  I was beginning to find this pantomime embarrassing and looked away. The little old woman was waiting just outside the door, hiding in the shadows, shyly watching us.

  Serge drained his cup of coffee, slammed shut his notebook, stood up and yawned.

  'Well, I think that just about concludes our work here. You've been most helpful. Don't worry, I'll mention to the mayor how cooperative you've been.' He shook the farmer's hand. 'We'd better be on our way. Say goodbye to your sister for us won't you, Jacques?'

  As we set off along the track towards the van Serge was jubilant.

  'There, what did I tell you, Johnny? Who needs to go to restaurants to eat when you've got hospitable peasants like that around?'

  But I was beginning to feel upset about how we'd used them.

  When I looked back the old man was waving us goodbye. The sad little figure of his sister was standing behind him, framed in the doorway, watching us go.

  We drove off with Serge cheerfully humming the popular Serge Gainsbourg hit, 'Sea, Sex and Sun', punctuating the chorus with a series of foul-smelling belches.

  'Those gésiers were out of this world, Johnny. Beats me how you can pass up on such delicious bouffe.'

  I was still feeling bad about how I had colluded with him in conning that nice peasant and his sister out of a free meal. I certainly wasn't in the mood to get into any sort of argument with him about eating meat.

  We drove along in silence for a while until Serge spotted a sign for a déchetterie (a rubbish tip).

  'Eh, quick! Turn off here, Johnny. These places can often yield up little treasures.'

  We followed a track through the woods to arrive at a fenced-off area where garishly coloured plastic bin receptacles and several heavy metal skips piled high with rubbish stood in a yard strewn with bits of old newspapers and cardboard boxes. There was a wooden hut at the gate with a black and white collie dog tied up with a piece of hairy baler twine outside. It came crawling towards us on its belly with its tail wagging. The hut door was open but there was no one about.

  Serge went over to a mountain of old metal and started to pull at a twisted bicycle, threatening to bring down the lot on top of him. I fussed the dog and wondered how far the nearest accident unit was if Serge injured himself.

  A man emerged from among the trees, zipping his fly and buckling his belt. He was wearing a badly stained, fringed Western-style shirt, a blue US Cavalry cap and cowboy boots. At a guess I'd have said he'd just had a crap in the woods.

  There was a scream of twisting metal and Serge jumped back, narrowly avoiding being crushed, as a big square tank, a heavy iron bath and assorted rusty agricultural machinery came crashing down.

  The junkyard cowboy watched as the dust settled and I got the impression that new acquaintances were limited in this particular neck of the woods.

  'That's some scrap iron you've got there,' said Serge.

  The guy nodded and finished buckling his belt. Serge took him by the hand and shook it.

  'We're on the look out for any interesting bits and pieces, discarded bric-a-brac and stuff. We've just been doing a spot of business with old Papa Jacques Perrier up the road and he recommended we pop in here.' Serge was making it up as he went along.

  The man nodded to me and began to untie his dog.

  'You've been up at Jacques Perrier's place? He doesn't get many visitors these days.'

  'He had us round for lunch,' said Serge, smugly. 'His sister cooked for us – fried gésiers… Delicious!'

  'You saw his sister? How was she?'

  'Estelle's fine, just fine,' said Serge, like he was an old family friend.

  'That was terrible what happened to her though, wasn't it?' said the man. 'You know, during the war?'

  Serge was nonplussed. 'World War Two? You're going back a bit there, mate. I was just a kid.'

  'What, you don't know about the family tragedy? I thought everyone knew.'

  Serge was starting to get bored.

  'No, but you're going to tell us all about it.' He looked at me with a pained expression.

  'Her two sons got killed in battle on the same day. It was an awful shock. But that wasn't all – when her husband heard the terrible news he went straight off and hung himself.'

  Serge pulled a face like he didn't believe it.

  'It's God's honest truth, ask anyone. Estelle found him hanging from a beam in the barn. It finished her off, they reckon.'

  The man was relishing the story. He clearly didn't get many visitors here at his tip.

  'When she'd buried her husband and her sons all she had left was her brother Jacques. She moved in with him and he's looked after her ever since. In return she washes, cooks and cleans for him… does everything a wife would do for a husband.' He winked at me.

  'So have you got anything you might think we'd be interested in or not?' said Serge. He was unmoved by the tale. He predictably pulled out his wad of euros with a flourish from his back pocket.

  The man's eyes widened. 'What about that tin bath? That's got to be worth a bit.'

  'I'm not after shit,' said Serge rudely. 'Do I look like a gitan to you?'

  My answer to that question would have been no. Most gitans dressed smartly in the latest fashion, unlike Serge, who looked like he'd just tumbled out of bed and pulled on the nearest thing to hand from a pile on the floor. But I was still thinking about poor Estelle. No wonder she hid herself away. Was the wink the man had given me an insinuation that she and her brother were involved in some sort of incestuous relationship? Surely not.

  'Hang on a moment, what's that in there?' Serge was peeking through the hut window. 'There, on the desk. That looks like the sort of thing we're after.'

  He went in brazenly and came out with a statuette of a naked woman holding a flaming torch with flowing hair covering her breasts and nether regions.

  'That's a signed bronze that is,' said the man. 'I found it in a box of rubbish a while back.'

  Serge examined it closely. He took out a penknife and scratched the base.

  'I'll give you fifty euros for it,' he said finally.

  'For a bronze like that? You're mocking me!'

  'It's not a bronze; it's a spelter,' said Serge. 'The scratch is dull yellow, not shiny and silvery.'

  This was a pathetic attempt at a con. The metal in a spelter figure is a mixture of lead and tin and a small scratch usually shines brightly. Serge knew that if the scratch was dull yellow it was probably a bronze and doubtless the man knew it too.

  'I wasn't born yesterday. That statue is definitely a bronze.'

  'All right, eighty euros. Take it or leave it.'

  The man was tempted. He was pondering the offer. He took off his US Cavalry hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  'Come on, Johnny,' said Serge. 'We're wasting our time here.' He climbed in the van and waited for me to start her up. The man watched us, still clutching the bronze figure
. As we pulled away he ran after us, tapping on the window. I stopped and Serge wound it down. The Junkyard Cowboy said, 'OK, look, make it a hundred and you've got yourself a deal.'

  'That's more like it,' said Serge. He peeled off a couple of fifties. 'There, you can buy yourself a new Buffalo Billy shirt and fais la fête all weekend.'

  He took the figurine from him and laid it on the seat.

  'You've not got any other old bronzes hidden away in that hut of yours then?'

  The Junkyard Cowboy shook his head. He was beginning to think maybe he'd made a mistake.

  'OK, Johnny, let's go,' said Serge, winding up the window.

  I drove round the pile of scrap iron and out through the gates.

  'I know a dealer who'll give me six hundred euros for this little whore, no questions asked,' said Serge as we bumped long the track.