Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  8

  TEDDY BEARS

  I didn't see Serge again until the Dax brocante market a fortnight later. He was lounging back in a battered Voltaire chair puffing away on a cigarette.

  'How's Robespierre?' I enquired.

  'Marvellous, Johnny. He's settled in like a dream, honestly. He went straight for my Danton's old dog bed like it belonged to him. I can't get him out of it. It's uncanny.'

  I still felt a burning resentment about the buffet he'd bought from the old couple. I wanted to have a right go at him about it. But what was the use?

  I absent-mindedly picked up an ancient brown teddy bear wedged in among all the dusty junk he had strewn out on the ground in front of him on a piece of blue plastic sheeting. It had the elongated pointed nose and long arms of a typical early teddy bear. The fur was worn away from generations of being cuddled.

  'That's an antique teddy bear you've got there,' he said. 'They go like petits pains. I can't get enough of them.'

  I looked inside its ear. I didn't know much about bears but this looked very much like a Steiff. I'd seen them before in auctions and they usually had the little Steiff button sewn inside the ear. It wasn't there now, but that didn't prove anything. I was aware that bears made by the German Steiff company were the most valuable and sought-after by collectors;

  I held it up to my nose and gave it a surreptitious sniff. It smelled funky. As if it had been endlessly hugged and possibly dropped in a dog basket at some stage and slept on. The price on the ticket was quite steep.

  'Where did you find him then?' I asked, thinking he probably conned some poor little kid to get it.

  He got up and took the bear from my hands. 'He's nice, isn't he? You like him… you can have him, Johnny. I'll give you a special discount.'

  But I wasn't interested. In fact, I was starting to think that I'd had more than my fill of Serge. I replaced the bear and headed back to my stand.

  It was proving to be a quiet morning at the monthly Dax brocante market. Dax is a spa town attracting a large number of curistes whoo come for the mud baths and natural hot springs. They are known as curistes as they are here for the cure and to improve their health through the natural treatments on offer in the town. It is a bit of a shock when you first see them unselfconsciously striding around the town centre in slippers and towelling dressing gowns as if they've just fallen out of bed.

  The efficacy of the natural springs is reputed to have been discovered by a Roman soldier who was off to war, and, unable to take his rheumatic old dog with him, went to drown him in the river. The dog emerged with his rheumatism gone and acting like a puppy again. It's too good a story to ignore, whether true or not, and they've erected a life-sized bronze statue of the legionnaire and his dog in the town. The cure is available on the health system and consequently the curistes are the lifeblood of Dax.

  Recently the French health minister intimated that the health system would no longer pay for such treatments, but there was a massive outcry from the spa towns and he was obliged to eat his words.

  We brocanteurs also benefited from the curistes. They were our best customers in the Dax market, and after their treatments, bored and with time to kill, they tended to frequent the brocante market, searching for some little rare treasure to take back home with them.

  But this morning they were thin on the ground.

  Louis, on the next stall, who sold old postcards, antique books and 78 rpm records, pulled a face at me and raised his eyes to heaven.

  'C'est mort, eh, John?'

  He did what he always does when he's bored: cranked up his antique HMV gramophone and blasted out red-hot jazz across the market. It was the Lionel Hampton Big Band from the forties. A few bars of that and I'd cheered up enough not to care about selling. Anyway, the curistes were bound to turn up in the afternoon. They always had before.

  Louis was bopping away, clicking his fingers out of time and singing along (we drummers tend to notice little things like that, like how white audiences have difficulty clapping along on the off-beat). But he was a big jazz fan, and could quote all the sidemen on every record.

  He had ordered us paellas from a nearby restaurant for lunch and we sat around his portable table, eating and drinking, joking and listening to jazz.

  I forgot all about Serge's teddy bear until I was on the way back later with a tray of coffees from the cafe and noticed it had gone. I felt a twinge of regret. I was sure it had been a genuine Steiff from the twenties and probably worth a few bob in auction back in the UK. He must have sold it before lunch and I almost began to wish I'd negotiated a fair price for it myself.

  True to form, the market picked up in the afternoon and the curistes were out in force. I was heartened when they were predictably drawn to the colourful English tea sets we specialised in on our stall. The vision many French have of England and all things English is a strange one. England, they imagine, is the quaint chintzy world of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple mysteries; little villages inhabited by old-fashioned characters scurrying about their business, cut off from the twenty-first century. They are charmed especially by our floral-patterned English china, although the word 'china' often confuses them. French china is called porcelaine and when they initially see 'china' on the bottom of an English teacup or saucer they believe it to have been made in China. This is not what they are after, however 'charming' it is. A detailed explanation of how the first porcelain brought to England came originally from China, and how the English have used the word 'china' to describe porcelain ever since, often convinces them, but not always. We were once at an antiques fair near Bordeaux where an 'expert' was paid by the fair's organisers to go round from stall to stall to verify that all items on sale were genuine antiques and not modern copies. He took strongly against our tea sets which he insisted were made in China and not to be displayed. No amount of protestations or historical explanations would convince him otherwise. Louis said the man was an expert of picolé, pointing at his mouth with his thumb and imitating a drunkard draining a bottle of wine. Much incensed we left the china where it was and the 'expert' must have decided he was out of his depth because he never returned to insist we remove it. But the next time we returned to the fair we photocopied the translation of china and porcelain from the English–French dictionary and displayed it with dayglo highlights for him to see.

  Here at Dax, a lady curiste bought a 'Country Roses' tea set from me, enthusing how charmingly English it was and how she loved to serve her friends tea from English china. As I packed it up for her Serge rode past on a prehistoric three-wheeled bike, wearing a Nazi helmet and singing an old French music hall song at the top of his voice. He had a coach horn with a rubber bulb in one hand and he was parping it loudly at anyone who got in his way.

  'He's been at the bottle since lunch,' said Louis. 'It's not good when he carries on like this, he frightens the customers.'

  He reappeared later, propelling himself along face down on a rusty old metal cart for the handicapped, the type of vehicle I would have imagined a destitute leper in Mumbai might use to get about on. His chin was a few inches off the ground and he was yelling at the top of his voice.

  As he rolled past I leaned down and tapped him on the shoulder. 'You sold your teddy bear then, Serge?'

  He stopped the cart and jumped up. 'So you noticed, eh, Johnny?' He leaned against me slurring his words. 'You missed out there, copain. I let him go cheap to a charming young mum, a birthday present for her little boy.'

  The disappointment must have shown on my face because he glanced around and whispered conspiratorially. 'Never mind, Johnny. We'll meet up for a drink and a spot of lunch next week. I'll show you some more secrets of the trade.'

  He dropped back down onto his cart and worked the pedals with his hands, driving himself forward. As he shot past the legs of a fat man examining postcards on Louis's stall, he twisted round and bawled back at me: 'Don't forget, Johnny, give me a call and we'll arrange it!'

  Louis came over
to check if his prospective customer had been alarmed. But the man was amused. I had noticed the French reaction was more often than not to welcome any unusual diversion and enjoy its entertainment value.

  I thought no more of Serge's invite. I assumed he was drunk and would forget all about it. But after the weekend he called me on my mobile.

  'Eh, Johnny, I thought you were going to phone me and come out for lunch?'

  Maybe I'd been a bit harsh on him. He sounded genuinely hurt.

  'I wanted you to come and meet some friends,' he said. 'What about tomorrow, how would that suit you?'

  He sounded so disappointed I agreed to a rendezvous in a small Basque village in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

  'I'll meet you outside the church at eleven-thirty, Johnny. Fantastic!'

  I arrived in the picturesque village with its whitewashed buildings and Basque red-painted woodwork just after eleven o'clock. Serge was already there waiting for me by the church in his van.

  'Eh, Johnny, let's have a quick aperitif before lunch.'

  He guided me into the local Auberge, ordered himself a Ricard and a coffee for me and we sat outside enjoying the midday sun. He took a big sip of his Ricard, glanced around as if to check if anyone was listening and leaned across the table.

  'There's a couple of things you need to know before you meet my girlfriend, Johnny.'

  Oh, so it was his girlfriend, was it? I was wondering what we were up to.

  'There are certain facts I want you to be clear on,' he said. 'So you don't blurt out anything that maybe it would be best she didn't know about me. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?'

  I didn't, but I was getting an inkling.

  'Believe it or not I've only been seeing this woman for a few weeks. I answered her ad in the lonely hearts column of the local paper. Her husband died a while ago and she's been very lonely. Living cut off in the country miles from anywhere, you don't tend to meet anyone nice.' He chuckled as if he couldn't believe his own luck.

  'She's never been to my apartment, you know, where I do up my furniture and run my business. I try and keep that side of my life separate. You know, worlds collide. We don't want that, do we?'

  I wasn't sure what he was on about but reluctantly assured him I wasn't going to blab out any of his sordid little secrets.

  'Good, good. I knew I could trust you, Johnny.'

  He slapped me on the back, finished his Ricard and stood up. 'Come on then, let's go have lunch.'

  As I drove along trying to keep up with his van on the country lanes, I told myself I wasn't going to get involved in any more of his tawdry personal intrigues.

  We turned off onto a bumpy dirt track and arrived at the house in a cloud of dust to be greeted by a pack of dogs. When I pulled up I heard the rattle of claws as they jumped up against the side of my van. And as I climbed out I was surrounded and given a wild welcome by a noisy chorus ranging from high yelps to deeply gruff barks. There were dogs of all shapes and sizes. Most of them were of the floppy-eared short-legged hunting variety of the region. But I recognised Scotties, Labradors and a pair of big brown Beaucerons, the wonderful shepherd dogs so much favoured by French country people.

  They accompanied us, still barking, as Serge led me up to a big old stone house much like the one I lived in myself. The roof was covered in moss and weeds, the crépi, or stone-coloured rendering on the walls, had seen better days, and some of the shutters were hanging off their hinges. But there were freshly painted pots of brightly flowering geraniums lined up along the stone pathways.

  A group of children were playing with a goat on a patch of grass. Two of the younger ones stopped when they saw us and came running over. There was a rough-sawn wooden table round the back laid out with plates, chequered napkins and cutlery. Serge waved for me to be seated and one of the toddlers tried to climb on my knee while he disappeared into the house. The rest of the children, seemingly tired of playing with their goat, came over to have a good look at me. I got the impression from their faces that they weren't used to seeing many strangers.

  Serge came back out with an attractive woman whom he introduced as Regine. She was dark and vivacious and much younger than he was. She blushed as she shook my hand and when she had gone back in to fetch our lunch Serge said, 'She's beautiful, isn't she, Johnny?'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'Don't forget what I told you.' He made the sign of the zipped up mouth.

  I looked across at all the children, who, deciding I wasn't that interesting anyway, had gone back to playing with the goat.

  'It's great having a ready-made family like this, isn't it?' said Serge, following my gaze. It's a school holiday today so they're running wild with some of their little pals.

  He shouted out for them to come in and get washed for lunch and Regine came back out with baskets of hot bread, garlic butter and plates of duck pâté and crudités.

  'Hang on,' said Serge, 'we need a good bottle of wine to cheer us up. Come and help me choose one, Johnny.'

  It didn't seem like the moment to remind Serge I was a reformed alcoholic sworn off the booze, so I trailed after him through a sitting room with its distinctive Basque carved wooden furniture, crimson-painted walls and large cheminée (a fireplace with a chimney).

  I noticed an antique teddy bear perched up on the mantelpiece not dissimilar to the one I had seen on his stall. I went to ask him about it but he had disappeared. His voice floated up from below.

  'Come on, Johnny, down here!'

  I descended a stone stairway into a cool cellar stretching under the house. By the light of the suspended naked light bulbs I could see the walls were lined with dusty bottles of wine in wooden racks. And at the far end there was a row of large wooden barrels upended with taps in the side.

  'Regine's husband Jean-Pierre did all this,' he said. 'You know sometimes I find myself offering him up a little prayer of thanks for all the good things he left behind for me. I know I don't deserve it, but I feel he should know how much I appreciate it.'

  He pulled out a couple of bottles and blew off the dust, revealing yellowed hand-written labels. 'Ah, yes, these will do. Thank you, Jean-Pierre.'

  He examined the label closely. 'He had good taste, Jean-Pierre did. I think we're going to enjoy this.'

  We re-emerged, blinking in the bright sunshine with Serge clutching the bottles. I completely forgot to ask him about the teddy bear on the mantelpiece.

  He pulled the corks and poured the wine and we sat looking out over green fields full of wild flowers stretching as far as the eye could see. The giant shadow of the Pyrenees loomed in the distance. I couldn't imagine a better setting for lunch nor a more idyllic spot to live and bring up a family.

  Regine brought out an enamel pot of rabbit stew and a plateful of plain, unadorned white rice for me with a side salad of sliced tomatoes. I watched Serge tucking enthusiastically into the rabbit while I picked away at the flavourless grains.

  'This is wild rabbit,' he said. 'Much nicer than the tame ones.' He waved towards some concrete hutches where I could see several little brown rabbits hopping about. 'I picked up this little fellow on the road last night. He was still warm… clipped by a car.'

  'You know, Johnny, life is not bad out here in the country, but sometimes it gets a little boring. If I couldn't work and tour around I'd probably end up doing myself in like the neighbour Marc over there.'

  He pointed to a house tucked away beyond the sloping fields at least two or three kilometres away.

  'His wife went off with the postman and he killed himself with his own chainsaw. Cut himself to pieces behind the barn. It was one hell of a mess, Regine tells me. They had to hose down the cobblestones.'

  I tried not to imagine what killing yourself with your own chainsaw would be like. A lot of the peasants I met had fingers missing from various accidents but I'd not heard of anything like this before.

  'Oh yes, the things that go on in these little villages would turn your hair white. It's not all a b
ed of roses, like some of you English imagine. Life can be hard and lonely, especially in the winter when the snow comes down. That's no picnic, I can tell you.'

  Regine brought out a large tarte aux pommes and then went back inside, busying herself in the kitchen. How like Serge, I thought, to find himself a girlfriend who would wait on him hand and foot. We ate slices and drank cups of coffee. Serge tried to tempt me to try a glass of eau-de-vie, a potent home-made apple brandy. I took a small sip at his insistence and it nearly blew my head off. There was a time when I'd have downed it in one swift gulp and asked for more. I knew I had to be careful, but convinced myself I could handle a few sips, surely, without embarking on an out-of-control drinking binge.

  Serge lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. 'It's days like these I thank God for everything. I don't have to work too hard and the life of a brocanteur is an enjoyable one as long as you know all the wrinkles.'