Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  Serge shot me a dagger look. He turned back to the little man.

  'You've got several dolls here though, haven't you? Surely you could spare one for a sweet little girl?'

  The bloke looked piteously towards me for help.

  'Give it a rest, Serge,' I said. 'We've got a lot to do. We ought to get back to the chateau and finish loading up the stuff.'

  'Sod the stuff!' Serge snapped at me. 'I'm talking to my little friend here and I'll thank you to stop interfering, Johnny.'

  'I couldn't possibly part with any of my dollies,' said the little chap with a new determination. 'And I'd never sell them, I'm sorry.' My interruption seemed to have given him a chance to harden his resolve.

  Serge looked thwarted, holding down his anger.

  'No need to say never, eh? You might change your mind, you never know.'

  The little man shook his head vigorously.

  'Well, believe me, you might do. And if you do I'd like you to give me a ring. Would you do that for me?' He pulled his well-thumbed notebook out of his back pocket, jotted down his phone number, ripped out the sheet and handed it to him. The little man took it reluctantly.

  'It's a nice place you've got,' I said, hoping to change the subject and lighten the mood. 'How long have you lived here then?'

  'Oh, quite a few years now,' he said, coming over to me. 'The people who owned the chateau said I could move in here when my mother got very sick.'

  'We've got to go now,' said Serge brusquely.

  'But you can't yet, you've not finished your coffee and cake,' said the little man. 'Here I'll make you a cadeau of them.' He busied himself about in a drawer, produced two worn plastic bags and placed a piece of chocolate cake in each.

  'Thank you, that's very kind,' said Serge taking his, rolling his eyes at me.

  We reached the door and Serge stopped and looked around, smiling as if he'd been to a smashing party and had a lovely time.

  'Now you won't forget what I told you, will you? If you need any money just give me a ring on that number.'

  The little guy looked at him vacantly.

  'Come on, let me hear you say it,' said Serge. 'Promise to ring me when you want to sell one of your little dollies. It would make my daughter so happy.'

  He wasn't getting anywhere. The bloke was so obviously blanking the question that Serge gave up. We headed off down the path with him waving us goodbye. When we were out of his sight I let drop the squishy lump of my half eaten cake and Serge lobbed his bag into the bushes.

  'That bloody loony dwarf!' Serge spat out. 'He knows what those dolls are worth and he won't part with them.'

  'You can hardly expect him to,' I said. 'They're all he's got in the world.'

  'Do you know anything about dolls, Johnny?'

  'Not really,' I said. 'I find them a bit creepy, that's all.'

  'Yes, well, kindly don't try and lecture me then. I suppose you're aware, are you, that a couple of those dolls were made by Jumeau? They're French and the most desirable dolls you can get. Have you any idea what dolls like that are worth?'

  'A lot?'

  'Exactly, a hell of a lot. Like I said, they're wasted on a simpleton like him.'

  When we got to the chateau Serge had completely lost interest in the rest of the contents. He couldn't even be bothered to fetch the hanging cane chair. He told the snaggle-toothed woman we'd be back another day and we drove off in an empty van.

  A week later I bumped into Serge at a market and noticed immediately that he had a line of dolls perched at the back of his stand.

  'You didn't, did you?' I said, shocked. 'You never went back and wheedled those dolls off that poor bloke?'

  'No, those aren't his, Johnny,' he bridled. 'You've got it all wrong. I bought those dolls at auction this week.'

  'Come on, Serge,' I said, not fooled. 'Those are that little man's dolls. I'd recognise them anywhere.'

  He looked cornered for a moment and then realised he wasn't going to be able to dupe me. 'OK, Johnny, so they are the dwarf's dolls. You didn't want to know about them so I went back later and saw him again. I didn't steal them from him if that's what you're thinking. We came to an arrangement and he was fine about it.'

  I was going to ask him what arrangement would make some poor sad little lonely man part with his most treasured possessions on earth, but realised I'd be wasting my breath and walked off.

  For the rest of the day the poor little fellow and his dolls preyed on my mind. I felt I had to go back and see how he was.

  Later that evening I drove out to the chateau, parked the van by the gate, followed the gravel path along the wall up to his house and knocked on his door.

  There was no reply and the house was silent. I walked round the back and tried to see in the windows but the shutters were all bolted shut.

  I was about to give up when he appeared unexpectedly, walking down the path, carrying an old duck's head umbrella.

  'Hello,' I said. 'How are you? I was just passing through and thought I'd drop in. I hope you don't mind.'

  He looked at me for a moment as if he wasn't sure who I was. Then his eyes lit up and he gave me a warm smile.

  'So you're moving in at last?' he said. 'I'm so pleased.'

  'I'm sorry, how do you mean?'

  'You're one of the English people, aren't you? I'm so glad you're moving into the chateau at last. Do come in and have a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. I expect you're exhausted.'

  The thought of his cake turned my stomach but I watched him unlock the door and accepted his invitation to come in and sit down. He switched on the lights and I immediately looked over towards the bed where his dolls had been. There was a line of dolls there still, but they weren't the delicate antiques with finely crafted porcelain faces of before. These dolls were big and shiny and made of plastic with bright painted faces and nylon wigs.

  'I see you've got some different dolls,' I said.

  'Yes, they're my new friends,' he said excitedly. 'We've been having such fun together.'

  So Serge had managed to persuade him to exchange his valuable old dolls for new, worthless, plastic shiny ones.

  Unbelievable! The old bugger was incorrigible.

  But still… he didn't seem at all perturbed. In fact he almost seemed to prefer his new dolls.

  He poured me a coffee and I knocked it back but passed on the cake, politely refusing his offer to bag a piece to take with me.

  As I drove home I couldn't help marvelling at Serge's tenacity. Once he'd seen those dolls he wasn't going to give up till he'd got them. But it was essentially a rotten trick. It was just about as low as he could possibly stoop. I was wrong about that, as it turned out. He could stoop a lot lower.

  11

  DUBIOUS ARTS

  It was the end of January. The night air was chill and clear, and a fat full moon floated in a sky choked with stars. I'd bumped into Serge after Christmas when money was tight and he'd persuaded me that I needed to try a pitch at St Michelle Market in Bordeaux.

  'I've been doing it off and on for years,' he said. 'It's good fun and I'll introduce you to a few of my mates up there.'

  Over the past three months I'd not seen much of Serge and had more or less forgiven him for his trick with the dolls. It had been a quiet winter and I needed to work.

  'You have to get there on Saturday night and sleep in the van,' he said. 'Then you can be up bright and early and bag a place.

  St Michelle is in the old poor quarter of the city. As I drove alongside the river I could see the distinctive floodlit spire of Saint Michelle Church standing over the city. The heater was blasting out but I could still feel the bite of the cold air outside seeping in round the door. I wasn't relishing the idea of a night in the van when I could be at home tucked up in bed with Helen.

  The tyres bounced over the cobblestones as I circumnavigated a concrete-posted wall searching for an entrance between iron bollards. I found one, drove onto the square, parked, and pulled on my woollen hat and gloves.
Serge had told me to meet him in the cafe so I headed towards the nearest one.

  There was someone lying on his back on the pavement. I assumed it was a drunk, but as I drew closer I saw it was Serge, arms and legs out like St Andrew on the cross. He was flat out on a large iron grill set in the cobblestones. When he saw it was me he stuck out his gloved hand to be shaken. I bent over and felt a rush of hot air from below.

  He patted the grill. It was like sitting on a convector heater.

  He clapped and whooped with delight. 'It's from the subway. If you park your van here you'll be warm as toast.'

  A young couple, arms round each other, stopped to look down on us. When they felt the warm air they stepped out onto the grill. Serge gave me a nudge as the warm air lifted the girl's skirt.

  'Your girlfriend has pretty legs and lingerie,' said Serge, 'you lucky sod.'

  The young man laughed and he and his girl went off arm in arm.

  'See, you stick with me and we'll see some sights. You hungry, Johnny? Come on, let's go eat.'

  St Michelle was hopping at this hour of a Saturday night. The restaurants and bars were packed to overflowing. We hurried through the cobbled streets; past neon-lit cafes full of neatly suited young Arabs; through an empty, silent market bestrewn with rotting fruit and broken cardboard boxes; down a dark alleyway and up a short cul-de sac to an anonymous-looking doorway.

  'Eh, hold on to your hat, British, this is it – the Portuguese restaurant I told you about.'

  He went to push open the door, but it was jammed. He barged into it and forced his way through the heaving mass of bodies until we were pressed up against a bar where customers were quaffing beers and aperitifs waiting for a table.

  Serge was clearly well known here. Half-cut characters full of the joys of Saturday night pushed forward to wring his hand and slap him on the back. I was introduced as 'mon ami l'Anglais' and my hand was wrung and my back slapped as well. Although Bordeaux has its fair share of English inhabitants they didn't appear to be much in evidence in this bar.

  'I've heard you have to stand on a box to say what you want in England – is this true?' a big grizzle-haired man with a huge pot belly asked me.

  I realised he must be talking about Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park and assured him it wasn't compulsory.

  'But you can't say just what you like about the Queen.'

  I nodded, agreeing with him. It was probably quicker.

  'You English are buying up France bit by bit. There's even English mayors in some villages full of Englishmen. Is that right, I ask you? Is that right?'

  'Certainly not,' I said, trying to edge away.

  'But at least it's better than being taken over by the whoring Germans… or the Dutch. The Dutch bring all their own food with them when they come here. What's wrong with French food, that's what I'd like to know. It's the best in the world.' I agreed with him and backed off.

  'The Dordogne is full of English and Germans now,' he went on. 'Some of those Germans even own chateaux there. They wiped out whole villages during the war and now we let them walk in and buy up all our historical buildings. It's a crime.'

  I looked about frantically, trying to escape from the xenophobic bore.

  Serge was up at the bar deep in conversation with a swarthy character with curly brown hair and a bright blue scarf tied round his neck.

  Serge waved me over. 'This is my good friend Jesus,' he said. 'Jesus Raines – ask anybody, he's famous.' He gave me a tight smile. He's a musician like you, so you two should get on.'

  When the guy shook my hand the skin felt lumpy, and when he turned I saw livid white scar tissue running from under the blue scarf and up the side of his face.

  'He's a fantastic Flamenco guitarist, but can't play any more,' said Serge. He reached down and lifted Jesus' hand. It was scarred and bent crooked like a crow's foot.

  'My caravan caught fire and I was burnt,' said Jesus almost apologetically. 'I was asleep and didn't wake up.'

  Serge was miming at me over his shoulder the familiar French boozer sign, thumb pointing at his mouth indicating a large intake of alcohol.

  'My wife and two of my children died,' he said mechanically, as if his emotions were cut off.

  'But you still have your son Buddy,' said Serge, as usual looking for the silver lining. 'And my God, you should hear him play, Johnny. He taught him everything he knows… He's a credit to him.'

  Jesus brightened at this and seemed to come back to life.

  'That's true, and he plays better than I ever did.'

  Serge shook his head and pulled a face at me over his shoulder as if to say 'no way'.

  'He tours all over Europe and is frequently on television,' said Jesus. 'He lives in Paris now.'

  'You must eat with us,' said Serge. 'You can tell Johnny all about your son.' He slammed his hand down hard on the wooden counter top.

  'Eh, Didier, what about our table? We got to wait till we're too weak to lift our knives and forks?'

  The barman in a blue apron shrugged. 'You'll have to take your turn with everyone else, Serge.' He waved his hands over the crowded room. 'Everyone's hungry but are they complaining?'

  A tough, gaunt man with grey hair tied back in a ponytail and silver earrings came pushing his way through. He put his arms around Serge from behind and hugged him tight.

  Serge twisted round annoyed, but when he saw who it was he was delighted.

  'Eh, Marcel, you son of a cheap whore, I thought it was the DST caught up with me at last.' He screamed with laughter and pumped the bloke's hand, slapping him on the back. The DST (Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire) is the French equivalent of MI5.

  'Eh, Johnny, meet Marcel the Lyonnaise. If you want to know anything about French antiques, he's the bloke to ask.'

  The guy gave me a wink, felt about in his denim jacket pocket and produced a small leather-bound book which he handed to me. 'Go on, have a look at that.'

  I opened it carefully. It was obviously very old, engraved on a kind of yellowed parchment paper.

  The title page read, 'L'Art de Péter – Theori – Physyque et Méthodique'.

  I glanced up. 'Go on, feast your eyes – you'll never see another book like it.' He was gleeful.

  I turned the pages carefully. All the 'S's were written as 'F's and my ancient French wasn't up to much so it was difficult to decipher. There were old illustrations on 'L'Art de Péter'; comical little figures bent over chairs, trousers round their ankles emitting puffs of smoke from their anuses. Pages of script explaining the secrets of farting. Until finally – presumably after studying the book closely – 'On peut péter avec règle et avec goût.' (One can break wind with control and with taste.)

  The book appeared to be the nineteenth-century precursor to Viz's Johnny Fartipants. The last time I'd really laughed at breaking wind was when I first saw the Mel Brooke's film Blazing Saddles. It was one of those taboos that had been well and truly broken and now only afforded me the occasional chuckle. But I was familiar with the French love of Le Petomaine, the great master of controlled farting who wowed Paris at the beginning of the twentieth century. It was amusing to see an antique book like this devoted to the art and I didn't have to try very hard to express the amused amazement that was clearly expected of me. It was like reading Chaucer's The Miller's Tale for the first time, bringing home the simple truth that rude noises from the bottom had been making mankind laugh for centuries.

  I shut it and went to hand it back but Serge snatched it away and began waving it in the air.

  'Have you any idea of the value of this thing, Johnny?' His eyes were wide with disbelief. He began to turn the pages, examining them with reverence. 'You swine, Marcel, where in the name of the Holy Mother of God did you find this little gem?'

  Marcel tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. 'Aha, wouldn't you like to know. I can't say. It's a secret.'

  'Secret, my arse! You stole this book, you must have.'

  'Let's say I acquired it through l
egitimate channels,' said Marcel, taking it back and replacing it carefully in his denim jacket pocket.

  'How much do you want for it?' said Serge.

  'You think you can afford to buy this? You're dreaming, my friend. I'll wait for the right buyer. This book is a three-month holiday for me lying on soft sandy beaches sipping exotic cocktails surrounded by beautiful women. You think I'll give it to you at a knock-down price?' He snorted.

  The waitress came over to tell us she'd found us a place.