Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  I remembered how his parasol had various taped crosses positioned all over it. Now I knew how they got there.

  'I don't think we'll see much more rain,' said Stefan. 'You can leave your van parked where it is next to Serge.

  A big fat jolly character known as Pepé Le Frite who ran the snacks stand was sweating profusely as he unloaded boxes of saucissons et frites (sausages and chips) ready for the lunchtime rush.

  When I went back to my van to fetch the rest of the gear a weaselly bloke wearing a fifties-style blue mohair thug's coat and polished black brogues was overseeing three moots (who could all have found jobs as extras in a gangster movie) unloading Turkish carpets and reproduction furniture from a white Iveco van double-parked in the road. He came over when he saw me open my van doors.

  'Eh! You can't park there.' Up close I could see he had a sinister moustache. It was like a shadow, shaved close and bristly. The three burly blokes put down the wardrobe they were carrying and watched.

  'That's our place. Better shift it if you know what's good for you.'

  'I don't think so, this is the first one,' I said. 'And I was allocated this spot.'

  He looked at me like I was an insignificant piece of dirt. He had the air of someone who wasn't used to being ignored.

  All the spaces on the road were full. If I did as he said, I would have to drive to the car park that was right up the other end. I looked around in vain for Stefan or Serge.

  'Eh, you deaf or something? Shift that van.' The three moots, who looked like brothers, began to stroll over. Their faces were eager, as if they could smell a ruck.

  'The organiser told me I could leave my van here,' I said weakly. 'Look, I'm stalled out just over there.' I waved towards the snacks stand.

  'I don't give a shit, that's our place. Move it.'

  The three moots were looking at me over his shoulder like I was a piece of squashed dog's crap.

  There was a time when I was younger and more reckless in England when I would have taken great exception to being ordered about by a bully like this. But now I was weighing up whether I should simply capitulate and park somewhere else, or stand up to them. I didn't fancy my chances and although resorting to physical violence was generally considered a weakness in France I had witnessed enough bagarres (punch-ups) to know that these three were capable of flying in the face of fashion.

  The weaselly bloke came up close. His breath smelled terrible and for a second I thought he was going to bite me.

  'Where you from, Chef? Only you've got a bit of a funny accent.'

  'England,' I said. 'I'm English.'

  'Really, is that right? Well, listen here, English, do you understand what I'm saying?'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'You sure? Because I don't want anyone to say later I didn't give you a chance.'

  I nodded. I didn't like the way things were going. I began to feel around in my pockets for the van keys. I was loath to back down, but four against one didn't seem like very good odds.

  The three moots were shaking their heads and grinning at each other. It was obvious I was about to capitulate.

  'Do you know Stefan, the bloke who runs the market here?' I said, playing for time.

  The weaselly bloke with the moustache looked like he couldn't believe I was still bothering to show any resistance. He was poised on the balls of his feet as if about to fell me with a short sharp jab to the jaw.

  'I was actually told I could park here,' I said.

  The bloke's eyes widened. He was near the end of his tether.

  'OK, I'll shift it,' I said. It wasn't worth getting a busted jaw over. Broken bones took time to heal and I couldn't afford to be laid off over something so trivial.

  I climbed into the van and started the engine.

  'Eh, Johnny, are you leaving?' It was Serge, appearing in the nick of time.

  'The rosbif is off back to England,' said the Weasel.

  The three moots laughed and slapped each other's backs. They obviously thought this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

  Serge was about to step in when Stefan appeared.

  He looked at the Weasel and his cronies and appeared to grasp what was happening straight away.

  'Stay where you are, John.' He turned on the Weasel.

  'I told him he could leave his van there. You're going to have to take yours up the car park.'

  The Weasel looked like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He threw Stefan a look that would have shrivelled a less confident man.

  Stefan went up to the three moots. 'Unload your stuff and get your van up the car park.' They were still grinning inanely, not quite sure what was happening.

  Stefan beckoned the Weasel over. 'Any more trouble and I'll see to it you never work this market again.'

  The Weasel looked at the Turkish carpets and all the repro furniture they had unloaded and I could almost hear his brain calculating if it was worth sacrificing a day's takings just to make a point. He decided it wasn't and grudgingly gave orders to the moots to finish unloading and park the van.

  As I unloaded the rest of my stuff the four of them watched me, eyes ablaze. When I passed the Weasel, he spat out, 'Don't think you've got away with this, English, I don't forget people who cross me.'

  I tried to ignore him and get on with setting up, but I felt sick to my stomach.

  Serge sidled over from his stand.

  'I don't like to tell you this, Johnny, but that's the Sanchez mob. We'd better watch out. They're a bunch of gangsters, that lot. Even the police are scared of them.'

  Great! That's just what I wanted to hear. I'd been coming to terms with the problem and now one remark from Serge had me shitting myself again. So that Weasel bloke meant what he said, and I couldn't rely on Stefan or Serge to protect me.

  Manuel, a Manouche Gypsy I knew from previous markets, and who was stalled out nearby, came across for a quiet word.

  'Eh, John, I saw what happened there. Pity you upset that guy. All the gitans say he's a troublemaker. He's bad news, I'm afraid.'

  Gulp! Everyone knew about them except me. I thanked him for the tip-off and wished I'd been forewarned. I appeared to have made a dangerous enemy.

  For the rest of the morning I waited with some trepidation for the third stroke of bad luck to strike. But the wet weather held off and crowds of people turned up to stroll along the Ramparts and check out what the brocante market had to offer. The music from a wind-up gramophone floated up from the far end across the stalls. People were smiling and laughing. The good citizens of Bayonne appeared in high spirits, determined to enjoy their Saturday morning.

  I perked up a bit when I had the good fortune to sell a nineteenth-century Meerschaum pipe in the shape of a nymph's head to a collector who was well pleased with his purchase. We had discovered that French collectors of these pipes, which are carved by hand from a soft stone reported to be solidified sea foam, had difficulties in finding examples in good condition and Helen had bought this one at an auction in England. Those featuring the scantily clad figures of women appeared to be extremely popular as most customers were men. As he paid me cash in large denomination notes I caught sight of the Weasel out of the corner of my eye, watching us. When he saw I'd seen him he gave a sneer and turned away.

  In the rush before noon I managed to forget about him and his intimidating threats. Pepé Le Frite had his charcoal burner going full steam and I was overpowered by the pungent aroma of saucissons sizzling on the grill and the hiss of chips in the deep fat fryer.

  Serge was at the front of the queue. He shouted across to me to join him.

  Pepé handed him a greasy sausage in a baguette, and wanted to know what I wanted. There wasn't a lot of choice. It was either saucissons or a thick slice of Brie cheese wedged in a baguette, an unappetising snack at the best of times. I decided to settle for that and reached out to take one.

  'Free cup of wine with that,' said Pepé. Before I could stop him he held a paper cup up to a giant brown plast
ic barrel and twisted the tap, letting a stream of bright red liquid splash into it.

  'Eh, Johnny, don't touch that muck,' said Serge. 'It'll burn your insides out.'

  Pepé looked wounded and speared a couple of sausages to cover his hurt feelings.

  'We'll open this bottle of Bordeaux instead, much better for the digestion.'

  Stefan called us over to join him at his table. They uncorked the wine and insisted I have a glass. I didn't want to appear rude and refuse their hospitality. Whenever I told any of the market people I was an alcoholic the response was normally, 'So am I, what of it?' followed by a swift downing of the glass they were holding. If truth be told, I was still a bit shaken from the confrontation with the Weasel and his cronies and this had weakened my normal resolve.

  Halfway through the meal another bottle was produced and after quaffing back several more glassfuls Stefan insisted I get out my harmonicas and sing them some 'low down blues'. With my inhibitions considerably lowered I launched into a spirited version of Sonny Boy Williamson's 'Bring It on Home', to loud shouts of encouragement. This was followed – at Serge's insistence – by John Lee Hooker's 'Boom-Boom'. And he joined in all the choruses, yelling out the 'Boom-Boom-Boom-Boom's, and banging his plate randomly with his knife and fork.

  I needed something in my stomach to counteract the effect of the wine, but when I reached for my baguette I realised Serge Bastarde had eaten it.

  'Sorry, Johnny, I wasn't thinking,' he said. He offered to get me another.

  Sitting back for a breather I noticed the Weasel and his three moots had moved in closer. They were sitting on a shiny repro Louis XV sofa watching what was going on. It made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  After coffees, on my way back to the van, slightly tipsy and in need of a siesta, I had to pass close by them. They watched me approach and the Weasel got up and stood in my path waiting for me.

  He was blocking my way. And my heart sank further when the three moots joined him shoulder to shoulder on the pavement.

  Surely they weren't going to give me a good kicking in broad daylight? They'd never get away with it. If I was in trouble, Stefan and Serge would help out. But when I glanced round to check I saw them disappearing up the other end of the market.

  As I drew level the Weasel stepped towards me and when he raised his arm I flinched, thinking he was about to attack. But to my surprise he embraced me and slapped me on the back.

  'Eh, Harmonica!' He grinned in my face and shook my hand.

  I must have looked shocked because he said it again.

  'Eh, Harmonica!' He gave my hand an extra squeeze. 'The blues. Very good.'

  All our previous problems were forgotten. He was now my biggest buddy. The three moots joined in, beaming and patting me on the back.

  I walked on to my van with a feeling of relief flooding over me. And as I settled down on the front seat I could see the Weasel smiling and giving me the thumbs-up sign. I waved and smiled back. I was worried that I might have fallen off the wagon but relieved that I'd won the Weasel over. The world of brocanteurs was comparatively small and I didn't need to make any enemies.

  As I drifted into an alcoholic stupor I was thinking to myself… it's true what that bloke said… Music doth have charms to soothe the savage beast… Or breast… Or whatever it was.

  13

  CORSETS AND COQUETTES

  The mournful hooting of owls greeted me as I stepped out of the house into a nightscape lit by a crimson moon. It hung enormous over the trees, so close I could have reached out and touched it. It was four in the morning in the middle of June and I had a three-hour drive ahead. I was off to a weekend antiques market held twice a year in a little town deep in the heart of the Gironde.

  I closed the shuttered doors quietly behind me. I didn't want to wake Helen, who was tucked up fast asleep in bed. The pigeons in their boxes under the eaves cooed inquisitively at one another and the big fat toad who lives in the yard crawled off as I walked over to my van.

  The single-track road that passes the end of our drive snakes over small hills through dense deciduous woodland interspersed with open arable land. Most of the Landes is flat and sandy and covered with pine forests, but this comparatively unknown area a few kilometres inland with its rolling hills and small farms is known as the Chalosse. As I rounded a bend I was confronted by a pair of small deer caught in the headlights. The French call them chevreuils, and with their delicate bodies and short pointed horns they could have jumped straight off one of the old Babycham champagne perry bottles.

  I braked and extinguished my lights. It was a doe with her fawn, and I watched in the moonlight as she waited to make sure her youngster was well into the thicket at the side of the road before unhurriedly following her in.

  I drove on, thrilled with the memory of what I had just witnessed. In the distance blue lights were flashing, and as I descended the hill that leads into our local village I could see a cluster of vehicles pulled off the road. A gendarme with a torch waved me down. Firemen were bent over a saloon car which had careered down a steep embankment and into a tree. In the headlights I saw the back end of a red Ford Escort with its 'go faster' stripes that I thought might belong to the son of one our local farmers. A young girl with blood streaming down her face was being helped into an ambulance.

  The gendarme with the torch spoke to me. 'Nasty business. Seems like a young couple were on their way home with friends from the disco. The girl had a miraculous escape.'

  'What about the others?' I asked. He shook his head. 'They're trying to cut them out now, but it's not good.'

  I asked if there was anything I could do.

  'Not really. We've phoned his family. It's up to the cutting crew and medics now.'

  I drove on for a while and then pulled over, got out and leaned against the side of my van, feeling shaky. I was used to coming across crashed cars in the early hours of Saturday or Sunday morning on my way to markets. They more often than not involved young drivers who had over-imbibed at the local boîte de nuit (disco). But this one had been a bit close to home.

  On the other side of the village I picked up the dual carriageway and after a half-hour run turned off onto the Route National that runs through the forest. The only cars I had passed had been a few stragglers wending their way home from 'Le Soft' nightclub. But now, driving through the dense pine forests, the roads were deserted. My mind was turning as it tended to do at this early hour of the morning, mulling over the past, wondering about the future. The accident had shaken me up and I was re-evaluating my place in the world.

  I was also slightly neurotically keeping an eye out for any stray deer that might jump out onto the road ahead. Startling stories appeared regularly in the local section of the Sud Ouest newspaper about motorists who had crashed off the road trying to avoid hitting chevreuils. Our village shop even sold small patented plastic whistling devices to fix on the outside of your car designed to scare off any deer that might be thinking of leaping out. It was a handy excuse for any motorist who lost control of his vehicle on the way home after one too many at the neighbourhood bar, so most reports of the phenomenon tended to be anecdotal.

  I kept looking at my Michelin map, checking I was on the right road. Helen had booked up with the fair organisers in advance and all I had to do was turn up early to set up. It was the first time I had done a market here so it was new territory for me. Despite their habit of accenting the importance of living the good life I had noticed the French tended to work hard, starting the day at a ridiculously early hour and continuing until quite late. The art was to make it look like you were really enjoying yourself and not working hard at all.

  The misty dawn light brightened as I left the forest and turned off onto a series of smaller roads winding through sleepy villages. There were thin blue lines denoting small rivers on the map and the village I was headed for appeared to be situated among them. I carried on down a tiny road with wide ditches and swathes of bulrushes on either sid
e. I ignored a temporary sign by the side of the road warning of 'Inondation' or flooding. I had long since adopted the French habit of disregarding any official-looking notices. 'Route Barrée', or 'Road Closed' signs are regularly discounted by the French as being totally fanciful and they are often dismayed when they find the road actually is blocked.

  There was a ford ahead and I drove into the water presuming I would emerge onto a dry road and arrive shortly. But the rivers were in flood and when I leaned out the window I could see the water was almost up to the door on my van and hear it burbling around the exhaust pipe at the back. If only I had heeded the sign! I was driving across fields covered with deep water and it was only the avenue of willow trees ahead that showed me where the submerged roadway was supposed to be. If the area was swamped like this surely the market would be cancelled? I had passed no other brocanteurs' vans. I was risking being trapped in a torrent. And I couldn't turn round and go back – there was a danger of slipping into one of the deep ditches.