Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  Most of the hotels were full, but Serge eventually found one with a spare room that accepted dogs. The proprietor – a diminutive rosy-cheeked woman with neat blonde hair – was yet another doll collector. She looked like a little doll herself. We could see into her living room. There were dolls everywhere; a line of them sitting on a couch and even more up on the mantelpiece. Some of them looked like antiques and Serge's eyes were popping as he leaned over to get a better view. I knew he was trying to spot any valuable ones.

  When I took his arm and hissed 'No!' at him, he rubbed his eyes, crossed himself and smiled sheepishly, as if reminded of the sanctity of his pilgrimage here.

  'Don't worry, Johnny, I'm not here for business – I'm here for my soul.'

  He invited us to dine with him before we returned to our caravan, which was parked on a nearby site. But as we ate our dinner in the hotel's dining room, I noticed he couldn't stop his eyes straying to the various little alcoves and shelves where several dolls had been decoratively perched.

  The evening was balmy and surprisingly warm with a thin crescent moon and a breathtaking sky bright with stars. After dinner we decided we would go to the candlelit service after all. With Robespierre sitting up front in the van we drove across town and parked within walking distance of the grotto.

  Serge patted Robespierre on the head. 'Now look after the van while we're gone and bite anyone who tries to break in.'

  'I'm training him up to guard my stuff,' he explained. 'He may be small now, but you wait till he gets his big boy's teeth.'

  We followed the flow of people through to the main gates and wandered around aimlessly until we found ourselves high up on the flat roof of the Basilica looking out over the steeples and minarets. The scene below had a magical quality. The lights from hundreds of candles and lanterns moved slowly in a shimmering river of tiny flames as the crowds swirled round the grotto.

  Helen and I stood holding hands. Our eyes were drawn from the sparkling candles below to the vastness of the night sky above. The stars themselves were like billions of twinkling candles and we gazed up at the vastness of the firmament in wonder. We were just two small beings on the surface of a planet floating in a far-flung corner of the universe. What were we doing here? What was it all about?

  I felt a thump against my shoulder. Someone had barged into me, bringing me back to earth with a bang. I swung round to see whoever had done it run off and disappear behind a section of stone roofing. At first I thought it must have been an accident. But then the individual reappeared and circled back through the crowd towards us.

  The thought crossed my mind that it was someone who knew us having a joke. But as the character got closer I could see it was a young man in his early twenties with a wild expression and staring eyes.

  He sidled along beside a parapet and as he passed close by hissed at me: 'Satan's spawn – you must be gone from this sacred place!'

  The bloke had a strong German accent. I could hardly believe my ears. But for some reason it struck me as comical. Why had he picked on me? Did I look like Satan's spawn? Surely not.

  Helen was amused at first, but then worried. 'He looks nasty. Maybe we should keep out of his way.'

  Serge had seen what had happened. I tried to explain about the 'Satan's spawn' bit, but had difficulty translating this into French.

  He got the gist of it though. 'There are all sorts of maniacs about these days, Johnny. Best be careful, eh?'

  We watched out to see if the guy would reappear. When there was no sign of him I tried to regain some of the calm and tranquillity we'd been enjoying earlier. But the mood had gone.

  We looked over the wall at the scene below. Several priests were leading a procession from the Basilica towards the grotto. They were joined by more people holding candles, following silently.

  'I think the service is about to begin,' said Helen.

  As we headed for the stairs I felt bony fingers bite into the flesh at the back of my arm and I turned to look into the eyes of the German weirdo who'd bothered me earlier. He pulled himself in close. I could feel his hot breath on my face.

  'I haf been warning you already Beelzebub, you must be gone from this…'

  And here his words were choked off. His eyes widened as he was jerked back almost off his feet. It was only then I realised that Serge had him by the collar and seat of his pants. He frogmarched him across the roof, dragged him up against a parapet and held him bent over against the brickwork. We watched amazed as Serge cuffed him lightly across the back of his head, hoisted him upright and began to berate him, poking his finger in his chest to emphasise what he was saying. The poor bloke looked shocked, pulling back in disbelief. And when Serge pinched his cheek and mockingly slapped him across the forehead with the palm of his hand he recoiled in horror and reeled back to stagger off towards the stairs.

  Serge rejoined us, smiling to himself.

  'What on earth did you say to him?' asked Helen.

  'Nothing much. I just told him that Johnny was the Antichrist sent from hell to destroy the earth, and that I was his Black Angel. If he dared bother you again he would be killed and cast into outer darkness to rot for all eternity.'

  'He might have had a bit of difficulty grasping all that,' I said. 'He was German. I doubt if he spoke much French.'

  'He understood all right,' said Serge. 'He went off as if all the demons in hell were after him.'

  'Thanks,' I said. 'I appreciate it.' There was a note of admiration in my voice.

  He put his arm round my shoulder. 'Think nothing of it, Johnny. Eh! He was a junkie, high as a kite on God knows what. There's no telling what pourri like that will do.'

  'Quite,' I said. And made a mental note to try not to offend Serge in future if I could possibly help it.

  We descended the staircase to ground level and followed the flow until we were in the middle of the hushed crowd standing in front of the grotto. We could hear a low murmur from the priests conducting the service.

  The money-grabbing gift shops, the puffed up Basilica and my experience on the roof with the mad German hadn't put me in a very receptive mood for tuning in to things of a deeper or spiritual nature. I was now totally convinced that Lourdes was an elaborate confidence trick designed to magnify the power of the Roman Catholic Church. I was of a completely disbelieving frame of mind, slightly revolted with myself for bothering to have come here in the first place.

  But as I stood watching the people standing silently all around me, their faces lit by the glow of the lanterns, I suddenly felt an incredible force hit me square in the chest.

  It took my breath away.

  It was emanating from the rock face and the sheer strength of it was overwhelming.

  Helen held me tightly round the waist. I looked at Serge. His eyes were all swimmy. The three of us were riveted to the spot.

  It was as if some benevolent alien being had suddenly arrived, radiating all-powerful love and compassion.

  I'm not sure how long we stood there entranced. Time seemed to stand still. But eventually the strength of the emanation diminished, the service finished and we drifted towards the entrance gate with everyone else still enthralled. All my cynicism had melted away.

  It had been an incredible experience. One we would never forget.

  Was this what the villagers felt watching Bernadette kneeling in front of the grotto? If so, I could see why the Church had wanted to muscle in on the act. But was it a holy manifestation or something else?

  We reached the van and as I unlocked the door Robespierre jumped around on the seat, ecstatic to have us back. I'm not sure how it happened, but as I unlocked the door on the driver's side he bounced excitedly towards me, lost his footing and plummeted over the edge. I tried to catch him but he slipped through the gap and hit the pavement giving a little squeal of pain as he did so. He went to get up but pitifully fell on his face again as his front legs gave way.

  Serge rushed round in a panic and swept him up.

  'Is h
e all right? He's not hurt, is he?'

  He placed him carefully on the pavement and the puppy bravely limped a few steps, holding his right front paw up.

  'I'm really sorry, Serge,' I said. 'He was too quick for me. I just couldn't catch him.'

  'He's hurt his leg,' said Serge. 'You don't think he's broken it, do you?' He was distraught.

  'Oh God, I can't stand it! He's going to be a cripple all his life.' He picked up the little animal and clutched him to his chest. The pressure must have hurt because Robespierre gave another little cry of pain.

  'Maybe he's just bruised his leg,' said Helen. 'It might not be broken.'

  Serge put him down again and we watched him limp in circles and widdle on a piece of grass. When he'd finished we examined him under the interior light in the van.

  'No, I think he has broken his leg,' Serge said hollowly.

  We drove in silence back to Serge's hotel and carried the puppy up to his room. When Serge put him down on the carpet he tried to walk but fell forward again, clearly in great pain.

  'We ought to get him to a vet,' said Helen.

  'We'll never find a surgery open at this time of night,' said Serge. He was close to tears.

  'I'm so sorry,' I said. 'I should have caught him.'

  'How could you see him in the dark?' said Serge. 'It wasn't your fault, Johnny. Don't blame yourself.'

  'What can we do?' said Helen. 'We can't just leave him in agony like this.'

  The little animal was sitting looking up at us with one front paw held off the ground and a pleading expression on his face. It was pitiful.

  'The holy water!' exclaimed Serge. 'I left the bottles in the van.'

  He ran off to get them and we looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  'That won't do anything,' said Helen.

  'No, but let's just humour him, eh?' I said.

  He returned excitedly with the blue plastic bottles, unscrewed the top of one and poured some of the holy water into a dish.

  Robespierre hobbled painfully over and began lapping it up.

  'See, he was thirsty,' said Serge, 'the poor little chap.'

  The puppy finished the water and ran his tongue round his chops as if relishing every last drop.

  Serge poured some of the holy water into his hand and sploshed it on the dog's chest, rubbing it gently into his front legs.

  'You've got to have faith,' he said, 'when you want something wonderful to happen.'

  Serge seemed like an unlikely convert to the efficacy of holy water. And I was dubious that its powers extended to mending a broken leg.

  Robespierre sat back on his haunches and looked up at us. The holy water didn't appear to be having any effect.

  'We should get him to the vet first thing,' I said. 'If his leg is broken it will need setting.'

  I was about to suggest we all turn in when the animal stood up on all fours and shook himself. He walked confidently across the room, turned and gave a little bark.

  'He wants his dinner,' said Serge. 'In all the excitement I've forgotten to give him his dinner.'

  'But did you see him?' said Helen eagerly. 'He's not limping. He walked perfectly. The holy water – it's worked!'

  'My God! You're right!' said Serge. 'Look, he's fine now.'

  He opened a tin of dog food. When Robespierre smelled the meat he hopped around eagerly waiting for it to be dished up.

  We stood over him, watching him tuck in. The change in his behaviour was astounding.

  'The holy water has cured him,' said Serge. He picked up Robespierre and hugged him. 'It's a miracle!'

  Helen and I lay in bed in our caravan in the dark talking. We were still filled with wonder, unable to sleep.

  I said, 'Do you think that holy water really cured Robespierre?'

  'Well, he did seem to suddenly get better.'

  'But surely holy water only works in horror films? He could have just twisted his leg and his hunger made him forget the pain.'

  'Maybe. But Serge is right – you've got to have faith when you want something wonderful to happen.'

  'That was wonderful though, what happened there at the grotto tonight,' I said softly. 'I've been trying to explain it to myself but my brain just goes numb. I can't seem to get to grips with it.'

  'I'm pleased we came,' she said. 'I don't want to move back to England now and I feel like life's not so bad after all.'

  I was relieved to hear it.

  'I'm glad,' I said. 'Perhaps that's the miracle of Lourdes.'

  'And I've changed my mind about Serge,' she said. 'He loves his dog so much. He's not so bad either.'

  'Hitler loved his German shepherd dogs,' I said, '… and he was a vegetarian.'

  'Everyone always says that,' she said.

  Early next morning, when we arrived at Serge's hotel, he was already up, tucking into his coffee and croissants.

  'How's Robespierre?' asked Helen.

  'He's on top form,' said Serge. 'One hundred per cent. He broke off the end of a croissant, dipped it in jam and Robespierre took it daintily and licked the tips of Serge's fingers.

  We joined him for breakfast and I couldn't help noticing that he was shaved and scrubbed. He was positively glowing. Maybe it was just the access to the hotel shower and free toilet facilities, but he seemed more wholesome somehow, quite unlike his usual scruffy old self.

  'And what about you?' I said. 'You're all right?'

  'I'm more than all right, Johnny, I'm a new man.'

  There was something about his eyes. They were shining with a kind of zealous fervour.

  'After all that happened last night,' he said, 'our wonderful experience at the grotto and the miracle healing of my darling Robespierre, I've decided the time has come to turn over a new leaf.'

  We must have both looked incredulous because he seemed hurt.

  'No, truthfully, you may not believe me but I'm going to change my ways. When I think about some of the things I've done in my life I'm embarrassed. I've messed up every decent relationship I've ever had.'

  'What about Regine?' I said. 'You two love each other.'

  'I haven't told anyone yet; she dumped me a while back for a rich widower from Paris who's taken her and the children away and given them the lifestyle they deserve… not sweating over sewing machines churning out fake teddies.'

  'God, I'm so sorry,' I said.

  'Yes, well, let's face it, I deserved it. I've been unfaithful, dishonest. I've lied and cheated everybody.'

  'It's not so easy, the life of a brocanteur,' said Helen, comfortingly.

  'Yes, sometimes you have to be a bit tough to survive,' I said.

  'No, it's no good making excuses. I've acted like a swine. I'm ashamed of myself.'

  'Steady on, Serge,' I said. 'I'm not sure if I can cope with you turning into a goody-goody.'

  'I'm serious, Johnny. I lose Regine and now this little miracle with Robespierre. It's a sign. I've seen the light. I'm giving up my old selfish ways. I'm turning over a new leaf.'

  Dawn was breaking when we finished breakfast and set off in Serge's van for the village where the brocante market was being held. Robespierre snuggled up on Helen's lap in the front. He seemed absolutely fine now.

  We began setting up our stall in the village square.

  'I'll just take Robespierre for a pee-pee,' said Serge. 'See if I can pick up any bargains.'

  The sun was rising over the rooftops, taking the morning chill out of the air, and we got so absorbed in unpacking our stock and serving customers that I forgot all about him. I was thinking about fetching a mid morning coffee from the cafe opposite when there was a commotion from inside: raised voices and then angry shouting.

  The door burst open and two bodies came flying out, locked together in mortal combat. It wasn't the sort of fighting you see in the films, either. They were rolling in the dirt, twisting ears, banging heads on the ground, biting and gouging. A couple of stallholders waded in to break it up. They pulled the combatants apart.

&nb
sp; 'It's Serge!' said Helen incredulously. 'I hope he's not hurt.'

  We rushed forward to see, but the fight was over. Serge staggered back leaving his adversary lying on the pavement groaning. He wiped a dribble of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His hair was roughed up and his face was grimy. He looked more like his scruffy old self again.

  When his opponent turned over and pulled himself to his knees I recognised him immediately. It was Serge's gun-running pal Bruno the Basque and surprisingly he appeared to have got the worst of it. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. One eye was swelling up and he had a nasty graze on his forehead. He shook himself and glared at Serge as if he was considering having another go. A couple of his burly cronies hovered in the background, unsure of what to do. Then they helped him to his feet. Bruno looked sullenly around at the crowd, thought better of it, and turned on his heel and slunk off.