Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  She exploded in a temper tantrum. 'Any cheek from you, Bastarde, and I'll have you thrown out!' Her face was bright red. She looked like she might burst a blood vessel.

  The mother jumped straight in on Serge's side, defending him and berating her daughter. She winked and smiled at Serge and I got the distinct impression they might have had some history together.

  'Seems like you're notorious even round here,' I said.

  He chuckled and nodded.

  'Better go easy though,' I said. 'We haven't managed to buy anything yet.'

  'Don't worry about that, Johnny. I've got the piston, friends in the right places. Me and the mother, we had a bit of a thing going a while back. She'll see me right.'

  So my suspicions were correct. He'd been her 'boyfriend'. The crafty old devil!

  The daughter calmed down and began auctioning off a box of books. But the mother insisted on helping her, picking them out one by one, thumbing through and choosing passages she thought might interest us, reading out loud as if we were pupils in a class. There were a few yawns and shuffling of feet but no one complained or shouted 'Get on with it!' as they would have done in an English auction room.

  I decided this was the time to nip to the loo but it seemed like everyone had the same idea because when I got there the place was packed. As I shuffled behind the line of men waiting to use the stinking urinal, I was thinking about how I was going to get the van fixed, and absent-mindedly looking at the back of the neck of the chap in front of me. He turned his head slightly and I noticed the end of a livid scar running from one ear down across his throat. Where had I seen that scar recently? It was hardly the sort of thing you could forget. Then it hit me: it was Bruno the Basque! Surely he couldn't have followed us out here intent on revenge.

  I changed my mind about taking a piss and pushed my way out, through the corridor and into the street.

  Breathing in the fresh air I fought to get a grip. I hadn't realised what an ugly impression Bruno had made on me. Reg was leaning against a wall in the shade.

  'What's up with you?' he said. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

  I leaned back beside him.

  'I hear you've had a spot of trouble with your old camion.'

  I was only mildly surprised that he knew. Although his grasp of French was limited he was a sheer genius at conversing with signs and exaggerated facial expressions, and I'd seen him 'chatting' with Serge earlier. He didn't miss a trick and knew far more about what was going on than I did.

  'It is playing up a bit,' I said. 'I'm going to have to check it into a garage.'

  'You can stay at my place tonight if you like.'

  'I didn't know you lived locally.'

  'Nah, I don't, but I've got me caravan parked on the gypo site outside town.'

  Erk! The gypo site outside town. I didn't like the sound of that.

  'Surely gypos… I mean Gypsies… don't like non-gitans on their sites?'

  'Nah, that's a load of bollocks. If they don't like it they can get stuffed,' he said gruffly.

  'I don't want to put you to any trouble. I'm sure we can find a pension or something here.'

  'No trouble at all, mate. I've already rung the wife and told her to sort out an evening meal for us.'

  That was it then. There was no argument. It was a fait accompli. When I told Serge about Reg's offer he was delighted, especially about the free meal part.

  'Voilà, and Le Pirate has a charming wife. Our luck's in again. You know, Johnny, your English women are very sexy. When I was in the army I seduced the wives of many English tourists. It worked every time. I was young and handsome and dashing in my army uniform.' How many times had I heard that one?! Looking at him now, squat and swarthy like a toad, it didn't seem possible. Had I imagined him jiving with Angelique that night I got drunk during La Fête de la Musique? He had a twinkle in his eye and a cheeky grin. Maybe he was irresistible to some women.

  I was about to ask him if he knew his old pal Bruno the Basque was here, when bidding started on the country furniture and the moment passed. I even managed to buy a couple of pieces for a reasonable price and decided to nip out and find a garage to fix the van. I knew from experience in France that if you drive a French vehicle you can normally get any repairs done speedily and efficiently in the smaller local garages. I found one owned by a pair of twin brothers who looked like they had stepped out of a Tintin comic book, all berets and matching blue overalls. They seemed pleased to get the work and promised to have the problem sorted out before lunch the following day.

  I returned to the saleroom, expecting to find Serge waiting for me, but he had vanished. A few dealers were loading their vans and I asked around without much success. Someone said they'd seen him with 'Monsieur le Rock 'n' Roll Anglais', but didn't know where they'd gone.

  I wandered into town, feeling lost and sorry for myself. I was stuck deep in the heart of the Auvergne, abandoned, hungry and alone. As I walked up the main street imagining what I'd say to Serge when I caught up with him I was struck by an incongruous sight – a flashing pink neon sign bearing the legend 'Tivoli Bar' over a red-painted doorway. I was musing that this was more the type of sign you'd come across in a seedy quarter of somewhere like Paris or Marseille than a sleepy little town in the Auvergne when there was a sudden commotion inside – maniacal laughter mixed with apoplectic yells backed by a chorus of high-spirited out-of-tune singing.

  I looked up and down the peaceful street. Two women were chatting in front of the butcher's. A couple of old boys were sitting sipping Pernods outside a small cafe.

  The door to the Tivoli Bar burst open and Reg and Serge staggered out, arms round each other, singing at the tops of their voices – a drunken version of 'Angie' by the Rolling Stones. They caroused past me oblivious, before Serge did a double take and swung round in surprise.

  'Eh, Johnny, where you been? I was looking for you.'

  He put one arm round my shoulder. In the other he was holding a violin, dangling it by the fretboard like a club.

  'I thought you'd deserted me,' I said, relieved, and unable to recall any of the horrible things I'd intended to say to him.

  'Desert you? No, never, Johnny! Le Pirate and me, we've been making la fête.'

  'I've sorted the van out,' I said.

  'Good, good.'

  He didn't give a shit.

  'What's that?' I asked.

  'This? Le violon?' He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. 'It's the reason we're celebrating.'

  Reg was standing with a goofy grin on his face. What were the pair of them on? I knew Reg wasn't averse to a bit of substance abuse, and Serge would be loath to refuse any free samples. It was the only way they could have got so wasted in such a short period of time.

  'Come on, let's go mad and have a good time,' said Serge, steering me towards the door.

  Reg threw back his head, opened his mouth and brayed out: 'Angie! Angie! La-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaa!'

  Surprisingly, the bar was packed and as we pushed through I recognised most of the customers as dealers from the auction room. I scanned the crowd uneasily, wondering if Bruno the Basque was among them. We found a corner table and Serge thrust the violin into my hand.

  'Protect that with your life, Johnny.'

  He staggered off to the bar and returned with a bottle of champagne and glasses which he plonked down before us. He tottered off, chuckling to himself.

  Reg helped himself to a glass, downing it in one swig. He leaned over conspiratorially and grasped my knee as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. 'I'd guard that violin with your life like he says if I were you, mate.'

  'It's worth a lot is it?'

  'It's only a bleedin' Stradivarius, my man; it'll cost you four pound ten.' He erupted with a roar of laughter which turned into a coughing fit. I thumped him on the back as he fought for breath.

  'Poor old Benny Hill, eh?' he gasped. 'A bloody funny bloke killed off by feminists. Crying shame.'

  He wiped the
tears from his eyes.

  'But seriously though, Serge had to fight the gypos to get that thing. He's got some bottle that little pal of yours, I'll give him that. I thought those pikeys were going to shiv him at one point.'

  I didn't like the sound of this. Could they have got into so much trouble in such a short time?

  'It was a set-up,' said Reg. 'Serge told me the whole story. That old girl, the mother, had phoned him to tip him off that a valuable Italian violin was coming up in their next auction. They planned to pull a fast one together and swing the sale.'

  So that was why Serge had wanted me to drive him all this way out into the back of beyond. Rustic furniture my arse!

  'Only the word went round,' said Reg, 'and every pikey within a hundred-mile radius turns up and tries to get in on the act. Those gypos know every con in the book and when the violin was knocked down to Serge for such a low bid they went bananas.'

  'How do you mean?' I said. I was thinking about Bruno the Basque.

  'A gang of them were waiting outside when we left. Great big beefy broad-shouldered blokes with meaty hands and bellies like hippopotamuses. They barred our way and I thought we'd had it. But Serge faced them down – walked straight through calm as you like. I was sure we were in for some real trouble, but I've seen no sign of them since.'

  'Was one of them a horrible character with a big livid scar round his neck?'

  'Yeah, as it happens, there was a bloke like that. Nasty piece of work. Had a right go at Serge, he did.'

  'That's Bruno the Basque. He and Serge were mates when they were boys, but they fell out in a big way.'

  I told him the story of the chateau and the Gallé lamp. He was fascinated.

  'They're worth a fortune, those Gallé lamps are.'

  ' I don't think it was genuine,' I said. 'It looked like repro to me.'

  I examined the violin in my hand. It seemed particularly unprepossessing. Could it have really made Bruno and a load of Gypsies go bananas? I turned it at an angle to the light and looked in through the S-shaped holes. There was a faded yellow label stuck inside. I could just make out the lettering. Reg hadn't been joking.

  'See, you didn't believe me,' he said. 'It is a bleedin' Stradivarius.'

  'Yes, but there are loads of violins with the label marked Stradivarius stuck inside.' I said. 'Doesn't mean to say it's genuine.'

  'So do you think this violin could be the same thing as that Gallé lamp? A fake worth fuck all?'

  'Not necessarily. Some of them were made by skilled associates or sons of Stradivarius himself, apparently. I'm not an expert but this could be worth a few bob I suppose.'

  'Serge reckons it's worth a fortune. He's going to flog it and retire. That's why we're celebrating.'

  At that moment Serge reappeared and I handed him back the violin. 'This was what it was all about then?' I said.

  He looked at me as if he didn't understand.

  'The violin. That's why we came all this way. It wasn't for the cheap country furniture at all.'

  He gave me a sheepish grin. 'So Le Pirate has given away my little secret, eh?'

  'You could have let me in on it. I wouldn't have minded.'

  'I wasn't sure about it, honestly, Johnny. I was working on a tip-off. And you did get some good stuff too, didn't you?'

  What was the use? I wasn't surprised he'd duped me yet again.

  Reg stood up shakily, clapped his hands and rubbed them together like a drunken Master of Ceremonies. 'Maybe we should make a move, lads. The wife will have dinner ready and will be wondering where we are. Don't want to keep her waiting, do we?'

  We followed him out to his van and I managed to squeeze in between some heavy pieces of brown furniture.

  'You all right in the back there?' asked Reg, as we rattled along. It reminded me of similar situations I'd been in with the John Dummer Blues Band in the late sixties after a gig, driving pissed on our way back to some cheap hotel for the night. Only then I'd been as legless as the rest of them. Now I was older, wiser and stone-cold sober. Every time Reg broke into a chorus of 'Angie' and swerved out of the path of an oncoming vehicle I nearly shat myself.

  We pulled up in a cloud of dust at a Gypsy encampment on the outskirts of town, narrowly missing a surly bunch of bored teenagers. They eyed us coldly, pulling on their fags as we parked beside Reg's grubby, dog-eared English caravan, which stuck out like a sore thumb among the shiny Lord Munsterlands the Gypsies favoured.

  I'd never been onto a Gypsy site, just driven past them, but this one was idyllic with views across open meadows thick with wild flowers. All around were spanking new Mercedes white vans and spotless, glittering caravans, each with its own satellite dish. Were the Gypsies somehow a lot more successful at this brocante lark than we were? Clearly they were. How did they manage it? I looked around with some trepidation. I half expected to see Bruno the Basque and a bunch of his cronies coming to get us.

  Reg let out a drunken yell, took a last swig of champagne and lobbed the bottle into the bushes.

  We were greeted by his wife, who I couldn't help noticing had a half-smoked spliff sticking out of the corner of her mouth. She was rangy, with straw-coloured hair, and introduced herself as Rita. I got a strong taste of alcohol mixed with pot when she planted a big wet kiss full on my mouth. In her heyday she might have been an attractive woman. But I got the impression that, like Reg's caravan, she had become a bit dog-eared over the years. My hunch that she might not be at her best in the charm department at the moment was soon to be proved correct.

  The caravan reeked sickly sweet. She seated us at a pull-down table while she staggered about in the cramped space, clattering pots and pans and rattling drawers of cutlery. She plonked down a bowl of some concoction which looked yellow and cheesy and strangely unappetising.

  Reg lolled forward, barely aware of what was happening. How he'd managed to drive the van was beyond me.

  'A little something I made earlier,' slurred Rita, leaning on the table for support. 'Cauliflower cheese. Hope you like cauliflower cheese. My Reggie loves it.' She ladled a great steaming lump onto her husband's plate, dripping runny cheese across the table. Serge watched her every move avidly. I could tell he found her anarchic manner seductive. He was clutching his violin to his chest like a kid with a favourite cuddly toy, smiling secretly to himself.

  The cheesy smell galvanised Reg into action. He appeared to re-enter his slumping body, straightening up and attacking the food, spooning it into his mouth. Rita watched him indulgently.

  'He does love his cauliflower cheese, my Reggie does.'

  Serge took a mouthful of his and pulled a strange face. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to swallow or spit it out.

  Rita noticed. 'Whatsa matter, lovey, don't you like it? Oh cripes! Silly me. I forgot the baked beans, didn't I.' She fetched a steaming saucepan and doled some out onto our plates.

  Serge looked at the bright orangey goo as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

  'You'll want some HP sauce with that,' said Rita. She produced a bottle with a dried brown collar and whacked it with the palm of her hand, sending dollops flying in all directions.

  'What do you think of this then, Serge?' I said. 'Traditional English grub.'

  He was put on the spot. He couldn't face it but didn't want to offend Rita. He swallowed with difficulty and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked about to vomit. 'I've just got to nip out for a moment,' he said. 'I won't be long.' He stumbled out the door, still clutching his violin.

  'Sweet little bloke,' said Rita. 'What did he say?'

  'He's just off to the loo,' I said.

  'What's 'is name again?'

  'Serge,' I said. 'Serge Bastarde.'

  'Never,' she said. 'Is his name really Bastarde?' She had a fit of the giggles. She appeared as incredulous about it as Reg was.

  'It's not that uncommon a surname in France,' I said.

  'Blimey, fancy that,' she spluttered.

  Reg had polished of
f his cauliflower cheese and was helping himself to the last of the beans, liberally coated with HP sauce. The meal appeared to have completely revived him. He was his old self again. He grinned at me.

  'All right then, mate?'

  'Brilliant,' I said, trying to appear enthusiastic. The food actually tasted fine, although baked beans and cauliflower cheese held no terrors for me. I'd been brought up on the sticky stuff. It was hard to comprehend how the French saw these dishes as strange and somehow exotic. Christmas pudding always came top of the chart of Bizarre British Dishes, but baked beans were up there somewhere, probably in the top five.

  'Where's Serge?' asked Reg.