Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  'He's gone to the loo, I think.' I was beginning to worry about him. What if Bruno and his thugs knew he was here? He wouldn't stand a chance out there on his own.

  'Feeling a bit Tom and Dick is he?'

  'He's hardly touched his dinner,' said Rita. She had produced a 'cubey', a big square plastic bottle of cheap red wine, and was sloshing a glass full. She knocked it back and poured herself another.

  'Those gypo kids are being a right nuisance, babe,' she said, taking a last drag on the tip of the joint, stubbing it out on Reg's plate and dropping the end into his glass. 'There's one of them fancies me. He keeps leering and lurking around. Gives me the creeps, so he does.'

  'Do you want me to knock him out?' asked Reg.

  Rita let out a cackle.

  He leaned over and looked out the caravan window. 'Point him out to me. I'll go and do him.'

  'I think he's the sprog of that Antonio what's-'is-name, the one who reckons he's the King of the Gypsies,' she said.

  'Bloody gypos!' said Reg, flopping back. 'I used to do a fair old trade with them. But they can't get the good stolen stuff anymore. What's the use? They're not worth bothering with.' He began to help himself to the 'cubey' but stopped as the strains of a violin drifted in from outside. It was exquisitely played, a romantic air dripping with emotion. Reg put down his drink, leaned over, lifted the plastic net curtains and peered out of the window.

  'That's nice,' said Rita. 'Fancy being able to play the violin like that.'

  'He can't,' I said. 'Least, not as far as I know.'

  As we listened the music segued unexpectedly into a jazzy blues. Whoever was playing certainly knew their stuff.

  We left our meals and went outside where a little old man in shirtsleeves, waistcoat and a black trilby hat was playing the violin like a man possessed.

  Serge was standing close by, watching spellbound. He wasn't sick after all. Tears welled in his eyes. His face was flushed with emotion.

  The little old man finished the blues and began a flamenco, passionate and strutting at the same time. Serge swayed to the music, blinking back the tears. He smiled beatifically at us.

  'See, listen to that. Fantastic! That's my violin that is. I knew it was a good one.'

  The enormity of the moment hit us. We were jubilant. All three of us grabbed him and went into what I can only describe as a group hug, dancing with delight. Then, slightly embarrassed, we pulled back and clapped in time to the music.

  When the flamenco finished, we broke into spontaneous applause. The man handed the violin to Serge, bowed to us, waved his hand with a flourish and walked off towards the other caravans with great dignity.

  'Blimey, who was that bloke?' said Reg.

  'He's a gitan violinist,' said Serge, his voice cracking.

  'How did he get off the fag packet then?' said Reg. He looked at me like I'd appreciate the joke. I assumed he was referring to the picture of the romantic Gypsy with silver earrings on the old blue Gitanes cigarettes packet, and laughed knowingly.

  'He couldn't half play that fiddle,' said Rita.

  'He assured me my violin was a very rare find made by craftsmen,' said Serge. He was beginning to sound a bit smug.

  We went back into the caravan where Serge waxed lyrical about what he intended to do with the fortune he was going to make when he sold his violin.

  'I've always wanted to travel, Johnny,' he said. 'I think I'd like to see India. Maybe Egypt… the pyramids in the moonlight.'

  I explained it all to Rita. 'What about a cruise?' she volunteered. 'A cruise would be nice.' I could tell she was viewing Serge in a new light. She leaned in closer and smiled seductively. He did have a certain attraction for some women. It was obvious to me now.

  Reg turned the violin in his hands. 'It's a beauty, isn't it? And what a lovely tone it's got.' He placed it carefully on the table as if it were alive and delicate like a newborn baby. 'You done all right this time, mate.' He mimed an enthusiastic thumbs-up. 'Will you still talk to me when you're rich? I bet you won't want to know me.'

  Serge had a dreamy look on his face, as if he'd won the lottery. Rita was cooing to him. 'You'll need someone to keep you company on your world tour, babe. I could do that for you… look after you and help you spend the money.' Her hand was on his knee. I wondered if Reg had noticed and how he'd react. I anticipated him punching Serge on the nose and the blood spurting.

  But Reg was rubbing his fingers together in a miserly fashion and pulling a greedy face.

  'I think maybe I'll retire,' said Serge. 'Take a break. Not retire exactly, but do all the things I've always wanted to do. You know, live a lavish lifestyle, treat all my friends, throw big parties.'

  I passed on these musings to Reg and Rita.

  'Ah, bless,' said Rita.

  'Yeah, good on you, mate,' said Reg. 'You enjoy yourself.' He lifted his glass to propose a toast. They knocked back the wine and laughed together.

  The violin was on the table. I picked it up reverentially and examined it. I thought I'd memorise exactly what it was like just in case my luck changed and I came across another one worth a fortune. It'd never happen… but you just never knew. I looked in through the S-shaped holes.

  'My God! Look at this. Read the label.'

  I passed it to Reg, who took it and peered in through the slots.

  'Blimey! It's clear as day… Made in China. They've done him. Someone's done a swapsy. It must have been that old fag packet bloke.

  Serge was in a reverie. His head was leaning on Rita's bosom. He was smiling at her as she stroked the back of his neck.

  Reg poked him hard and shouted at him.

  'Look at this! They've conned you, you prat!'

  Serge looked up guiltily. He thought Reg was attacking him for partaking of the pleasures of his wife. But Reg was pushing the violin at him, indicating inside.

  Serge grasped the instrument and peered through the apertures. His eyes widened as he read the label. He couldn't believe it. He looked round in panic.

  Then suddenly he was off and out the door, legging it across the site, disappearing through the caravans, shouting at people.

  I went to follow and help the poor sod. But Reg stopped me.

  'Don't bother, mate. He'll have to go some to catch that little bloke. That was a set-up, that was. He's got no chance. He and that violin will be long gone.'

  Serge reappeared later, looking utterly dejected. He was muttering pathetically. 'Everyone denied that bloke existed. They said they'd heard nothing… no one like that here… They turned their backs on me.'

  Rita helped him back into the caravan.

  'Come on darlin', never mind, eh? You never finished your dinner and there's rhubarb and custard for afters.'

  Serge gave her a wan smile.

  19

  RINGS AND ROMANCE

  It was a baking hot afternoon but cool in our atelier, where I was antique-waxing a walnut country table. Helen was out at an auction and, apart from the gentle cooing of the pigeons in the nesting boxes on the barn wall and the distant purr of a tractor, all was calm and peaceful.

  I looked out through the open door across the fields thick with maize that now completely surrounded us. The stalks rustled soothingly as a gentle breeze stirred the drying leaves. It was now fully grown and ready for the combine harvester. I was reminded of the line from the song 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning' from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical, Oklahoma, in which the corn is described as being 'as high as an elephant's eye'. It possibly depended on the size of the elephant but we were now completely hidden in our own secret little world.

  I recognised the throb of the tractor. It belonged to Mr Leglise, a sprightly eighty-five-year-old with a twinkle in his eye, one of our agricole neighbours, who wore wooden clogs, a blue cotton jacket and trousers and a beret in all weathers. When it was hot he left off the jacket and went barefoot, walking confidently across his land. He had a small farm across the way; a couple of lush meadows, one cow, a donkey and a
small mongrel dog. The donkey was prone to letting fly intermittent loud braying cries at any hour of the day and night. It was driven into the meadows with the cow every morning to the accompaniment of frantic barking from the dog.

  I had recently set up my drum kit in our caravan near the atelier and when I got the urge I would treat myself to a deeply satisfying thrash about on it just to keep my hand in. I was slightly worried that the loud sound of my abandoned workouts might annoy the neighbours, but when I stopped to wish Mr Leglise 'bonjour' after one of my sessions, he assured me, 'The beat of the drums, I love it. It's full of life.' Anything that brought a bit of life and soul to the village appeared to be embraced wholeheartedly by one and all and I received no complaints, even though Helen assured me the sound was deafening.

  Wednesday was market day in our local village and Mr Leglise never missed a get-together with all his octogenarian pals. I felt slightly envious of them sometimes when I passed the bar and saw them laughing uproariously together, knocking back glasses of Pernod. They were relaxed in one another's company and had probably known each other since their schooldays. I couldn't help comparing them to some of the sad-faced pensioners I'd seen hanging disconsolately around shopping malls in England. Where has our modern society gone wrong?

  I discovered Mr Leglise was as prone to letting himself go and expressing himself as I was. On hot afternoons he would set up his gramophone outside his farmhouse and sing along to his collection of old 78 and 45 rpm records. He had a strong, rich baritone voice and the spirited sound of his singing would waft across the fields.

  I half-expected to hear him start up now as I enjoyed waxing the walnut table, buffing it up and seeing the satisfying deep lustre of the wood as it began to shine. Ah, the small pleasures of furniture restoration. As I polished away I was thinking absent-mindedly about our trip last weekend into the Auvergne and wondering if we would ever discover who it was that nicked Serge's Stradivarius. My money was on Serge's old friend turned arch-enemy Bruno the Basque. I had a strong hunch he was the brains behind it.

  I jumped involuntarily. Someone had crept up on me and pinched my bottom. Well, well… I wonder who? I turned to see Helen smiling wickedly.

  'I thought you were at an auction,' I said, pleased to see her.

  'I was, but the auctioneer stopped it early. She completely lost her temper because everything was going cheaply. She went berserk and threw us all out.'

  'Good God! Why?'

  'All the other dealers were at a funeral so there were only private buyers and me there. There weren't many bids and things were going ridiculously cheap, it was great. But she didn't like it and blew a fuse.'

  I'd seen the woman auctioneer she was talking about and wasn't really surprised. She ran her sales like an ayatollah, punishing anyone who crossed her, regularly losing her temper and scolding dealers who stepped out of line.

  'The funeral was of a married couple – brocanteurs who did the markets,' said Helen, 'and guess what – they were murdered!'

  I was shocked. The local Sud Ouest newspaper carried hardly any crime stories. Murder was something that happened in New York, not here in Landes. Most murders were in other parts of France, although we did get some action with ETA (the outlawed Basque separatist group), being so near the Spanish border and the Pays Basque. The terrorists tended to be caught hiding in houses in Landes with stashes of arms and explosives. Recently the police had taken to stopping and searching cars on the quiet back roads, usually with an armed marksman with an automatic weapon stationed behind them to open fire on any suspect cars making a run for it.

  Otherwise not much happened aside from the odd armed bank robbery, or the theft of wedding presents left in the house when the whole village was attending the church service and reception because the parents of the couple had placed an announcement of the happy day in the local paper. Our neighbours had even taken to hiring security guards to stop this occurring.

  'Someone told me they were missing for weeks before their bodies were found in shallow graves in the woods,' said Helen.

  'Really? I hadn't heard about it,' I said.

  'Yes, well that's our problem; as foreigners we're a bit outside their world even though we speak French. It's like being in a little village in England where you're an outsider for years.'

  'I'll ask about and maybe find out what happened tomorrow when I'm at Montauban,' I said. I was off in the early hours to do a two-day fair there and I could probably pick up on the gossip.

  'Why don't we go together?' she said. 'The people at the town hall said there was room to park our caravan nearby if we wanted to.'

  'That'd be even better. I'd like that.'

  'Better get on with your restoration then… Or on second thoughts come in and make me a cup of tea. I'm dying of thirst.'

  'Tea… tea? Is that your answer to it all?' I said jokingly.

  'Yes,' she said, 'it is.'

  The market square at Montauban was already thronged with white vans when we arrived. It was early in September but still hot and one of those shady sweet mornings under the plane trees before the full force of the sun begins to suck all the moisture out of the air. We parked our caravan overlooking the river and queued up to be allocated our pitch by le placier (the market supervisor). Once the van was in place we joined all the other traders in the local cafe for a coffee.

  Montauban was a bit out of our area so I didn't recognise a lot of the faces. But Louis, my jazz-loving friend from Dax was there as usual and he came across and pumped my hand, glad to see us. We talked about the Marciac Jazz Festival, which is held every year in a little village in the Gers. He regularly rented a stall in the market for the two week festival and sold collectors' records, esoteric T-shirts and memorabilia to the jazz fans. He hadn't taken a lot of money this year, but it was more like a labour of love for him.

  'There's not many of the "greats" left alive now, John. It's sad, isn't it?'

  I was agreeing and sympathising when I felt a dig in the ribs and turned to see Reg.

  'Oi-oi, Johnny boy, we can't go on meeting like this.'

  I was pleasantly surprised to see him again. Things were seldom boring when he was around. 'And you must be his wife, darlin',' he said, turning to Helen. 'Nice to meet you. Serge told me a bit about you, and Johnny 'ere never stops talking about you.'

  'I didn't know you ever got over this way Reg,' I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

  'I don't as a rule. But it's been a bit quiet and I thought, why not? It's gonna be a scorcher today too by the looks of it. Good job I've got me caravan parked nearby so Rita can bring me drinks an' that.'

  'That's a coincidence,' I said, 'because we've brought ours as well.'

  'Great! We can all hang out together and have a laugh.' He nudged me. 'Watch out – here comes trouble.' He nodded towards the door where Serge was pushing his way through.

  Reg put an imaginary violin under his chin and mimed playing it. When Serge saw what he was doing he threw me and Helen a pained look. The lost violin was clearly still a sore point. He made a show of ignoring Reg's pantomime and shook my hand and hugged and kissed Helen enthusiastically.

  'Heh, Helen! I missed you,' said Serge, in French. He hugged her tightly. 'If you ever get fed up with Johnny here give me a ring.'

  'I'm fed up with him now,' said Helen. 'What's your number again?'

  Serge loved that. He chuckled and then unexpectedly suddenly swung round and play-punched Reg in the stomach. The pair of them grappled together and ended up laughing.

  'Le Pirate, he's typical rosbif,' said Serge. 'Everything's a big joke, eh?'

  Reg put his arm round his shoulders. 'Never mind, mate, that violin's bound to turn up one day.' He looked at us… 'Not!'

  'Were you at the funeral yesterday, Serge?' asked Helen. 'The one for the couple who got murdered.'

  'You're joking, I wouldn't go to their funeral… and they wouldn't come to mine.'

  'Didn't you get on with them?' said Helen.
<
br />   'They were jewellery dealers. Jewellery dealers keep themselves to themselves in case they get rolled. But now there are a lot more tough gangsters about who don't give a shit. Those two disappeared for ages and no one knew where they were. Some people thought they'd pulled off a big deal somewhere and run away to live on an island. But then their bodies were found in the woods, killed and robbed of everything. God knows how long they'd been there.'

  'That's terrible,' said Helen.

  'That's the risk you take, I'm afraid, when you deal in valuable gear. In fact, Johnny, I was going to ask you a favour today.'

  I was about to say 'anything', like a mug, but managed to stop myself.