Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  'The buffet's not too bad. I can graft a piece in there later, he'll never notice,' he said confidently.

  He removed the drawers and the pair of walnut doors and leant them against the garage wall. We stood listening again, hardly daring to draw breath. All was quiet. The crunching sound had stopped.

  'That's it then, it was that little bugger all the time,' he said, wiping at the yellow gunge on his jeans.

  'Well, I'd better be off,' I said, standing up to leave. 'Helen's expecting me back.' It was way past midnight and I was anxious to get home.

  'OK, Johnny, you go. Maybe you could give me a hand getting this back to my client. I'll get Diddy to help us tomorrow. It'll be easier with the three of us.'

  I was halfway to the door when I stopped. What was that? It couldn't be! But there it was again – the crunching sound. Only this time it was even louder. Serge was up in a flash, saw in hand. I thought he was going to attack it willy-nilly, but he knelt over the buffet, head to one side, listening. The look of desperation on his face was unsettling.

  'There must be another one in there. If we can kill one, then we can get the other. It's here, I'm sure of it,' he said, pointing at a carved leg. 'I could just cut him out. It won't take a minute.'

  I thought about trying to dissuade him. But I was exhausted and he wouldn't have taken any notice. He took my tired expression as one of agreement and began to attack the leg ferociously with the electric saw. Soon it was in pieces on the floor and the buffet was leaning to one side. He turned off the saw and listened. Nothing. Silence. Then we heard it again. The steady crunch, crunch, crunching sound.

  It was then that Serge lost it. He grabbed a handsaw, a hammer and chisel and began dismantling the beautiful walnut buffet plank by plank. I watched helplessly as he piled up the pieces. Every so often he stopped to listen and move the bits about. And when he established the crunching hadn't stopped he carried on sawing and chiselling.

  I couldn't take any more. Bits of the beautiful walnut buffet were strewn all over the garage. 'I'm going,' I said, and began to pick my way through the debris to the door.

  'Stop and have a coffee before you go, Johnny, I feel in need of a bit of support here. Diddy doesn't normally roll home until the early hours of the morning,' pleaded Serge.

  How could I refuse? He looked pathetic. He went through to the kitchen while I sat on the chaise longue listening to him clattering about. He brought in the coffees and we sat drinking them, staring at the mess.

  Suddenly I noticed a tiny movement in the sawdust near my foot. A piece of splintered wood began to rock almost imperceptibly. A large black beetle emerged and slowly began to make its way across the concrete floor. It was unmistakably a Capricorn, its longhorn antennae clearly visible. Serge saw it too and gripped my arm. We watched, fascinated, as it scuttled away, picking up speed as it headed off in search of pastures new. Serge gave a cry, whipped off his shoe and charged after it, taking a flying leap. But the beetle had reached the beams in the wall and with an uncanny sixth sense found a crack in the woodwork and disappeared into it. Serge brought his shoe down with a loud thwack but it was too late – the insect had escaped.

  He hopped back, his shoe hanging limply at his side. I passed him his coffee and he sipped at it. 'That Capricorn will lay its eggs in there,' he said. 'The whole place will be infested.'

  'What's he going to say, your rich client, when he finds out you've totally destroyed his beautiful walnut buffet?'

  'I don't know, what can he say? He'll probably have me killed and my body parts cemented into a Spanish motorway flyover somewhere.' He gave a crazed laugh.

  'You'll have to give him his money back.'

  'I'll have to find it from somewhere, if I want to stay alive. I don't know how, though. I don't have that sort of money. Diddy did the deal and he charged that guy a fortune, but I never saw a cent of it.'

  We sat sipping our coffee, contemplating the fact. I half expected to hear the sound of crunching coming from behind the beams, but I imagined the beetle would be settling in first, checking out a whole new world of unexplored wood before it began to lay its eggs.

  'That's that then, I really ought to be getting home,' I said, making another attempt to leave. I began to pick my way gingerly through the broken pieces of the buffet. There was a noise in the hall upstairs, a key in a lock, the sound of the front door opening and footsteps walking about in the apartment. Serge looked up and listened expectantly. Then there was the sound of someone coming down the stairs to the garage, the door swung open with a bang and Diddy walked in. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see me and came straight over and greeted me like a long-lost brother.

  'Johnny, qu'est-ce qui ce passe?' (What's happening, man?) He shook me by the hand, effusive and full of bonhomie. He was well oiled.

  He turned to see Serge, sitting in the chair surrounded by the debris from the walnut buffet.

  'Eh, Papa!' He shimmied over, put his arms round him and gave him a hug.

  'My Papa, my dear old Papa! Where you been all my life?'

  Serge looked across at me, embarrassed. He stood up and patted Diddy on the back as if he wasn't sure how to react. Diddy swung round and beamed at me.

  'What the pair of you doing out here in the garage, man?' He smiled fondly at his dad. 'You should be in bed, Papa, it's way past your bedtime.' This struck him as funny and he gave a little giggle. He looked down, noticed the bits of broken buffet scattered about and his eyes widened.

  'You two been breaking up the happy home? Man, you're sure making a mess in here!'

  Serge opened his mouth as if to say something.

  Diddy picked up a piece of the shattered buffet and held it up close to his eyes, turning it slowly, examining it. He reached down, picked up another piece and inspected it. He turned to Serge, confused.

  'What's this, Dad?'

  'You don't recognise it?' said Serge. He was simmering gently.

  'Nah, man, it's wood... pieces of wormy old wood.'

  Serge gave me a look, raising his eyebrows.

  'Right then,' I said. 'Helen will be wondering where I am.'

  I started for the door and stopped. There was a woman standing in the doorway. She was stooping slightly and appeared unsteady on her feet. This could have been something to do with the stack heel shoes she was wearing. She entered the garage and tottered forward, grabbing my arm for support. Up close I could see she was a woman of a certain age – well past seventy, if I had to hazard a guess. Her face was caked with make-up, her lipstick was blood red and her eyes were thick with dark eyeliner. She was a dead ringer for Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? She smiled coquettishly and her perfume was overpowering. Diddy was grinning at us like he was party to some private joke. 'That'll do, Claudette, this good man is off home to see his wife.'

  She stopped, frozen for a moment, and stepped back.

  'It's OK, Johnny,' said Serge. 'Claudette lives next door. She's a very conscientious worker, a real professional.'

  'She's a pute,' said Diddy matter-of-factly (a whore). 'This man is from England,' he said. He had raised his voice. 'He's a brocanteur. He lives here in France.'

  Claudette looked surprised. Her expressions were exaggerated, as if she were starring in a silent movie.

  'He's English,' said Diddy. 'You know... England!'

  Claudette treated his patronising manner with the contempt it deserved.

  'I have many English friends.' She trailed off, remembering. 'I like English people. They have manners.' She shot Diddy a look. 'They know how to treat a lady.' She stood up straight.

  'You are fond of France?' she asked.

  'Yes, I like it here,' I said.

  'I love English things,' she said quietly. 'You English have so much class.'

  I nodded and smiled, acknowledging the compliment.

  'I have English furniture in my home.'

  'Oh, really?' I said.

  'Yes, but I have too many things. I have a beautiful English
writing bureau I wish to sell. Would you like to take a look at it? It is of top quality.'

  'I'm actually off home,' I said. 'My wife is expecting me.'

  She looked disappointed. 'Are you sure? It wouldn't take a moment to look.'

  'I really ought to go,' I said. 'I am late already.'

  She was deflated. She pulled a little face with pouted lips.

  'I could come back later,' I said. 'In the day, maybe.'

  She looked at me with wide eyes.

  'It's been nice meeting you,' I said, starting for the door.

  'Let him go, Claudette,' said Diddy. 'It's past his bedtime.'

  She came after me, taking me by the arm. 'Yes, come back like you said... in the day. Bring your wife; I should like to meet her.'

  'I will,' I said. 'I'll do that.'

  She gave my arm a squeeze. 'We could have tea... and scones.'

  8

  LIFE IN A BOX

  Helen was upset that I had returned so late. She had seen a house she liked and wanted me to visit it with her the next day. But I pointed out I would be at Dax market all day and I had promised to help Serge with his items for the Romanian's container in the evening. 'Wouldn't tomorrow be OK?' I asked. 'What's the rush?' It was another case of me shaping awkward as my heart wasn't really in the move.

  Later that evening, after the market had packed up, I felt rotten and I began to regret not going with her. How did I ever let Serge talk me into this one? I thought as we climbed up a metal-runged ladder on the side of a giant skip round the back of a furniture and electrical warehouse. We were on a quest for jumbo-sized cardboard boxes. Since Serge had destroyed the beautiful walnut buffet he had been terrified of being found out. 'I've managed to stall that Romanian guy but he wants me to box up a load of furniture I promised him ready to pack in his container,' he said. 'If we drive out to Conforama on the zone commerciale, we're sure to find some old packing cases big enough for antique furniture,' he had assured me. Conforama is the name of a chain of retail warehouses with branches right across France.

  But up here, straddling the edge of the metal skip, I wasn't so sure this was a good idea. 'There are some good ones in here Johnny, come on.'

  Orange sodium light shone down on us and in the distance I could hear homeward-bound traffic on the rocade (ring road) as I clung to the icy rungs, pulling myself up step by step.

  'See? There – just what I'm after.' He pointed into the far corner of the skip.

  'Yes, but how do we get down there?' This was the biggest skip I'd ever seen up close, and the ground looked a long way down.

  'We'll just get a few boxes and then nip into Mook-Don-Aldies, Johnny. It's just round the back there. I'll treat you to a large American coffee and a doughnut.'

  What was he on about? Mook-Don-Aldies? Then the penny dropped. He meant McDonald's. Most French people refer to McDonald's as 'McDo' and they have generally embraced the hamburger chain with great gusto. They see it as the ultimate American experience and the drive-in restaurants are a big attraction. Serge clearly was no exception. But Mook-Don-Aldies? I'd never heard it called that.

  I was beginning to wish I'd never agreed to come. Serge had roped in Diddy to help us and he was down below in front of the van listening to hip hop on his iPod. Serge was edging himself along the rim of the skip. 'I'm going down,' he said. 'I need to take a closer look at those boxes.'

  I had a flash premonition of him falling and breaking his neck. I was imagining what Helen would say if she could see us now. I hadn't phoned her as I'd hoped this would only take a few minutes and I'd be home in time for dinner. Serge was lowering himself, hanging by his hands. There was a pile of boxes and broken sheets of polystyrene below and he let go and crunched into them, rolling over and sliding through until he hit the bottom of the skip.

  'I'm down!' he yelled, delighted. His voice echoed in the metal box. There was a scrunching noise as he blundered about, and then a loud 'bong' followed by a string of curses.

  'Hey, Johnny, you still there?'

  'Yes, Serge,' I said, 'I'm still here.'

  'I've found a couple of good ones. I'm going to pass them up to you. Get Diddy over here, he can help you.'

  I looked down at the shadowy figure of Diddy. He was now leaning against the van, nodding his head in time to the beat, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. He didn't give a damn. I shouted down to him. 'Your dad wants to know if you're coming up to help him!' He flicked a glowing cigarette stub into the dark in a shower of sparks.

  'I'm going for more fags.'

  I called down to Serge: 'He's going for cigarettes.'

  'What? Tell him to wait a minute, just to get these boxes out.'

  But it was too late. Diddy had jumped in the van, revved it up and driven off.

  'What's going on? Was that the van?'

  'Yes, he's gone,' I said.

  'Gone?' He was astounded.

  'He said he wouldn't be long.'

  'He's a half-wit that boy,' groaned Serge. 'What am I going to do with him?'

  It was cold and I'd had enough of this pantomime. I was remembering the times Serge had been hurt being called a 'half-wit' himself. I was ready for my promised American coffee and doughnut. 'Come on then pass them up,' I said, 'I can do this on my own.'

  'They're a bit hard to manoeuvre Johnny, but I'll try.'

  There was a scraping and the side of a cardboard box caught me in the face. I grabbed it and gave it a yank. It was a big one and the end was caught under the other boxes. I leant in to get a better hold, gave it a tug, then slipped and found myself rolling over the edge and falling down into the skip. I landed face down on a load of expanded polystyrene.

  'Johnny, are you OK?' The voice was loud, right in my ear.

  'I thought you wanted a coup de main,' I said, pretending I'd gone in to give him a helping hand rather than admit I'd fallen in. I looked up at the orange sky framed by the sides of the skip. 'Look, let's just get the boxes out and go for our coffee and doughnuts, eh?'

  'Yes, fair enough, Johnny. Just lift the other side of this one and we'll push it out.'

  I took one end of the flattened box and we pushed it up, trying to heft it over. But it didn't quite make it and fell back on us.

  'If Diddy was up there he could pull it out,' said Serge irritably. He went to grab the other end of the box and let out a yell of pain.

  'What's up?' I said. 'Are you OK?' He was bent over like a monkey.

  'I think I've done my back in,' he said through clenched teeth. 'It's happened before.'

  'Oh no!' I sympathised – it was the furniture dealer's nightmare, all too common.

  'I always carry my belt with me, Johnny, for when my back goes, it's in the van.'

  'Diddy'll be back in a bit,' I said. 'He can get it for you.'

  'Where is he when I need him? He just doesn't seem to give a damn.'

  'Oh, I think he does,' I reassured him, 'he's just young, that's all.' But my words had a hollow ring. Serge hobbled over to the side of the skip and tried to straighten up. He failed, gave a terrible moan and crouched down again.

  'It's bad, Johnny,' he said looking sideways at me. 'I've really done it this time.'

  'You'll be all right,' I said. 'Don't panic.'

  'I'm not panicking, Johnny, I'm in pain.'

  'I know,' I said. I was at a loss as to what to do. I reached up and grasped at the side of the skip. It was higher than I thought and the inside was smooth. I managed to hook my fingers over the top and pull my chin up to the rim, but I couldn't find a toehold and slipped back down again.

  'Give Diddy a ring,' I said. 'Hurry him up. There's no way I can climb out without a leg up and with your back that's not an option.'

  'Sorry, Johnny, but I left my phone in the van. I can't believe this has happened.'

  'Don't worry, Serge, we'll be out of here soon.' I squatted down beside him. There was a chill in the air and I realised I'd left my mobile phone in my jacket in the van as well. I was just hoping Diddy wouldn'
t be long.

  The rocade had gone quiet. Everyone was at home eating their suppers in front of the telly. That's where I'd have liked to have been. Helen would be worrying about where I was and I wished I'd rung her and told her where I was going. She would have advised me to come home and leave Serge to it and it would have been good advice in this case.

  'What time is it?' Serge was bent over, leaning his bottom against the metal side of the skip. I pulled a polystyrene box over and sat down beside him and checked my watch. 'Just gone nine – Diddy will be back in a minute.'

  'I hope so, Johnny. To be honest I wouldn't even trust him to put his trousers on.'

  We sat listening. It was deathly quiet. Out in the country far from the centre of town most of the French seem to go to bed at nine and are up early with the birds. It was growing colder. Our breath was steaming and the chill was biting through my light windcheater.