Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  I set off through the trees, idly looking at the stands being set up ready for the early morning start. Produce by local farmers and work by artisans from the Landes region appeared to be a strong theme. There were woven baskets, wooden clogs, regional pottery, home-made bonbons, wines, cheeses, foie gras, and all types of foodstuffs. Also the inevitable stall selling cooked preserved meat sausages made from every minced-up animal imaginable: pig, cow, rabbit, goose, wild boar, deer, horse... you name it. I was surprised to see they even had sausages made from donkey flesh. I couldn't imagine that being a particularly popular line, although there's no accounting for taste. The French rule is 'if it moves, eat it'. As vegetarians we were appalled. At least they hadn't got round to selling kitten or puppy sausages yet.

  I was moving away feeling slightly queasy when I spotted Lord Snooty. He was bent over the counter of a nearby stand examining something, and as I drew closer I could see it was a display of vicious-looking pocket and sheath knives. They always draw men to them like flies. He was appraising a lethal-looking hunting knife. He wasn't wearing his deerstalker today, although he was still sporting a ridiculous pair of plus fours. He drew the knife from its sheath and made several stabbing motions with it.

  'How's it going?' he said, wringing my hand. 'Great to see you, old boy.'

  'Not bad,' I said. 'How about you?' I was leaning away in case he suddenly took it upon himself to try the knife out on me.

  'Not so good. I'm very down at the moment. The markets have plunged to a new low and my sex life's taken a dive as well.'

  I wasn't sure I really wanted to hear about his sex life. I noticed he stood quite close when he talked to me – making me feel a little uncomfortable.

  'Oh, right,' I said, hoping he wouldn't elaborate further.

  'Oh yah, I'm dead down there,' he said, pointing at his plus fours.

  'Really?' I didn't want to know.

  'I've got an English lady friend but in the bedroom we're all washed up.'

  Erk! Too much information! But he was in full flow.

  'Yes, totally dead. I really want to get a French girlfriend. I've been romantically involved with French women before and they are amazing! Really sensual, what.'

  'Is that right?' I said.

  'Oh yah, the French are famous for it. They believe sex is like eating, to be savoured and enjoyed.'

  'Right.'

  'My very first sexual experience was with an older French woman when I was a teenager on holiday. Fantastic!'

  OK. So now he was getting my interest slightly.

  'Yah, she introduced me to the delights of the boudoir. I've never forgotten it. Those first sexual experiences are always so exciting, aren't they? Like an illegal drug. I'm always looking for the excitement of that first high. Women have been my undoing throughout my life, old chap,' he went on. 'They're like beings from another planet, aren't they? Unfathomable!'

  He was still holding the vicious-looking hunting knife in one hand, waving it about for emphasis. 'I've been involved with some beautiful women in my time. I was married to a beauty queen for a while but she tried to stab me, God knows why.' He made a jabbing movement with the knife and I stepped back in fear of being stabbed myself.

  'But now my love life is all over; I'm finished, washed up. I'm not interested in sex any more.'

  Two gypsy girls in their early teens wearing high heels, skintight white jeans and midriff-revealing tops tottered past. They were young and nubile with long, dark hair pulled up in flamboyant ponytails. We watched them, totally hypnotised. Algie had his mouth open. He was like a wolf poised for the kill.

  'Jailbait,' I said matter-of-factly.

  The irony of what he had just said about not being interested in sex any more hit him and he burst into uproarious laughter, falling about, hysterical, holding onto my arm.

  We looked back at the girls. They had stopped and were being chatted up by a flash, shaven-headed young dude in hip-hop gear. Their body language indicated they fancied him like mad and thought he was pretty cool.

  Algie was still chortling to himself, and as I gazed at the trio I realised I knew the young dude. Yes, there could be no doubt about it... it was Diddy! He was on the case: schmoozing, preening, leering, lascivious – giving them the works.

  'Yeah, go for it, laddie!' yelled Algie. 'Give them one for me!'

  I found this outburst amusing. Algie didn't give a damn. He was totally off the wall.

  But our reveries were rudely interrupted by a piercing scream. A big, fat woman dressed all in black shoved past us, screeching and shaking her fist at Diddy. We watched, gobsmacked, as she tried to manhandle the girls from his over-amorous clutches. They pulled back, desperate to stay with the object of their desire. There were certainly no other likely lads about to lead them astray, just us ageing 'has-beens' and assorted bored husbands. Not much to choose from.

  Diddy laughed in the face of the old woman, who cursed him venomously. At least, I assumed they were curses – I couldn't understand a word of what she was yelling.

  'Oh, sweet days of youth!' said Algie. 'That's the sort of old crone those girls will turn into, just like their mother.'

  'Grab it now while you still can!' he shouted through cupped hands.

  'That's Diddy, Serge's son,' I said. The old woman was dragging the girls off and they were still waving at Diddy, desperately trying to communicate secret messages for a later liaison, no doubt. 'No!' said Algie. 'What, that reprobate Serge Bastarde's son? C'est pas vrai!'

  'Yes, he's the son Serge didn't even know he had.'

  'Well, I'll say this for him – the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' He gave a loud guffaw.

  12

  FATHERS AND SONS

  It was still dark when I woke early the next morning to the sound of voices and van doors slamming. We hadn't got to bed till two. When Serge arrived we'd all caroused outside Reg's caravan – just us Brits and Serge – while most of the other French dealers had sensibly turned in at nine, determined to get a good night's sleep.

  Serge had been worried about Diddy. He was wondering where he was, though Algie and I had a pretty good idea and kept raising eyebrows, exchanging glances and wry, knowing smiles whenever he mentioned his wayward son.

  'Don't worry about him,' I told Serge. 'He's a grown man; he can take care of himself.'

  'He's up to no good, I'm sure of it,' he moaned for the umpteenth time. 'He's only twenty-three, he hardly knows he's born.'

  Reg asked what he was saying. When Algie translated in a somewhat patronising superior manner, Reg, in a semi-drunken state, insisted on going over and ruffling Serge's hair and giving him the benefit of his advice. 'Ah, let him be, Sergey, if you can't wreak havoc when you're young, you sure as hell won't know how to do it when you get old.' He finished with a maniacal laugh.

  I didn't tell Serge we had seen Diddy chatting up the gypsy girls. He was worried enough as it was, and I was certain there was nothing he could do to rein him in.

  'What time is it?' Helen was stirring.

  'Six,' I said, looking at my watch. 'I'll make a cup of tea.'

  I put the kettle on and looked out of the caravan door. In the dim morning light I could see people arriving. The other market tradesmen were getting their stands ready for the onslaught and a few early buyers with torches were examining the displays. I felt a bit knackered after getting to bed so late. I was regretting not having followed the example of the other wiser dealers. Thank God I no longer drank! Real hangovers were a thing of the past. At least I hadn't fallen off the wagon recently.

  I passed Helen her tea in bed and staggered out with mine to take the covers off our stand and prepare for the early chineurs (bargain hunters). Reg and Algie were either side of us and Serge had parked his van across the way and set up his stand alongside it. He was still asleep. I could hear loud, drawn-out snores from inside. There was no sign of Diddy. He hadn't turned up last night and I hoped for his sake some enraged gypsy father hadn't found him wherever
he was. He might return with a stiletto in his neck, or worse. Actually, I couldn't imagine anything worse. I tried not to think about it.

  I began opening boxes of delicate china and placing them piece by piece carefully on a table. I'd learnt from a history of expensive breakages to unwrap them with the cardboard box placed on the ground. Things tended to slip through my fumbling fingers, especially in the early morning, and if they were already down on the floor they didn't have far to fall. It didn't always work, but a breakable item dropped from table height invariably smashed into a million pieces.

  'Hey, what's happening, man?' I looked up and recognised a French picture dealer, Pierro, who regularly bought from me. He was an amiable character who'd told me he had spent several years in San Francisco during the sixties. He was now over seventy but didn't look it. He spoke English with an exaggerated American accent and said he used to drink beer and play pool all day, but now he had to work hard for a living. He was sometimes accompanied by his girlfriend, an attractive Spanish lawyer who was a good thirty years younger than he was. He was examining an Impressionist oil painting of a river scene with willow trees. Helen had bought it at a house sale and I was quite fond of it myself. We had tried to track down the artist but the signature was indistinct. At least I hadn't faked it, which was what a lot of brocanteurs I knew did.

  'Hey, I like this,' he said, examining it with his torch. 'How much do you want for it?'

  He had told me he sold oil paintings on the Spanish market, mostly in Madrid, and I knew he got ridiculous prices for anything half decent. As I was thinking how much he'd be willing to pay for it my attention was caught by a figure skulking among the pines. Emerging from the shadows it snuck along towards Serge's van. It was Diddy. But this wasn't the Diddy I knew. His normally pristine white tracksuit and trainers looked crumpled, like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. He opened the back of Serge's van, climbed in, looked out to see if anyone had seen and pulled the door shut behind him.

  'So, how much do you want for it, the painting?'

  'Oh, er, sorry...' I was caught on the hop. I quickly pulled a figure out of the air and he immediately took out a wodge of euros and peeled off the amount I'd quoted in high denomination notes.

  I felt sick. He hadn't attempted to barter. He clearly believed he could make a killing with the painting in Madrid. He tucked it under his arm and made off with it, smiling to himself.

  Helen emerged from the caravan. 'I heard you selling something.' She sounded groggy. She's never that good early in the morning. I told her I'd sold the painting and, sheepishly, for how much. She was suddenly wide awake. 'Oh, goody, that's brilliant, a great start. You'll never guess how much profit we made on that!' She was ecstatic.

  Phew! No need to tell her how the dealer hadn't quibbled over the price.

  People were starting to arrive in droves and Helen and I had our work cut out to cope with the demand. There was a sea of berets bobbing along as the multitude moved through the forest paths, eager to see the wares on offer. There was a festive atmosphere, as if everyone was out to enjoy themselves. I got the impression that this was primarily a local fair patronised by the Landes people and I doubted the character had changed much in a hundred years. The strong smell of cooking churros filled the air. Churros are Spanish in origin and are made from a sticky flour mix which is forced through a machine to form long fingers of batter, which are then deep fried and sprinkled with sugar or coated in chocolate and eaten from a paper bag. They are a popular if slightly sick-making snack at French fairs. Kiddies love 'em.

  As we dealt with the customers I saw Reg had his work cut out as well. I'd noticed him unloading boxes of small collectibles, mixed in with little reproduction items, and miniature brass novelties onto his tables. The punters were thronging round his stand. He caught my eye and gave me the thumbs up. He was taking plenty of the folding stuff.

  On the other side Algie wasn't so cheerful. His expensive paintings and bronzes weren't flying out. The crowds drifted straight past without giving his display a second glance. Every time I was wrapping up a sale I noticed him watching me with a miserable expression. There's nothing worse than seeing someone selling their wares like hotcakes when no one's interested in your own stuff. When it happens to me and Helen we ask ourselves what we are doing wrong and what the other dealer is doing right. But there are brocanteurs who just get jealous, blaming the successful colleague whom they think is succeeding in taking away their trade. It doesn't make sense, and if you try to explain to them it's just market forces and maybe they haven't got what the customer wants, they get annoyed.

  Across the way I could see Serge doing good business, too. There was no sign of Diddy and I assumed he was in the van sleeping off his night of bacchanal and debauchery.

  By mid-morning the fair was jammed with people slowly wending their way between the stands. You could barely move in the aisles and it was so packed it was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Across the way I caught a glimpse of Diddy with a sick expression on his face. At least he was up, and Serge had managed to get him working and taking money.

  Reg and Rita next door were doing well, but Algie was still standing looking glumly at the crowds passing his stand. If someone stopped, he hovered nearby with an expectant expression on his face. But when they lost interest and moved on he watched them go, annoyed and cursing them under his breath like they were idiots for missing out on a great opportunity to purchase one of his fabulous paintings or bronzes. He caught my eye and shouted out, 'Bloody ignorant peasants! It's like throwing pearls before swine!'

  I was trying to focus on packing an Edwardian cut-glass flask for a little old lady. I didn't want to forget to wrap the ground-glass stopper separately and put it in the bag. I nodded, still concentrating, and grinned at Algie in agreement.

  It was almost midday and Helen and I were thinking it was bound to ease up a bit soon when we heard angry, raised voices. People were turning, craning round in the direction of Serge's stand.

  Reg, Rita and Algie had heard it too and looked across at me. The shouting grew more intense. I caught a glimpse of Diddy arguing with a burly man in a suit.

  I turned to Helen. 'Will you be all right for a minute? I'm just going to see what's happening.'

  'Be careful, don't get involved,' she warned. 'You know what they're like.'

  'I'll be fine,' I insisted as I headed for Serge's stand.

  'What's going on?' I asked when I got there. The gitans in France don't sport tattoos or body piercings. The older ones are tough and look more like East End London thugs from the fifties. They favour thin moustaches and swept back hairstyles. This man was one of those.

  Serge pulled me to one side. 'I don't know, Johnny. I've known this gitan for years, he regularly buys violins from me.'

  The man looked over at us with a face like thunder. He was cursing under his breath.

  'Now he's accusing Diddy of shortchanging him. I came over as Diddy was completing the sale of that violin.' He pointed at the instrument the man was holding like a club ready to hit Diddy. 'He's a good client of mine; it's a problem.'

  The gitan approached me like I might be able to help. He was incandescent with anger. 'I gave this résidu de fausse couche a two-hundred-euro note but he refuses to give me my change.'

  'You liar!' Diddy yelled, standing up close, right in the man's face. He didn't like being called a 'leftover from a miscarriage' one little bit. 'You gave me a hundred-euro note and I gave you fifty back.' He was facing up to him ready for a bagarre (fight). But judging by his size, my money was on the gitan if it came to fisticuffs. He was rough and tough.

  It crossed my mind that somewhere along the line they might have fallen foul of a typical shortchange trick and I wasn't sure which one was the trickster. I'd been stitched up by it myself a few times. I had learnt to hold on to a large denomination euro note in full view of the customer when giving change. Once the transaction was over the note could then be put away and there could be
no argument. The customer couldn't claim he had given you more money than he had.

  'How many two-hundred-euro notes have you got then, Diddy?' I said, attempting to soothe the situation. He pulled out a fistful of euros and waved them with disdain in the man's face. He had clearly had a good morning. The gitan went to grab his money, Diddy pushed him, and the man snapped and went to hit him. From behind me Reg appeared in a blur right between the pair of them. He was grinning insanely. With his shaven head he looked unhinged, ready to do some serious damage. One touch could tip him over the edge. It wasn't a pleasant prospect.

  The gitan looked taken aback, thought better of it, turned on his heel and was off, disappearing into the crowd.

  Serge was upset. 'Putain! That's another good client lost.' He turned to Diddy. 'What's the matter with you, you want to drag the good name of Bastarde right through the mud?' Diddy looked hurt. He sneered and walked off in a huff.

  Reg wasn't sure what had happened. His eyes were still glowing from the adrenalin rush as I explained the situation to him.