Son of Serge Bastarde

by John Dummer

  Serge began unloading huge armfuls of designer clothes which he hung on metal display stands like the ones they use in shops. They were the gowns from Claudette's flat and out here in the morning sunshine they looked very impressive. He wheeled out a large antique cheval mirror and positioned it where the customers who would want to try on these wonders could see themselves. Diddy had woken up and was standing around with his hands in his pockets, looking miserable. Serge set him to work arranging Claudette's huge collection of handbags and shoes in several big cardboard boxes. A few early-morning bargain hunters were beginning to drift into the market but they were all walking straight past my stand, drawn towards Serge's expensive-looking display. I realised straight away that it had been a bit of a mistake to have arranged a place for him next to my stand. As soon as the people checked out the prices they couldn't believe their eyes and a crowd of eager women began to swarm round. I pushed through and examined the tags. Serge had priced the stuff very reasonably, maybe even too cheaply. Some of the women were beginning to lose it, grabbing at the handbags and dresses, trying to squeeze their feet into Claudette's shoes.

  Serge strolled over, looking pleased as Punch. 'Think I'm going to have a good day today, eh Johnny?' He was chuffed. 'You know, I forgot to tell you – I finished reroofing that big old Basque house with a bit of help from Diddy and Bruno was pleased with the job. Looks like I won't be walking around on crutches after all.' I was glad to hear it. I promised myself in future I would try to stay as far away from Bruno as possible. Serge pointed across the road. 'I've fixed up a curtain in the back of my van so my charming lady customers can try on the dresses in private. I've got it all worked out.'

  Diddy was serving a large woman in a bright floral print dress. She bought a crocodile skin handbag and as he went to wrap it up another woman grabbed at it, insisting she had seen it first.

  The large woman pushed her and a heated argument began. Diddy looked peeved and upset. He normally enjoyed a good catfight.

  'We're going to sell out at this rate,' said Serge. 'Luckily I've got a whole lot more. Claudette was a right hoarder, God bless her.' A young woman came over with a Biba dress. She wanted to try it on so Serge took her across the road to his van, lifted the curtain and helped her in. He looked over and winked at me. He was enjoying this.

  I returned to my stand. It was a bit depressing watching the mad rush round Serge's but a Spanish couple were examining an oak student's desk I had for sale. They said it would suit their son, who was going to college. These little honey-coloured desks made in the early part of the twentieth century fit snugly against a wall and are ideal for a bedroom or small study. That's why the Spanish, who have a taste for English furniture, love them and as they're not too expensive they sell well. I knocked a little bit off the price and they bought it. As I helped them with it across the road to where their four-wheel drive was parked, I heard a loud yell and Serge came running across the road, waving madly at me.

  'Johnny! Johnny!' He was beside himself. 'I've just seen Angelique!'

  I put down the desk. 'No! Where?'

  'She was on the deck of one of those yachts in the marina! It was her, she had my little Adrien with her!'

  'Are you sure, Serge?' I said.

  'It was her all right. Look after my stand, please,' he pleaded. 'Diddy's throwing a moody. I'm going over to see her.'

  And before I could answer he was back across the road, running along the marina.

  I helped load the desk into the couple's car and went back over to his stand, which was swarming with women excitedly examining dresses, shoes and handbags. Diddy was sitting in a canvas chair staring into space, ignoring them. Buyers were frantically looking around for someone to pay for their purchases. Gowns were strewn about and it was futile trying to rearrange them on the hangers and take money at the same time. When you get a buying frenzy there's not much you can do but go with the flow. A crowd always attracts inquisitive customers who think they might get a bargain as well, and Claudette's clothes were driving them crazy. Luckily Serge had priced up his stock. By law, in France traders are obliged to display prices on all items. This discourages the dubious practice of sizing up the prospective customer and, if they seem rich, bumping up the price. Serge told me he had been inspected by the gendarmes before and fined on the spot for every piece not carrying a price tag. Since then he'd been religious about pricing up.

  Soon I had a thick wad of euro notes stuffed into my bumbag. I looked across at the marina hoping to see Serge but he had disappeared. There were a few customers round my stand too and I couldn't afford to lose sales. I was about to tell Diddy to take over when someone tapped me heavily on the shoulder. I turned and looked straight into the face of Bruno the Basque. His eyes were blazing.

  'What's this?' he demanded gruffly. He was holding a leather bag.

  My heart sank.

  'It's a good quality handbag,' I said, giving a strained smile.

  'Where did you get this?' He looked about to explode. I felt a rush of fear. What was this all about?

  'It's one of S-serge's, I'm just m-manning his stand for a m-minute.' I was actually stuttering.

  'Where is the little toad?' he snarled.

  'He's just nipped over the road, he won't be long,' I blurted out.

  Bruno opened the clasp on the bag and looked inside. I couldn't believe my eyes when he drew out a slip of paper adorned with neat copperplate handwriting – it was the handbag that Bruno had given Claudette and the paper had his own name on it, with his sexual proclivities!

  Why on earth hadn't they taken all those pieces of paper out? Bruno's eyes widened, he crumpled up the slip and thrust it deep into his pocket. He looked at me, sizing up my reaction. He wasn't sure if I had put two and two together.

  'We can do you a good price on that one if you're interested, Bruno,' I said, feeling somewhat lightheaded.

  He ignored me. 'Tell Serge I want to see him,' he said, tucking the bag under his arm. With that he turned on his heel and strode off across the market.

  I returned to my stand feeling sick. I wasn't even worried whether Diddy was taking care of their business. My mind was whirling. I watched the crowd of women round Serge's stand looking desperately for the stallholder, clutching money in their hands. I wondered when Serge would reappear and if he'd found Angelique and his little Adrien. Then I spotted him in the distance, walking slowly. His body language said it all. I felt really sorry for him. He shuffled up to me, ignoring the mayhem on his stand.

  'I was sure it was her,' he said dejectedly.

  'But it wasn't?'

  'I don't know. I went from boat to boat asking if anyone knew anything and I drew a total blank. No one knew a thing. Maybe I imagined it, Johnny.'

  'Your stuff's been selling well,' I said. I pulled out the wodge of euros and handed them to him. He didn't look interested as he normally would have done.

  'Thanks, Johnny, I appreciate it. Diddy's an emotional wreck since Claudette died. I can't rely on him for anything.'

  I had to tell him about Bruno and what had happened. He really wasn't in the mood to listen but he needed to know. I explained about the handbag and Bruno finding the note with his name on it.

  'Merde! I must have overlooked that note. Diddy swore he'd taken them all out. What did Bruno say?'

  'He told me to tell you he wants to see you.'

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. 'That's all I need! The boy's useless – fancy leaving it. And why the hell did it have to be Bruno's? What have I done to deserve all this, Johnny?'

  I didn't know what to say. Things appeared to be going from bad to worse. But I had other things keeping me awake at night. Hovering in the back of my mind was the thought that Helen and I were going to have to up sticks soon. That was if we could find a place where we wanted to move.

  18

  LORENZO AND HIS BROTHERS

  A few days later Serge phoned to tell me Lorenzo the gitan had offered him first refusal on some stuff from
a house clearance. 'C'est génial. Since all that business at Ousse-Suzan I'm suddenly his oldest pal.' He appeared to have got over the disappointment of not finding Angelique at Hendaye. Maybe all the money he made on the contents of Claudette's wardrobe had helped.

  'Have you heard anything from Bruno?' I asked.

  'Ah, Bruno the Basque.' He gave a little chuckle. 'Pour lui la mayonnaise a tourné.'

  'How do you mean?' He sounded a bit like a villain in a James Bond film.

  'Never you mind, Johnny. Trust me, pas de soucis. Listen, Diddy's taken the van. He's out visiting his daughter and he's going to come over to Lorenzo's later. Could you do me a favour and come and fetch me? I'm sure there will be a few bargains for you and Helen as well.'

  I said we would and Helen and I picked him up at Biarritz and drove to where Lorenzo lived in the Landes forest a few kilometres south of where the fair was held. We could smell the nearby papeterie (paper factory). It gave off an all-pervading stench, filling the air with reeking smoke that billowed from a tall chimney.

  'A mate of mine lives in a small town right next to one of these factories and he swears there is no smell even when I tell him it stinks,' said Serge.

  We passed through a village and I pulled up near the church to see if I could find someone to ask the way. It was quiet, hardly a soul about, like many French villages round here. A woman was walking a small dog on a lead and when I drew up alongside she came over to see what I wanted. Buster tried to climb over me to poke his head out the window and see her dog. When we first moved to France we were surprised how everyone in the rural villages knew everyone who lived in the vicinity. So I was expecting a positive response, but not the one I got. When I asked her if she knew where Lorenzo lived she looked at me as if I'd said a dirty word. She went to turn away, and then, thinking better of it, waved her hand, indicating the road ahead.

  'Carry on for a couple of kilometres past the paper factory and it's on the right-hand side,' she said. 'A human rubbish tip parked on a mess of ferraille... you can't miss it.'

  'What was that all about?' asked Helen. 'Lorenzo's not that popular round here, is he?'

  'I don't see why,' said Serge. 'He and his family have settled near the town. He's a man of property and his family have built houses and installed mobile homes. His kids go to the local school, they're part of the community.'

  'Is the stigma of being a gitan that hard to break?' I said.

  'It depends,' said Serge. 'I know some people who are accepted and some who are not.'

  A bit further on we came to a turn-off up a mud road leading to a group of houses and mobile homes. There were flowering shrubs in wooden tubs round the entrance and as we drove up the drive we were greeted by the sound of children's laughter. On a trampoline set up in the garden behind one of the houses a boy of about ten was bouncing in the air, while a small girl and boy shouted encouragement. Another boy on a chopper bike saw us arrive and rode past smiling good-naturedly. They were fascinated to see Buster staring out at them with his tongue hanging out.

  Looking across through a gap between the houses and the mobile homes I could see the ferraille (scrap iron) the woman had mentioned. Parked in a field were old tractors, bits of abandoned cars, a couple of big iron water tanks, and mountains of rusty metal. But the houses and mobile homes were immaculate, with hanging baskets of geraniums and brightly painted doors and shutters. There was a tough-looking old lady dressed in black sitting in a deck chair on a veranda. She was watching us, interested to see who was arriving.

  The doors on a nearby prefabricated concrete barn slid back and a big man came out dressed in blue overalls, wearing thick leather gauntlets and a welder's mask. He removed the mask and there was Lorenzo, his face wet with perspiration. He saw us and came over, wiping his face with a handkerchief. The woman from the veranda joined him and he introduced her to us – she was his mother. She gave us each a hug in turn and then Lorenzo invited us to follow him into the barn. There was a pungent sulphurous smell in the air. He waved towards where he had been working, welding a large metal table. To one side was a metal chest with riveted drawers. Helen recognised what they were and confided to me, 'He's making industrial-style furniture – very trendy at the moment.' She was impressed.

  Serge looked confused. He gave me a secret look and pulled a face. He didn't understand what was going on here.

  Lorenzo noticed the reaction. 'You think I'm crazy, eh Serge? I'm not surprised. Everyone thought I was mad when I started. My sons made fun of me but they soon changed their minds. I sold a big metal table like this for a small fortune to a dealer in Paris last month.'

  Serge examined the table and pulled out one of the drawers on the chest. There was a din outside and Syd and Fabio arrived, hefting a large metal water tank which they slammed down against the barn wall.

  'Since I found out there's a big demand for this furniture and I started making it I realised I couldn't get enough heavy sheet metal any more,' explained Lorenzo. 'We're running out already and it's the devil of a job to find the good old stuff. They stopped making metal tanks a while ago. It's all plastic now, and even though we've collected old scrap metal over the years there's not enough left to meet the demand. It's always the way, isn't it?'

  'Where's Diddy?' asked Fabio.

  'He's coming over in my van,' said Serge. 'I'll give him a ring and check he's not got lost.'

  Lorenzo showed us round the back of the barn where they had stacked up all the stuff from the house clearance. He pulled back a heavy-duty bâche (tarpaulin) to reveal dismantled armoires and beds, and on a trestle table chandeliers, lights, paintings, ornaments and kitchenalia.

  'Take your pick.' He made a magnanimous gesture. 'There are some nice bits here. We can come to an arrangement on the prices afterwards. But don't worry, it's going to be a lot less than you'd normally pay at auction. I always give my friends a good deal.'

  As we sorted through the pieces I looked up and noticed two teenage girls leaning against the wooden railings of one of the mobile homes. There was something about them that looked familiar. Where had I seen them before? They were dressed up to the nines, like they were off to a party. But clearly they weren't, they were just lounging about passing the time of day.

  Lorenzo's mum had made herself comfortable in an old garden chair and was smiling at us indulgently as if to encourage us. Then it all came back to me: the old woman in black who had been shouting at Diddy at Ousse-Suzan and the pair of jailbait girls he had been chatting up. I had also seen him sneaking back to the van late that night. What had he been up to? I was pretty sure one or both of the girls had been involved in his shenanigans. And these were the same girls. I was sure of it. And Lorenzo's mum was the woman in black. She would recognise Diddy as soon as he turned up in Serge's van. I knew the older generation gitans put great store on a young girl's virginity. For a gitan girl to get a well-connected, respected husband she had to be 'pure' and have an unsullied reputation. That was why Lorenzo's mother had reacted so strongly against Diddy.

  I had to tell Helen. She would know what to do. I took her to one side and began to explain the situation. She was fascinated. We looked over at the teenage girls.

  'My God, they're really young,' she said. 'They must be under sixteen.'

  'And their grandmother is determined to protect them,' I said. 'I don't think she'll be too pleased to see Diddy again.'

  'She may well be too late,' said Helen. 'It's a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. In their case they look a right pair of ravers.'

  'Do you think I'd better let Serge know?' I said. 'He could ring Diddy and stop him.'

  'Yes, be quick, he's on his way here.'

  I pulled Serge to one side and explained why there could be trouble when Diddy turned up. He listened to me, nodding.

  'I don't want to annoy Lorenzo just when it's all going so well,' he said. 'And I'm not shocked by what Diddy gets up to any more. You know he's already got a kid from some woman h
e knocked up. He just can't resist the temptation to tremper son biscuit [dip his wick].'

  'Was that his little girl I saw with him at Soumoulou?' I asked.

  'Yes, that's his little Floriana. She's totally out of control.'

  'She did seem a bit of a tomboy.'

  'Diddy can't be bothered to discipline her. He lets her run wild when he has her for the weekend. She's like him – off the rails.'

  I didn't point out that this might apply in Serge and Diddy's case as well. Helen was signalling to me and pointing. A white van was arriving with Diddy behind the wheel. We were too late!

  Diddy leapt out and waved. Syd and Fabio went over to greet him. Fabio slapped him on the back. They were pleased to see him. The three of them came across, laughing and joking. When the girls saw Diddy they too came hurrying over. They were squealing with delight.