Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (19 page)

  'Eh, Johnny!' Serge leaped up. 'Come on, join us for breakfast.'

  It was more of an order than an invitation. He picked up a grubby cup off the plastic sheet on the floor where Thibeau had some of his stuff displayed, slopped in some Chianti and handed it to me.

  'Good health and plenty of money!'

  He chinked my cup with his and quaffed it back. 'Help yourself to oysters, they give you…' he bent up a stiff forearm and waggled it suggestively about. I took this to mean they had aphrodisiac properties.

  Thibeau picked up an oyster, slit open the shell with a knife and gave it to me. 'Go on, get that down your throat, John.' He chopped up a long loaf with several strokes of a rusty hand axe, offered me a thick wedge and watched as I lifted the shell to my mouth and touched the slippery stuff to my lips.

  But it was no good, there was no way I could eat an oyster this early in the morning. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

  'I'm sorry, it's a bit early for me,' I said, replacing the shell on the pile. 'Besides, I've already had my breakfast.'

  'That's all right,' said Thibeau. 'We know you British don't care for food much.' He took the shell, threw back his head and gulped down the oyster flesh in one go. 'Or sex!' He made a loud smacking noise with his mouth, rubbed his stomach and belched enthusiastically.

  Hang on a minute. I could go along with the lack of interest in food but not sex!

  A pair of cheerful inebriates in the cafe opposite watched with bemused grins on their faces, then returned to the serious business of downing their first Ricards of the day.

  'I'd better get to work,' I said, 'serve the customers.'

  I made my way back to my stand. The morning bargain hunters were doing the rounds. I sold a little nineteenth century barbotine Majolica jug in the shape a monkey playing a guitar, which I believed was probably either Italian or Portuguese, to a middle-aged man who went off happy, apparently well satisfied with his purchase. Helen had bought it in a
vide grenier
, or car boot sale, in our village. The man had asked if I would accept a cheque and when I told him no trouble as long as it was a French bank account he paid the amount in full without disputing the price. When this happens I tend to think the customer is more knowledgeable than I am and the item was probably worth a lot more. This can play on your mind so it's best to put it behind you, move on and concentrate on the next sale or you'll send yourself nuts. I was attempting to put my misgivings behind me when I glanced at the cheque and realised with horror he had omitted to sign it. I leaped up in a panic and rushed after him. But he had disappeared and I couldn't really remember what he looked like. I passed Serge, frantically scanning the crowds of people, waving the cheque in the air.

  'What's up, Johnny?'

  'God, that customer has forgotten to sign his cheque and now he's disappeared!'

  'Here, let's see.' I gave it to him. 'I'll sort this out for you, Johnny.' Before I could stop him he produced a Bic, signed the cheque with a flourish and handed it back to me.

  'You can't do that!' I cried, appalled.

  'It happens all the time.' He gave a Gallic shrug. 'We always sign cheques when the customer forgets.'

  I walked off, not feeling very comforted. When I looked at the cheque and saw the signature I did a double take. I ran back to Serge and shouted at him: 'You've signed this cheque Mickey Mouse! Mickey Mouse? You can't sign a cheque Mickey Mouse!'

  'Don't worry, I always do that when someone forgets. My bank has never queried it.'

  I stumbled back to my stand dumbfounded, with the cheque fluttering in my hand. Serge made the rules up as he went along. What was I thinking of? I pocketed the cheque and imagined what Helen would say when she saw it. I decided not to tell her and secretly sneak it into the bank.

  The sun was almost overhead now and I was beginning to be glad of the shade afforded by my parasol. I was carefully wrapping up a particularly fine set of Limoges dinner plates with hand-painted designs of freshwater fishes for a charming elderly retired couple when a deafening braying sound blasted out in such close proximity and ear-splitting volume that I nearly dropped the lot. I slapped my hands to my ears to shut out the din and looked round to see Louis doing the same. It took a few teeth-rattling moments to grasp that this was the town air raid siren and a glance at my watch confirmed it was signalling
midi
, the holy French lunch hour. Many of these country towns continue to use their sirens in this way. Presumably when the war finished the mayor and townsfolk couldn't bear to dismantle such an authoritative and efficient instrument of aural torture, unlike the British who, having suffered years of the Blitz, couldn't wait to dump theirs along with all the other unpleasant memories.

  Thibeau was quite right about one thing, though: compared to the French us British don't care about food. At least this used to be more true than maybe it is now.

  When Helen and I first came to France and our knowledge of the language was fairly rudimentary we always wondered exactly what the French were talking so animatedly about. Was it philosophy or politics or the great questions of the day? As our vocabulary and translating skills improved we realised they were mainly discussing one thing: food.

  The French can talk endlessly about what they ate or what they intend to eat, or the best way to prepare something they are going to eat. We used to think, God save us! How long are they going to go on and on about food? Isn't there something more interesting to talk about? What on earth's the matter with them? But now we've been living in France for so long, wouldn't you know it, we're just the same. We talk about food, too. We're as tiresome about it as they are. Also, we're spoilt as far as food is concerned. We are disappointed if the food we are served up when we eat out is not good and appetising. We are picky and feel let down when we get something bland or tasteless as if the cook hasn't bothered to even try.

  With the aftershock of the air raid siren still ringing in our ears Louis and I covered up our stuff and headed for the restaurant opposite, fought through the other
brocanteurs
and ordered an aperitif for Louis and an orange juice for me. Sitting at the bar I recognised Jesus Raines, the guitarist who lost his family when his caravan caught fire.

  'Eh, Johnny, how you going,
en forme
?' He seemed more cheerful than when we first met at St Michelle and appeared pleased to see me.

  'You know what today is, Johnny? The twenty-first of June. And you know what that means, don't you?'

  Of course, La Fête de la Musique! I'd quite forgotten all about it. Every year throughout France on this date every French musician worth his salt gets to play somewhere for the evening. All the music bars, clubs and most of the cafes feature groups or solo musicians, the only drawback being that ever since I'd been in France it had pissed down with rain on the night of the
fête.
I don't know why this should be, but as a lot of the gigs take place in the open air the weather always proved to be something of a dampener to the proceedings.

  'There's going to be a big jam session tonight. You ought to come along,' said Jesus.

  'Maybe I will,' I said.

  'Hey, you've got to meet my son Buddy, the one I told you about.' He signalled across to a hip young guy with a shaved head and a short trimmed beard who came across. Jesus put his arm round his shoulder. 'He's dragged himself away from all his charming Parisian women to come down and visit his poor old dad.'

  Buddy smiled tolerantly. 'Dad told me all about you,' he said, shaking my hand. 'Fancy a blow tonight?'

  Did I ever! I didn't get much chance with most of the markets taking place at the weekends.

  'And where are you sleeping tonight?' asked Jesus.

  'In the van,' I said, 'as usual.'

  'I won't hear of it. You must stay with me. I have a comfortable spare bed in my caravan.'

  What could I say? To turn down the offer would have been rude. Besides, I wasn't relishing a night humped up in the van.

  'Meet us here when the fair finishes and we'll go for a meal.'

  I promised I would and joined Louis and Serge at a table. As I ate my lunch I thought about Jesus' invitation to stay in his caravan. He was still sitting at the bar with his son. He turned, saw me, took a deep drag on a cigarette and waved his glass at me in a toast.

  I felt a small stab of anxiety. There was no way he could set fire to his caravan a second time, surely?

The afternoon was hot and sticky. Louis had gone off excited with a little old man who said he had a pile of jazz albums at home he wanted to sell off cheaply. As I sat drowsily in my canvas chair recovering from lunch, my eyes kept straying across to Bernard's van.

  I was intrigued. Angelique had just climbed in the back and pulled the doors to. Then Serge appeared, gave me a wave and went in after her. I couldn't imagine what was going on. There was no sign of Bernard.

  A few minutes later, to my astonishment, Angelique re-emerged completely transformed. Gone were the jeans and sweatshirt. She was now wearing a classy designer frock with sexy patterned black stockings and white high heels. Serge was behind her helping her do the buttons up the back. He gave me another little wave, looked slightly embarrassed, and left.

  Angelique looked fantastic. She shimmied over to her stand and began rearranging the lingerie. I was changing my mind about her. Thibeau was right. Watching her move the lacy knickers and bras around dressed like this was proving to be quite a turn on.

  She was trying to sell a red satin corset with a black lacy trim to a young mum, who was tempted, but she had a child in a pushchair and a toddler and I think maybe it was too expensive for her. Angelique was giving her the works – a steady stream of sales patter pointing out the merits of the garment, stroking it, caressing it, turning it this way and that. Sunbeams flashed on the shiny satin. She tilted her head, opened her beautiful eyes wide and made little moues with her red-lipsticked mouth.

  The woman had decided she'd have to think about it and maybe bring her husband along to show him, when Angelique did something that took my breath away. She reached behind her neck, undid a couple of hooks, and in one swift movement pulled her dress up and over her head. Her underwear was light and filmy, and her body glowed unbearably white in the brilliant sunlight. She stepped daintily into the corset, positioned it until it was comfortable and asked the woman to help her lace it up tight. I held my breath as the woman tugged at the red laces, tying bows as instructed.

  The result was truly stunning. The corset pinched in Angelique's waist and lifted her breasts. She looked like a dream film star from the fifties. Bernard was right; these undergarments worked wonders.

  I turned away, unable to gaze any longer on a vision of such loveliness, and was confronted by the tableau of Serge and Thibeau standing behind me grinning like a pair of Notre Dame gargoyles.

  'See, what did I tell you?' said Thibeau, punching me on the arm. 'Was I right or what?'

  Serge was smiling sweetly with a look of indulgence on his face. I got the impression he might have a crush on her. But dream on – she was completely out of his league.

  Looking at Angelique standing semi-naked in the red satin corset reminded me of Helen in our group True Life Confessions when she used to go on stage in skimpy outfits not dissimilar to this one. I could buy it for her! If I was especially nice she might consent to wear it round the house for old times' sake and give me a thrill.

  Bernard came weaving across the square from a nearby restaurant. He looked sated, like he'd partaken of a decent lunch while Angelique was hard at it.

  'Eh, Bernard! Angelique is looking as lovely as ever,' shouted Thibeau.

  Bernard hardly gave her a second glance, plonked himself down in his director's chair and lounged back with his hands behind his head.

  Despite the astonishing demonstration, the young mum was still unable to make up her mind and hurried off, promising to return with her husband. I was convinced if he had been there the sight of Angelique's semi-clad form would have had him reaching zombie-like for his wallet.

  'You see this basque that Angelique is wearing, John?' said Bernard, slurring his words.

  I nodded and gulped.

  'It is called
la guêpière,
or as you say in English, 'the Waspy', invented by Marcel Rochas here in France. This is similar to the one worn by Martine Carol in Christian-Jaque's movie
Adorables Créatures
.'