Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (6 page)

  We carried our coffees out and drank them together in the sunshine, watching our tables.

  'I don't know why you haven't sold anything, Johnny, you've got some good stuff.'

  I watched with trepidation as he picked up an ornate vase and waved it in the air. I shut my eyes and prayed he wouldn't drop it.

  Then he spotted the little demon down behind the deco clock and pulled it out.

  'What's this then?' He was fascinated. He turned it in his hands, trying to see under the hood and get a glimpse of the face. Eventually he gave up and brought it over.

  'This little devil, it's crazy. How much would you sell him for… you know… to a friend like me?'

  He was pulling the old pals act so he must have been keen.

  'You don't like it do you? Don't you think he's a bit creepy?'

  'No, I love him.'

  'I thought he might be bringing me bad luck as I haven't sold anything today.'

  'Rubbish! I never had you pegged as superstitious, Johnny.'

  'You like him… you can have him,' I said, unable to believe my good luck. The little demon must have had the power to attract idiots, like it had me.

  Serge looked surprised. 'You'd give it to me, Johnny?'

  'Yes, no questions asked.'

  He winked at me and his face lit up. 'Oh, I get it, it's like that is it?'

  I didn't know what he thought it was like but I agreed and he slipped it into his pocket with a conspiratorial expression on his face.

  'Thanks, Johnny. I owe you one.'

  'Not at all,' I said. 'Consider it a gift with no strings attached.' I'd have felt rotten about what I was letting him in for if I wasn't so relieved to get rid of the bloody thing. That afternoon my luck began to return and I sold well. I rationalised that it couldn't be anything to do with getting rid of the little devil, but I still wondered guiltily how Serge was doing. He came over as I was packing up, all smiles and bonhomie.

  'Hey, Johnny, would you believe it, I didn't sell a thing all afternoon. I was beginning to think you might be right about that little devil bringing bad luck but then DaSilva the Portuguese dealer came along.'

  I knew DaSilva. He turned up regularly at the markets and had bought off us before.

  'Yes, his eyes nearly popped out his head when he saw the little wooden devil. He said it was Spanish and really ld. I had no trouble getting him to cough up three hundred euros for it.'

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. If I'd just hung onto the little devil a couple more hours DaSilva would have bought it from me. The three hundred euros would have been mine. It might have made up for some of the bad luck I'd had. I looked at Serge grinning all over his face. I couldn't help thinking it was a case of 'the Devil takes care of his own'.

  He put his arm around my shoulder. 'You're still on for our little expedition though, aren't you, Johnny?'

  I thought about what Helen had said about my wasting my time with him. I was about to make an excuse and put him off when he thrust some notes into my hand.

  'There, one hundred and fifty euros. You gave that little devil to me, Johnny, so you should have half the profit. It's only fair.'

  I was taken aback. I looked at the notes in my hand. I couldn't think straight.

  'So, see you first thing Monday morning then?

  'OK, Serge,' I said.

The figure was standing stock still in a field in front of the peasant's cottage. As we drew nearer I could see he was an old man dressed in worn overalls and a blue beret. His head turned and followed us as we drove past in the van, and he was still standing, motionless, watching as we disappeared out of sight over the hill.

  'Not much point trying that place,' said Serge. 'Looked too poor to bother with.'

  We had turned off the main road twenty minutes before and had been winding down little back lanes through woods and over hills past isolated farms and cottages. Against my better judgement I was again accompanying Serge on one of his cold-calling expeditions, hoping to pick up old furniture or bric-a-brac on the cheap. Maybe I could protect the innocent from his greedy, grasping, swindling ways. Fat chance. Who was I kidding?

  So far we'd had no luck.

  'The bloody peasants have gone mad,' said Serge. 'I blame the television. Now they think any old piece of junk is worth a fortune. Not like the old days when they couldn't wait to get shot of it for peanuts. And of course the car boots haven't helped. Between the two of them they're killing the trade.'

  Unexpectedly, the road began to double back on itself until we were coming up behind the cottage we had passed earlier. The figure in the beret was still standing frozen in the same place, facing the direction we had taken a few minutes earlier. When Serge reached across me and pressed the horn the old boy's head zipped round and he almost toppled over with shock. Serge was delighted. He tooted out a greeting and waved.

  'Come on, let's try this place.'

  'But I thought you said it looked too poor to bother with.'

  'Yes, well I've changed my mind. And anyway, what do you suggest? This is the end of the road and it's almost lunchtime. They're dead hospitable, country folk – we might get a free bite to eat.'

  Not content just to rip people off, he wanted them to feed him too. I was unfamiliar with French rustic customs but it was past noon and since I'd been living and working in France my stomach had been trained to start rumbling automatically at midday. And we were a long way from any village cafes or shops. Maybe he had a point.

  We parked the van and started up the track across the field. The old boy was still watching us as if he couldn't quite believe we were actually about to enter his life. But as we drew level something galvanised him into action. He raised his arm jerkily and set off towards us, hobbling slightly as if his feet pained him. As we waited I found myself drinking in the simple beauty of the surrounding countryside, savouring the tranquillity and the scent of freshly cut grass. This place was about as idyllic as you could get. I knew people back in Britain who would kill to own a little cottage like this one far from the stresses and strains of modern life.

  It reminded me of the dream-like period we spent when we first moved out to France. A kind of floating between two worlds. The summer of hazy mornings when the
brume
(mist) swirled up from the River Dordogne to be dispersed by the steaming heat of the afternoon sun. Magical evenings with an unearthly bloated moon hanging low over a landscape that echoed with the constant chirruping of cicadas.

  The monastery we had bought was positioned perfectly, standing alone looking over long fields that led to the deciduous woods covering the surrounding hills. You could stand in these fields and hear the sound of rain approaching, hissing in the leaves of the evergreen oaks as it drifted in. It had been so protected there was seldom any wind, just now and then a gentle, balmy breeze. There were wild boar, or
sanglier
, in abundance. On early morning walks we would happen upon herds of them in the clearings. A massive old boar would fearlessly root through our fields. Rutting stags would come down the hillsides bellowing out a challenge.

  Our grasp of the language had been so tenuous – rusty, barely used French O level – that when the local farmers pointed out something we didn't understand we passed it off as 'something to do with the war'. Now, from working the markets and hanging out with Serge, I was learning to speak colloquial French like a barrow boy.

  The old chap was on the track now and I was slightly taken aback to see that he had no shoes on. His bare feet were nut brown below the frayed bottoms of his overalls. No wonder he was hobbling.

  Serge nudged me and waved a welcome, reaching out to grasp the old fellow's hand.

  'Good day, sir, good day. What a beautiful day.' He was effusive, pouring on the charm.

  The old chap seemed slightly reticent, but perhaps he was overwhelmed by the sheer power of Serge's greeting. When he came to shake my hand his grip was firm and warm, but I felt hard calluses on his palms and fingers.

  My heart went out to him. I felt as if we were carriers of some horrible disease about to infect his simple world.

  'Sorry to burst in on you like this, Papa,' said Serge cheerily, 'but my colleague and I have been asked to carry out a

special survey of the commune by the mayor. He wants us to record who lives where and check out their living accommodation. Simple stuff, really, but vital for the upcoming national census. We just need to take a look around and make a few notes. It won't take long and we don't intend to inconvenience you in any way.'

  This was a spiel I hadn't heard before, and the old boy appeared to accept it at face value. It was unbelievable. Mentioning the mayor worked like a charm every time.

  'There's only me and my sister here,' he said. 'But come in. Maybe you'd like an aperitif before you begin your work.'

  Serge made an 'O' shape with his finger and thumb (his equivalent to the thumbs up) behind the chap's back as we followed him towards the house.

  We were ushered into the little cottage which was clean and fresh with a spotless tiled floor and white, lime washed walls. The old fellow seated us at a table covered with a brilliant yellow plastic cloth and fetched glasses and a bottle from a glass-fronted kitchen cabinet.

  Serge nodded at me and beamed as the old boy poured him out a generous helping of Ricard and invited him to add the amount of water he required from a jug. I chose a glass of the strange syrupy strawberry cordial that comes in a metal tubular bottle, and is a popular non-alcoholic drink. It was sickly sweet, but refreshing none the less after a hard, fruitless morning driving about in the van.

  The back door was wide open and I could see out into the yard. There was a red rooster strutting about and a few scraggle-necked hens pecking among the pebbles. I sipped at my cordial and was surprised to see a little hunched-over woman duck out from behind a stone shed and scurry across the yard. She looked like a tiny witch with a prominent hooked nose and craggy face. She wore a gloomy robe, with a dark shawl pulled over her shoulders and a scarf tied round her head. She peered through the back door as if trying to get a furtive look at us. And then she was gone, disappearing out of sight behind a barn.

  Serge had finished his Ricard. He plonked the empty glass down on the table and sat waiting expectantly for it to be replenished.

  'Sorry to bother you at lunchtime like this, but we seem to have got slightly stranded. Do you know anywhere we could get a decent bite to eat?'

  The old chap pondered this for a moment. 'There's nowhere really. But my sister would be pleased to cook something for you. You're quite welcome to eat here.'

  'That's very kind of you,' said Serge, 'but we don't want to put you to any trouble.'

  'It's no trouble at all. It would be our pleasure.'

  'Well, if you insist,' said Serge. 'Thank you so much.

  The old boy poured himself a second glass of red wine. He knocked back over half of it and his eyes began to twinkle.

  'So it's just the two of you live here then?' said Serge.

  'That must have been your sister I just saw out in the yard,' I offered.

  'She's very shy, not used to meeting many people.' He took another swig of wine. 'She's had a lot to cope with what with one thing and another.'

  'Really?' said Serge, disinterestedly. He was scanning the room for valuable furniture or worthwhile bits and pieces.

  The farmer was starting to grow garrulous under the influence of the drink and the company. I wanted to stop him. I didn't want him to reveal all the secrets of his personal life to Serge. He might be able to use them against him in some way.

  But Serge had his mind on other matters. '
Putain,
that aperitif, it's given me an appetite. When were you thinking of eating?'

  'Of course,' said the old chap, 'I'll go and fetch my sister.'

  He got up and went out into the yard.

  'See, they may be poor,' said Serge, 'but they live like kings, these peasants.' He slapped his rounded belly. 'I'm just about ready for some home-cooked grub.'

  The farmer reappeared with the little hunched-over woman bobbing behind him. She began to bustle about in cupboards, head down, barely glancing in our direction. She emptied a clear glass jar full of a yellowy white viscous liquid with grey lumps in it into a heavy iron pan, sprinkled it with herbs and began to fry the lot up on the stove.

  Serge rubbed his hands together. 'Mmmm, that smells like
gésiers
if I'm not very much mistaken.' He nodded at me. 'But not much interest to you, eh, Johnny? I don't think you're ready for a nice plate of chicken gizzards just yet.'