Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (14 page)

  There was a bed in one corner. Perched in a line on it with their backs propped against the pillows were five or six dolls.

  I hate dolls; cold, creepy monstrosities with their horrid pale faces and staring, beady little eyes. But I have been known to override my prejudice on discovering one that was worth a lot of money. These appeared to be old porcelain models dressed in their original faded costumes.

  Serge had spotted them too. He got up, leaving his coffee and cake to have a look.

  'Do you mind?' he said, picking one up.

  'That's Anne Marie,' said the little man. He went over and took her carefully from Serge, replacing her gently back on the bed.

  'She's been a naughty girl.'

  'Has she now?' said Serge pulling another tight smile at me. 'My goodness, whatever next?' He picked up a second doll and lifted her hair, examining the back of her head. He pulled up her long embroidered cotton nightdress and inspected her naked private parts.

  This appeared to greatly disturb the little man, who attempted to grab the doll back. As Serge lifted her high out of his reach his face contorted in extreme alarm and when Serge eventually handed her over he agitatedly smoothed down her nightdress, stroking her hair back into place and cuddling her up close.

  I found this upsetting. There was something painfully sad about him living here all alone with just his dolls for company. We were imposing on his hospitality. Serge was taking liberties because he judged him to be a bit simple and I didn't like it.

  'Come on, Serge, your coffee's getting cold,' I said. I took a bite of my cake and immediately wished I hadn't. It tasted strange with a musty under-taste that turned my stomach. I extricated the lump from my mouth and held it hidden under the table.

  'I can't tell you how much I love these dolls of yours,' said Serge, ignoring me. 'They're very pretty indeed.'

  The little guy was apprehensive now and nervous that Serge might start pulling them about again.

  'They're resting just at the moment,' he said. 'They've been playing all morning and they need to calm down a bit.'

  'Of course, of course,' said Serge, smiling what he thought was a reassuring smile, but which came out more like a leer.

  'There are rather a lot of them though, aren't there? How do you cope with them all?'

  The little man looked puzzled. 'They're no trouble at all,' he said. 'They're very good really.'

  'Are they? Are they? Well, I'm pleased to hear it.' Serge leaned over again and picked up a third doll. 'Take this one, for instance…'

  'Monique. That's Monique,' said the little man. He had his hands up ready to take her back and settle her down again. But Serge had her bent over on his arm examining the back of her head. He smoothed back the wig and beamed down at the little man.

  'Yes, Monique. What a nice name. She's sweet isn't she? In fact she's just the sort of doll I'm looking for as a present for my little girl. It's her birthday tomorrow and I've not got her anything.'

  The little man looked hurt and tears welled up in his eyes. 'Oh no, I couldn't possibly give her away. She lives here. This is her home.'

  'I was thinking more of buying her really,' said Serge, unmoved. He pulled out what was left of his wad of euros and ran his fingers through it. 'Just think what you could do with all this money, and my little daughter would be so happy to have a lovely doll like this one for her birthday.'

  The little guy looked pathetic. He was trapped with nowhere to turn.

  'Come on, Serge,' I said. 'He doesn't want to sell any of his dolls. It's obvious they give him a lot of pleasure. Leave him alone, eh?'

  Serge shot me a dagger look. He turned back to the little man.

  'You've got several dolls here though, haven't you? Surely you could spare one for a sweet little girl?'

  The bloke looked piteously towards me for help.

  'Give it a rest, Serge,' I said. 'We've got a lot to do. We ought to get back to the chateau and finish loading up the stuff.'

  'Sod the stuff!' Serge snapped at me. 'I'm talking to my little friend here and I'll thank you to stop interfering, Johnny.'

  'I couldn't possibly part with any of my dollies,' said the little chap with a new determination. 'And I'd never sell them, I'm sorry.' My interruption seemed to have given him a chance to harden his resolve.

  Serge looked thwarted, holding down his anger.

  'No need to say never, eh? You might change your mind, you never know.'

  The little man shook his head vigorously.

  'Well, believe me, you might do. And if you do I'd like you to give me a ring. Would you do that for me?' He pulled his well-thumbed notebook out of his back pocket, jotted down his phone number, ripped out the sheet and handed it to him. The little man took it reluctantly.

  'It's a nice place you've got,' I said, hoping to change the subject and lighten the mood. 'How long have you lived here then?'

  'Oh, quite a few years now,' he said, coming over to me. 'The people who owned the chateau said I could move in here when my mother got very sick.'

  'We've got to go now,' said Serge brusquely.

  'But you can't yet, you've not finished your coffee and cake,' said the little man. 'Here I'll make you a
cadeau
of them.' He busied himself about in a drawer, produced two worn plastic bags and placed a piece of chocolate cake in each.

  'Thank you, that's very kind,' said Serge taking his, rolling his eyes at me.

  We reached the door and Serge stopped and looked around, smiling as if he'd been to a smashing party and had a lovely time.

  'Now you won't forget what I told you, will you? If you need any money just give me a ring on that number.'

  The little guy looked at him vacantly.

  'Come on, let me hear you say it,' said Serge. 'Promise to ring me when you want to sell one of your little dollies. It would make my daughter so happy.'

  He wasn't getting anywhere. The bloke was so obviously blanking the question that Serge gave up. We headed off down the path with him waving us goodbye. When we were out of his sight I let drop the squishy lump of my half eaten cake and Serge lobbed his bag into the bushes.

  'That bloody loony dwarf!' Serge spat out. 'He knows what those dolls are worth and he won't part with them.'

  'You can hardly expect him to,' I said. 'They're all he's got in the world.'

  'Do you know anything about dolls, Johnny?'

  'Not really,' I said. 'I find them a bit creepy, that's all.'

  'Yes, well, kindly don't try and lecture me then. I suppose you're aware, are you, that a couple of those dolls were made by Jumeau? They're French and the most desirable dolls you can get. Have you any idea what dolls like that are worth?'

  'A lot?'

  'Exactly, a hell of a lot. Like I said, they're wasted on a simpleton like him.'

  When we got to the chateau Serge had completely lost interest in the rest of the contents. He couldn't even be bothered to fetch the hanging cane chair. He told the snaggle-toothed woman we'd be back another day and we drove off in an empty van.

A week later I bumped into Serge at a market and noticed immediately that he had a line of dolls perched at the back of his stand.

  'You didn't, did you?' I said, shocked. 'You never went back and wheedled those dolls off that poor bloke?'

  'No, those aren't his, Johnny,' he bridled. 'You've got it all wrong. I bought those dolls at auction this week.'

  'Come on, Serge,' I said, not fooled. 'Those are that little man's dolls. I'd recognise them anywhere.'

  He looked cornered for a moment and then realised he wasn't going to be able to dupe me. 'OK, Johnny, so they are the dwarf's dolls. You didn't want to know about them so I went back later and saw him again. I didn't steal them from him if that's what you're thinking. We came to an arrangement and he was fine about it.'

  I was going to ask him what arrangement would make some poor sad little lonely man part with his most treasured possessions on earth, but realised I'd be wasting my breath and walked off.

  For the rest of the day the poor little fellow and his dolls preyed on my mind. I felt I had to go back and see how he was.

  Later that evening I drove out to the chateau, parked the van by the gate, followed the gravel path along the wall up to his house and knocked on his door.

  There was no reply and the house was silent. I walked round the back and tried to see in the windows but the shutters were all bolted shut.

  I was about to give up when he appeared unexpectedly, walking down the path, carrying an old duck's head umbrella.

  'Hello,' I said. 'How are you? I was just passing through and thought I'd drop in. I hope you don't mind.'

  He looked at me for a moment as if he wasn't sure who I was. Then his eyes lit up and he gave me a warm smile.

  'So you're moving in at last?' he said. 'I'm so pleased.'

  'I'm sorry, how do you mean?'

  'You're one of the English people, aren't you? I'm so glad you're moving into the chateau at last. Do come in and have a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. I expect you're exhausted.'

  The thought of his cake turned my stomach but I watched him unlock the door and accepted his invitation to come in and sit down. He switched on the lights and I immediately looked over towards the bed where his dolls had been. There was a line of dolls there still, but they weren't the delicate antiques with finely crafted porcelain faces of before. These dolls were big and shiny and made of plastic with bright painted faces and nylon wigs.

  'I see you've got some different dolls,' I said.

  'Yes, they're my new friends,' he said excitedly. 'We've been having
such
fun together.'

  So Serge had managed to persuade him to exchange his valuable old dolls for new, worthless, plastic shiny ones.

  Unbelievable! The old bugger was incorrigible.

  But still… he didn't seem at all perturbed. In fact he almost seemed to prefer his new dolls.

  He poured me a coffee and I knocked it back but passed on the cake, politely refusing his offer to bag a piece to take with me.

  As I drove home I couldn't help marvelling at Serge's tenacity. Once he'd seen those dolls he wasn't going to give up till he'd got them. But it was essentially a rotten trick. It was just about as low as he could possibly stoop. I was wrong about that, as it turned out. He could stoop a lot lower.

It was the end of January. The night air was chill and clear, and a fat full moon floated in a sky choked with stars. I'd bumped into Serge after Christmas when money was tight and he'd persuaded me that I needed to try a pitch at St Michelle Market in Bordeaux.

  'I've been doing it off and on for years,' he said. 'It's good fun and I'll introduce you to a few of my mates up there.'

  Over the past three months I'd not seen much of Serge and had more or less forgiven him for his trick with the dolls. It had been a quiet winter and I needed to work.

  'You have to get there on Saturday night and sleep in the van,' he said. 'Then you can be up bright and early and bag a place.

  St Michelle is in the old poor quarter of the city. As I drove alongside the river I could see the distinctive floodlit spire of Saint Michelle Church standing over the city. The heater was blasting out but I could still feel the bite of the cold air outside seeping in round the door. I wasn't relishing the idea of a night in the van when I could be at home tucked up in bed with Helen.

  The tyres bounced over the cobblestones as I circumnavigated a concrete-posted wall searching for an entrance between iron bollards. I found one, drove onto the square, parked, and pulled on my woollen hat and gloves. Serge had told me to meet him in the cafe so I headed towards the nearest one.

  There was someone lying on his back on the pavement. I assumed it was a drunk, but as I drew closer I saw it was Serge, arms and legs out like St Andrew on the cross. He was flat out on a large iron grill set in the cobblestones. When he saw it was me he stuck out his gloved hand to be shaken. I bent over and felt a rush of hot air from below.

  He patted the grill. It was like sitting on a convector heater.

  He clapped and whooped with delight. 'It's from the subway. If you park your van here you'll be warm as toast.'

  A young couple, arms round each other, stopped to look down on us. When they felt the warm air they stepped out onto the grill. Serge gave me a nudge as the warm air lifted the girl's skirt.