Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (15 page)

  'Your girlfriend has pretty legs and lingerie,' said Serge, 'you lucky sod.'

  The young man laughed and he and his girl went off arm in arm.

  'See, you stick with me and we'll see some sights. You hungry, Johnny? Come on, let's go eat.'

  St Michelle was hopping at this hour of a Saturday night. The restaurants and bars were packed to overflowing. We hurried through the cobbled streets; past neon-lit cafes full of neatly suited young Arabs; through an empty, silent market bestrewn with rotting fruit and broken cardboard boxes; down a dark alleyway and up a short cul-de sac to an anonymous-looking doorway.

  'Eh, hold on to your hat, British, this is it – the Portuguese restaurant I told you about.'

  He went to push open the door, but it was jammed. He barged into it and forced his way through the heaving mass of bodies until we were pressed up against a bar where customers were quaffing beers and aperitifs waiting for a table.

  Serge was clearly well known here. Half-cut characters full of the joys of Saturday night pushed forward to wring his hand and slap him on the back. I was introduced as
'mon ami l'Anglais'
and my hand was wrung and my back slapped as well. Although Bordeaux has its fair share of English inhabitants they didn't appear to be much in evidence in this bar.

  'I've heard you have to stand on a box to say what you want in England – is this true?' a big grizzle-haired man with a huge pot belly asked me.

  I realised he must be talking about Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park and assured him it wasn't compulsory.

  'But you can't say just what you like about the Queen.'

  I nodded, agreeing with him. It was probably quicker.

  'You English are buying up France bit by bit. There's even English mayors in some villages full of Englishmen. Is that right, I ask you? Is that right?'

  'Certainly not,' I said, trying to edge away.

  'But at least it's better than being taken over by the whoring Germans… or the Dutch. The Dutch bring all their own food with them when they come here. What's wrong with French food, that's what I'd like to know. It's the best in the world.' I agreed with him and backed off.

  'The Dordogne is full of English and Germans now,' he went on. 'Some of those Germans even own chateaux there. They wiped out whole villages during the war and now we let them walk in and buy up all our historical buildings. It's a crime.'

  I looked about frantically, trying to escape from the xenophobic bore.

  Serge was up at the bar deep in conversation with a swarthy character with curly brown hair and a bright blue scarf tied round his neck.

  Serge waved me over. 'This is my good friend Jesus,' he said. 'Jesus Raines – ask anybody, he's famous.' He gave me a tight smile. He's a musician like you, so you two should get on.'

  When the guy shook my hand the skin felt lumpy, and when he turned I saw livid white scar tissue running from under the blue scarf and up the side of his face.

  'He's a fantastic Flamenco guitarist, but can't play any more,' said Serge. He reached down and lifted Jesus' hand. It was scarred and bent crooked like a crow's foot.

  'My caravan caught fire and I was burnt,' said Jesus almost apologetically. 'I was asleep and didn't wake up.'

  Serge was miming at me over his shoulder the familiar French boozer sign, thumb pointing at his mouth indicating a large intake of alcohol.

  'My wife and two of my children died,' he said mechanically, as if his emotions were cut off.

  'But you still have your son Buddy,' said Serge, as usual looking for the silver lining. 'And my God, you should hear him play, Johnny. He taught him everything he knows… He's a credit to him.'

  Jesus brightened at this and seemed to come back to life.

  'That's true, and he plays better than I ever did.'

  Serge shook his head and pulled a face at me over his shoulder as if to say 'no way'.

  'He tours all over Europe and is frequently on television,' said Jesus. 'He lives in Paris now.'

  'You must eat with us,' said Serge. 'You can tell Johnny all about your son.' He slammed his hand down hard on the wooden counter top.

  'Eh, Didier, what about our table? We got to wait till we're too weak to lift our knives and forks?'

  The barman in a blue apron shrugged. 'You'll have to take your turn with everyone else, Serge.' He waved his hands over the crowded room. 'Everyone's hungry but are they complaining?'

  A tough, gaunt man with grey hair tied back in a ponytail and silver earrings came pushing his way through. He put his arms around Serge from behind and hugged him tight.

  Serge twisted round annoyed, but when he saw who it was he was delighted.

  'Eh, Marcel, you son of a cheap whore, I thought it was the DST caught up with me at last.' He screamed with laughter and pumped the bloke's hand, slapping him on the back. The DST (Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire) is the French equivalent of MI5.

  'Eh, Johnny, meet Marcel the Lyonnaise. If you want to know anything about French antiques, he's the bloke to ask.'

  The guy gave me a wink, felt about in his denim jacket pocket and produced a small leather-bound book which he handed to me. 'Go on, have a look at that.'

  I opened it carefully. It was obviously very old, engraved on a kind of yellowed parchment paper.

  The title page read,
'L'Art de Péter – Theori – Physyque et Méthodique'.

  I glanced up. 'Go on, feast your eyes – you'll never see another book like it.' He was gleeful.

  I turned the pages carefully. All the 'S's were written as 'F's and my ancient French wasn't up to much so it was difficult to decipher. There were old illustrations on
'L'Art de Péter'
; comical little figures bent over chairs, trousers round their ankles emitting puffs of smoke from their anuses. Pages of script explaining the secrets of farting. Until finally – presumably after studying the book closely –
'On peut péter avec règle et avec goût.'
(One can break wind with control and with taste.)

  The book appeared to be the nineteenth-century precursor to
Viz
's Johnny Fartipants. The last time I'd really laughed at breaking wind was when I first saw the Mel Brooke's film
Blazing Saddles.
It was one of those taboos that had been well and truly broken and now only afforded me the occasional chuckle. But I was familiar with the French love of Le Petomaine, the great master of controlled farting who wowed Paris at the beginning of the twentieth century. It was amusing to see an antique book like this devoted to the art and I didn't have to try very hard to express the amused amazement that was clearly expected of me. It was like reading Chaucer's
The Miller's
Tale
for the first time, bringing home the simple truth that rude noises from the bottom had been making mankind laugh for centuries.

  I shut it and went to hand it back but Serge snatched it away and began waving it in the air.

  'Have you any idea of the value of this thing, Johnny?' His eyes were wide with disbelief. He began to turn the pages, examining them with reverence. 'You swine, Marcel, where in the name of the Holy Mother of God did you find this little gem?'

  Marcel tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. 'Aha, wouldn't you like to know. I can't say. It's a secret.'

  'Secret, my arse! You stole this book, you must have.'

  'Let's say I acquired it through legitimate channels,' said Marcel, taking it back and replacing it carefully in his denim jacket pocket.

  'How much do you want for it?' said Serge.

  'You think you can afford to buy this? You're dreaming, my friend. I'll wait for the right buyer. This book is a three-month holiday for me lying on soft sandy beaches sipping exotic cocktails surrounded by beautiful women. You think I'll give it to you at a knock-down price?' He snorted.

  The waitress came over to tell us she'd found us a place.

  'Come and eat with us, Marcel,' said Serge. 'We'll have a laugh.'

  'OK, I won't eat with you, but I'll drink your wine as I aim to get out of it and sleep deeply in my van on such a cold night.'

  'But if you wake up shivering,' said Serge, 'don't come creeping round in the early hours wanting me to warm you up.' He found his own joke hilarious and was still chuckling as we seated ourselves at a long table elbow to elbow with other diners.

  Jesus joined us and sat next to me. He produced a small bottle of Spanish brandy from his coat pocket, emptied it into a wine glass, took a big swig and pulled a face.

  'My medicine,' he said grimly.

  A large tureen was plonked in front of us and Serge ladled out spoonfuls of soup into my bowl. It was green and gelatinous, with cabbage leaves, peas and other unidentifiable vegetables floating about in it. I tasted it gingerly. It was delicious.

  Serge grabbed a handful of cut country bread from a basket and handed me a thick slice. 'Eh, come on, British, get stuck in. We've got big helpings to get through.'

  Marcel reached for an unlabelled bottle of red wine, filled his glass and knocked it back in one go.

  'A good year, is it?' said Serge, winking at me.

  'This soup's not bad, Marcel.' He went to ladle some in his bowl but Marcel held his hand over it. 'No, none for me, Serge, I told you. I want to get legless and pass out in the van.'

  'You need something warm inside you on a night like this,' insisted Serge. 'Take a bit of soup. It'll do you good.'

  'I'll maybe have some chicken later,' said Marcel. He poured wine into our glasses and topped up his own.

  The soup plates were cleared. Serge had ordered me salted cod. 'It's a traditional Portuguese dish, absolutely delicious.'

  It arrived on a large oval dish in a thick sauce. When I tasted it the sheer saltiness of it almost made me gag.

  'See, what did I tell you? It's a lot better than what you get in England, isn't it? I've been to your country and let's be fair, the food is not good.'

  I tried to force down the fish in small bits with lumps of bread and gulps of wine to take away the salty taste. If I didn't watch it I'd be falling off the wagon. But I reasoned that a few sips of wine wouldn't do any harm.

  'Eh, you wouldn't believe it,' said Marcel, waving his glass in the air. 'I had those EDF electricity people around my place yesterday trying to tell me I've got to let them connect me up.'

  'Marcel lives miles away from anyone, deep in the forest,' Serge explained. 'You don't believe in electricity, do you, Marcel?'

  'You're damn right I don't. I hate the stuff. Who needs it? When it gets dark you go to bed, when it gets light you get up – end of story. I'm not paying their fancy prices for something I don't use.'

  'You don't have a radio or TV?' I asked.

  He pulled a face full of scorn. 'What would I need them for? They're rubbish.'

  I was inclined to agree with him. He had a point.

  'On dark winter evenings I light my oil lamp, sit by the warm stove and read a good book. What could be better than that, I'd like to know? They're worried that my way of life could catch on and then where would they be if people start to realise they don't need their damned electricity?'

  Serge tapped my plate with his fork. 'If you don't want that cod, Johnny, give it to me. I love it.'

  I admitted it had beaten me. He scraped it onto his plate and piled on a mound of boiled potatoes. 'My advice is never pass up on good food; you never know where the next meal's coming from.'

  The waitress brought us a selection of sickly sweet cakes on a silver dish, which we ate with liqueurs followed by chocolate mousse and small cups of extremely strong coffee. The restaurant was beginning to empty. We paid our bill and staggered out the door.

  The air was so cold it took my breath away. We walked unsteadily back to the square and when I tried the lock of my van it was frozen solid. Serge warmed my key with his cigarette lighter and after a couple of tries it opened.

  'Have you got enough blankets and stuff there, Johnny?' he asked.

  I assured him I had two sleeping bags and plenty of blankets and after bidding him and Marcel goodnight I climbed up into the front of my van.

  Serge rapped on the window. 'Don't forget, you have to wake up and unload at four or someone else will bag your place.'

  I assured him I understood and began to arrange my bed. I laid a plank of wood I had specially for this purpose across the two front seats and covered it with cushions. I took off my boots and climbed into one sleeping bag and then wriggled into the other, pulling the hood over my head and tying it tight.

  I lay back and tried to relax, hearing the sound of cars starting up and roaring off; the voices of late-night revellers straggling across the square; muffled disco music from a nearby cafe. After a couple of minutes my nose began to freeze. I pulled my woolly hat over the front of my face and tied the hood even tighter. The rest of me was warm enough in my two sleeping bags and I must have fallen deeply asleep because I was woken by frantic banging. A gloved hand was scraping away the ice on the window and Serge's face appeared in the hole.

  'Wake up, Johnny. Something terrible's happened – a catastrophe!' He was distraught.

  I struggled out of my sleeping bags, pulled on my coat and gloves and lurched after him across the icy square to a parked white van nearby. He opened the front door and drew back a blanket to reveal Marcel the Lyonnaise. His face was white and waxy with a bluish tinge, starkly lit by an overhead street light.