Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (5 page)

  Maybe that's why I enjoyed Serge's company so much. He instinctively grasped what I was all about. I had to concede, though, that Helen could be right about how much time I was spending with him. While I was out with him, she was slaving away at auctions, trying to buy stuff for us to sell. Without her I'd have been lost.

Gerard and Josette are a Gypsy couple, or
gitans
as they are known in France, who drive around in a removal van with a huge Basque flag painted along the side. They quit the wandering life a while back to settle down just outside a small village in the foothills of the Pyrenees where they bought a few hectares of land on which to park a mobile home and keep goats, chickens and a couple of ponies. Gerard is tough and broad-shouldered with unkempt dark hair greying at the temples. He always wears a tracksuit and trainers and walks as if his legs are groaning under the weight of his body. When he smiles, his face lights up to reveal craggy, broken teeth.

  I'd seen the pair of them only recently at a regular market held in the little seaside town of Hendaye on the Spanish border. Gerard was sitting on the steps of his lorry under the brilliantly painted Basque flag, looking glum.

  'I haven't sold a thing all morning, John. I can't understand it. How are you doing yourself?'

  'Middling,' I said. 'Maybe things will pick up this afternoon.'

  I couldn't concentrate properly as my eyes were drawn to a little wooden figure on the table, sitting among the Quimper plates and jugs. About twenty centimetres high, hand-carved in walnut, it had an almost medieval quality.

  When I picked it up and examined it I could see it was the figure of a miniature devil in a monk's robe. The face was hidden under a cowl, but you could tell it was demonic by the little carved arrowed tail at the back. He was holding a trident in one hand and a small carved book in the other. I turned the little fiend in my hands and examined it more closely. I have an affection for carved wood and I'm also fond of demons in general. Anything vaguely gargoyle or with a gothic flavour attracts me.

  'This little chap's interesting,' I said to Gerard. 'How much are you asking for him?'

  'Oh, I don't know, John. I picked him up among a load of junk in a house clearance – they sold off the old presbytery in a little village near Bordeaux.'

  'Go on, take the horrible little object.' Josette had appeared in the doorway behind Gerard. 'I'll be glad to see the back of the thing. Gives me the creeps, so it does.'

  She came round to give me a kiss on both cheeks. I'm always pleased to see Josette. She'd been a real Gypsy beauty once, but the rigours of having a family and life on the road had taken their toll. What she'd lost in looks she'd gained in character and she was still a fascinating woman and a great laugh once she got going.

  'No,' I said, 'I'll pay a fair price for him.'

  She closed my hand tightly over the little figure.

  'Take him. It's a gift. I insist.'

  I looked at Gerard. He nodded. 'If you like him, John, you can have him. He cost me nothing. I wouldn't dream of charging you.'

  I was touched. It wasn't the first time I'd been surprised by the generosity of a
gitan.
I thanked them and strolled back to my stall with the little figure in my pocket. I sat about after lunch with not much to do, waiting for that elusive sale, but it never came. I was bored and found myself absentmindedly inspecting the little wooden demon.

  It was strange, the way the face was concealed under the hood of the robe. There was a chin visible, but the rest of the features were somehow cunningly hidden among the folds. It was an incredibly subtle piece of carving work and clearly executed by an expert. The more I looked to see how the effect was achieved the less I could work out how it was done. I found myself imagining the face under the cowl, and the picture my mind conjured up was not very pleasant…

  Later I was holding the figure in my hand, watching to see if a couple of well-heeled customers perusing my stall were about to make a purchase, when I felt it move. It gave me such a shock that I jumped and involuntarily let it fall from my grasp. It bounced off under the table and only after I'd retrieved it on all fours did I manage to convince myself that my imagination had been playing tricks.

  I stood it away to one side, but my eyes kept being drawn back to it, picturing the face under the hood. In my mind it began to take on an air of menace. It was no longer simply carved wood, but a creepy little sentient being. I bagged it up and bunged it in a box under the table but I could still see every detail in my mind's eye. And as the afternoon wore on and I'd still sold nothing I began to wish I'd never clapped eyes on the despicable thing. Josette had been right – it was a horrible little object.

  In the end I decided to swallow my pride and took it back to tell Gerard I'd changed my mind, he could have it back.

  Josette was adamant. 'No, I'm sorry, John, we never want anything to do with it again.'

  'Yes, we've sold really well since we got rid of it,' said Gerard. 'If you've gone off it, why don't you put it on your stand and sell it?'

  'I wouldn't bother,' said Josette. 'We tried that and everyone was repelled. That's why I was surprised when you said you liked it. You're going to have to give it away like we did. That way you can counteract the hex.'

  I was stunned. 'What hex? You mean you gave it to me knowing there was a hex on the foul thing?'

  'Well, no, we didn't know exactly,' she said. 'It's just that since it's been gone sales have suddenly picked up. We've come to the conclusion that it must have brought us bad luck. When you're saddled with an unlucky object like that, the only way to be rid of it and break the curse is to find someone who is attracted to it and give it to them. We gypsies know about these things.'

  Gerard nodded in solemn agreement. 'Sorry, John, I can't afford the risk.'

  'And it's no good throwing it away,' said Josette. 'The hex will stay with you forever then.'

  Oh, great! I was going off these two.

  'Right, so I'll just have to hang on to him then?'

  'Guess so, until you find another mug,' said Josette, breaking into peals of uncontrolled laughter.

  'Like me?' I said.

  'You said it,' she said, wiping her eyes.

  I joined in and laughed with them, and as I packed up my gear later I came to the conclusion that I'd allowed them to spook me. What did they know, superstitious Gypsy folk?

  As I was packing up I knocked over a spelter figure of a cavalier whose sword arm broke off when it hit the ground. Then there was a massive thunderstorm as I was loading and most of my stuff got soaked.

  On the way home, the sky was ablaze with sheet lightning, and once there was a blinding flash and a deafening clap so close I nearly shat myself. I half expected to see ball lightning rolling past me on the road as I once had years before, driving with Helen. At one point the rain was so heavy I was forced to slow down to a snail's pace as I could barely see the road ahead of me.

  The storm eased as I drove down the small winding lane that snakes over the hills near our house and I was thankful to be almost home after a horrendous journey.

  Maybe I was so relieved I let my concentration drop (they say most accidents happen within a few kilometres of home), but one minute I was on the road, and the next the van was skidding out of control along the grass verge.

  It happened in slow motion and was almost balletic in its grace and simplicity. There was a small sunken stream with steep banks and as the nearside wheels went down the van tipped over onto its side and we glided along gracefully with grass and wild flowers whipping against the window.

  I remember thinking, Oh dear, what a nuisance. Looks like I'm going to be late for dinner, and coming to rest hard against the door, looking down at the water gurgling past. I sat for a moment, held firm by my seat belt, thankful I wasn't hurt. Then I released myself and climbed up across the passenger seat, opened the door and clambered out.

  It was a beautiful evening. The storm was over and the air smelled fresh and clean, washed by the rain. A blackbird was singing deep in the woodland, a liquid song of joy. The van lay sadly slewed on its side, the stalled engine ticking and gurgling gently as it cooled down. I'd left my mobile at home so set off along the lane to make the short walk home.

  When I got there Helen was waiting at the back door, looking worried.

  'What's happened? Are you all right?'

  There was a note of panic in her voice. I explained.

  'I knew something was wrong. I was about to come and look for you.'

  This didn't surprise me at all. Helen regularly has psychic premonitions and they're usually correct.

  We phoned the
pompiers
(firemen) and they told me to go down and wait by the van. The sun was beginning to sink below the trees when they arrived in the type of square red retrieval lorry I'd seen bombing up the motorway to multiple pile-ups. There were three of them on board: a couple of scruffy assistants in blue overalls and a 'spit and polish' chief with a farcical pointy waxed moustache, shiny black knee-high boots and an immaculate blue uniform. They found the situation amusing for some reason.

  'What were you doing, watching the birds?' said the chief. 'Eh
alors, vous êtes tombé dans le ruisseau
.'(You've fallen in the stream.)

  The hilarity of this escaped me, but I believe there is a French proverb that goes somewhere along the same lines.

  One of the assistants rolled his eyes heavenward to indicate that I wasn't to take what the chief said too much to heart. I recognised the chap from our local village. All three of them were unpaid part-timers, supported in the main by donations paid out by locals for the annual
pompiers
' calendar. I always feel obliged to fork out as much as I can possibly afford for my copy, as they keep a list; I imagine our house catching fire and the
pompiers
checking to see how much we've donated towards their calendar before they decide whether to rush to our aid or not. Call me paranoid if you like, but you never know with these things.

  The chief got down in the stream, fearlessly wetting his clean boots, and pronounced that we were going to have to drag the van out. This seemed self-evident to me, but I kept my mouth shut.

  They attached a tow rope and after much pulling and shoving the van rose gracefully up out of the
ruisseau
back onto the road. There were now a couple of dents in the side panels and I observed that, with its embryo rust spots and battered bodywork, it was beginning to look like every other
brocanteur's
white van. I also noted when I looked in the mirror at home that I'd grazed my nose in the accident and now looked exactly like Serge Bastarde did some mornings, as if he'd been in the wars. But it could have been worse. At least the van was perfectly serviceable and none of our stock appeared to have been damaged.

  I didn't mention the little wooden devil to Helen but as I lay in bed that night I couldn't stop imagining that the fiendish little object was the root cause of my recent bad luck. I was going to have to get rid of it at all costs.

The next morning I was at my local market bright and early to set up my stand. I spent the first half-hour making the rounds, chatting to the other
brocanteurs
, trying to spot if there were any bargains going from recent house clearances. Then I set up my table and sat waiting for the punters to arrive.

  As the morning wore on and the market filled up with eager
chineurs
(bargain hunters) everyone seemed to be selling apart from myself. I had placed the little devil in a prominent position on my table, but although a few curious people picked him up and examined him, no one appeared interested in buying, even though I'd ticketed him at a giveaway price.

  As lunchtime drew near, I decided to try a psychologically different approach and hid him down behind an art deco clock garniture. Sometimes when people spot an item tucked away out of sight they feel they might be discovering an overlooked bargain. But no one did.

  I covered up my wares, strolled over to the local bistro to grab a bite to eat and found Serge in there, propping up the bar, fortifying himself with a glass of Beaujolais and a couple of plates of tapas.

  'Eh, Johnny, how's it going? Had a good morning, have you?' He forked in a mouthful of
calmar
(squid) and washed it down with the wine. He had a graze on his nose exactly like mine. We were blood brothers!

  'Not too good, no, Serge,' I said. 'I can't understand it.'

  'Don't worry, Johnny. It gets like that sometimes. Maybe this afternoon, eh?'