Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (7 page)

  He turned to the old boy. 'My friend here is from England where they've got some very strange ways. He refuses to eat meat, would you believe it?'

  The farmer looked at me with renewed interest. 'We have some pork if you don't like
gésiers
,' he said kindly. 'We don't meet many English people round here.'

  'If you've got any bread and maybe a piece of cheese that would be fine,' I said.

  'Estelle, did you hear that?'

  The little old woman half-turned and smiled at me before fetching a big country loaf and some Brie which she placed on the table. Then she served up the
gésiers,
which Serge attacked like a ravenous wolf.

  '
Putain
, you don't know what you're missing, Johnny. This is delicious.' He poured himself a glass of red wine and washed down a mouthful of gizzards.

  The old woman put a pot of coffee on the stove, produced a large cherry flan and cut us each a piece. Serge ate his with gusto, licking his fingers and slurping his coffee. When he'd finished he burped loudly and pulled out his well-thumbed notebook.

  'Now, to get things sorted out properly for the survey. It's just you and your sister living here, is it?'

  'Yes, just the two of us.'

  'And you are
M'sieu
…?'

  'Perrier… Jacques Perrier.'

  'Ah, yes, and your sister is?'

  'Estelle Perrier.'

  'Good, good… excellent,' said Serge, scribbling away.

  I was beginning to find this pantomime embarrassing and looked away. The little old woman was waiting just outside the door, hiding in the shadows, shyly watching us.

  Serge drained his cup of coffee, slammed shut his notebook, stood up and yawned.

  'Well, I think that just about concludes our work here. You've been most helpful. Don't worry, I'll mention to the mayor how cooperative you've been.' He shook the farmer's hand. 'We'd better be on our way. Say goodbye to your sister for us won't you, Jacques?'

  As we set off along the track towards the van Serge was jubilant.

  'There, what did I tell you, Johnny? Who needs to go to restaurants to eat when you've got hospitable peasants like that around?'

  But I was beginning to feel upset about how we'd used them.

  When I looked back the old man was waving us goodbye. The sad little figure of his sister was standing behind him, framed in the doorway, watching us go.

We drove off with Serge cheerfully humming the popular Serge Gainsbourg hit, 'Sea, Sex and Sun', punctuating the chorus with a series of foul-smelling belches.

  'Those
gésiers
were out of this world, Johnny. Beats me how you can pass up on such delicious
bouffe
.'

  I was still feeling bad about how I had colluded with him in conning that nice peasant and his sister out of a free meal. I certainly wasn't in the mood to get into any sort of argument with him about eating meat.

  We drove along in silence for a while until Serge spotted a sign for a
déchetterie
(a rubbish tip).

  'Eh, quick! Turn off here, Johnny. These places can often yield up little treasures.'

  We followed a track through the woods to arrive at a fenced-off area where garishly coloured plastic bin receptacles and several heavy metal skips piled high with rubbish stood in a yard strewn with bits of old newspapers and cardboard boxes. There was a wooden hut at the gate with a black and white collie dog tied up with a piece of hairy baler twine outside. It came crawling towards us on its belly with its tail wagging. The hut door was open but there was no one about.

  Serge went over to a mountain of old metal and started to pull at a twisted bicycle, threatening to bring down the lot on top of him. I fussed the dog and wondered how far the nearest accident unit was if Serge injured himself.

  A man emerged from among the trees, zipping his fly and buckling his belt. He was wearing a badly stained, fringed Western-style shirt, a blue US Cavalry cap and cowboy boots. At a guess I'd have said he'd just had a crap in the woods.

  There was a scream of twisting metal and Serge jumped back, narrowly avoiding being crushed, as a big square tank, a heavy iron bath and assorted rusty agricultural machinery came crashing down.

  The junkyard cowboy watched as the dust settled and I got the impression that new acquaintances were limited in this particular neck of the woods.

  'That's some scrap iron you've got there,' said Serge.

  The guy nodded and finished buckling his belt. Serge took him by the hand and shook it.

  'We're on the look out for any interesting bits and pieces, discarded bric-a-brac and stuff. We've just been doing a spot of business with old Papa Jacques Perrier up the road and he recommended we pop in here.' Serge was making it up as he went along.

  The man nodded to me and began to untie his dog.

  'You've been up at Jacques Perrier's place? He doesn't get many visitors these days.'

  'He had us round for lunch,' said Serge, smugly. 'His sister cooked for us – fried
gésiers
… Delicious!'

  'You saw his sister? How was she?'

  'Estelle's fine, just fine,' said Serge, like he was an old family friend.

  'That was terrible what happened to her though, wasn't it?' said the man. 'You know, during the war?'

  Serge was nonplussed. 'World War Two? You're going back a bit there, mate. I was just a kid.'

  'What, you don't know about the family tragedy? I thought everyone knew.'

  Serge was starting to get bored.

  'No, but you're going to tell us all about it.' He looked at me with a pained expression.

  'Her two sons got killed in battle on the same day. It was an awful shock. But that wasn't all – when her husband heard the terrible news he went straight off and hung himself.'

  Serge pulled a face like he didn't believe it.

  'It's God's honest truth, ask anyone. Estelle found him hanging from a beam in the barn. It finished her off, they reckon.'

  The man was relishing the story. He clearly didn't get many visitors here at his tip.

  'When she'd buried her husband and her sons all she had left was her brother Jacques. She moved in with him and he's looked after her ever since. In return she washes, cooks and cleans for him… does everything a wife would do for a husband.' He winked at me.

  'So have you got anything you might think we'd be interested in or not?' said Serge. He was unmoved by the tale. He predictably pulled out his wad of euros with a flourish from his back pocket.

  The man's eyes widened. 'What about that tin bath? That's got to be worth a bit.'

  'I'm not after shit,' said Serge rudely. 'Do I look like a
gitan
to you?'

  My answer to that question would have been no. Most
gitans
dressed smartly in the latest fashion, unlike Serge, who looked like he'd just tumbled out of bed and pulled on the nearest thing to hand from a pile on the floor. But I was still thinking about poor Estelle. No wonder she hid herself away. Was the wink the man had given me an insinuation that she and her brother were involved in some sort of incestuous relationship? Surely not.

  'Hang on a moment, what's that in there?' Serge was peeking through the hut window. 'There, on the desk. That looks like the sort of thing we're after.'

  He went in brazenly and came out with a statuette of a naked woman holding a flaming torch with flowing hair covering her breasts and nether regions.

  'That's a signed bronze that is,' said the man. 'I found it in a box of rubbish a while back.'

  Serge examined it closely. He took out a penknife and scratched the base.

  'I'll give you fifty euros for it,' he said finally.

  'For a bronze like that? You're mocking me!'

  'It's not a bronze; it's a spelter,' said Serge. 'The scratch is dull yellow, not shiny and silvery.'

  This was a pathetic attempt at a con. The metal in a spelter figure is a mixture of lead and tin and a small scratch usually shines brightly. Serge knew that if the scratch was dull yellow it was probably a bronze and doubtless the man knew it too.

  'I wasn't born yesterday. That statue is definitely a bronze.'

  'All right, eighty euros. Take it or leave it.'

  The man was tempted. He was pondering the offer. He took off his US Cavalry hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  'Come on, Johnny,' said Serge. 'We're wasting our time here.' He climbed in the van and waited for me to start her up. The man watched us, still clutching the bronze figure. As we pulled away he ran after us, tapping on the window. I stopped and Serge wound it down. The Junkyard Cowboy said, 'OK, look, make it a hundred and you've got yourself a deal.'

  'That's more like it,' said Serge. He peeled off a couple of fifties. 'There, you can buy yourself a new Buffalo Billy shirt and
fais la fête
all weekend.'

  He took the figurine from him and laid it on the seat.

  'You've not got any other old bronzes hidden away in that hut of yours then?'

  The Junkyard Cowboy shook his head. He was beginning to think maybe he'd made a mistake.

  'OK, Johnny, let's go,' said Serge, winding up the window.

  I drove round the pile of scrap iron and out through the gates.

  'I know a dealer who'll give me six hundred euros for this little whore, no questions asked,' said Serge as we bumped long the track.

  'I've got a good feeling about today, Johnny. A delicious free meal and now this bronze here. Is our luck starting to change or what?'

We drove along with the bronze statue bouncing about on the seat between us and Serge shouting out the chorus from a French popular song from the forties. I'd heard it before – a favourite on our local radio station – about a Romeo farmer who can service all his mistresses in the one day thanks to his trusty Mobylette.

  He stopped singing. 'Quick! Pull in here. This place looks like it's owned by bourgeois richos with more money than sense.' We were passing a large house with blue painted shutters set back from the road. There was a swimming pool in the garden and a couple of shiny cars parked out front.

  I had little faith in Serge's snap judgements but followed instructions and swung into the drive. One of the cars was a four-wheek drive jeep and as we drew nearer I realised it had an English number plate.

  'This is no good. It's owned by English people,' I said, braking and starting to reverse out.

  'No, carry on, Johnny. I've often bought stuff off the English. They clear out their old junk the same as the French.'

  A woman appeared from round the back of the house wearing a floral-print dress and floppy straw hat and carrying a trug and a pair of pruning shears. She came towards us with an expectant look on her face. I felt stupid and wasn't sure how I was going to play this. But she spoke before I had a chance to explain.

  
'Vous cherchez quelque chose?'

  Her French was good. It was obvious she wasn't just someone over for a short stay in a holiday cottage.

  I was tempted to answer her in French and pretend we were lost. But Serge was watching me closely and would have noticed I wasn't going through the rigmarole of asking if she had any valuable antiques she was willing to unload on us for a song.

  So instead I spoke in English, the first thing that came into my head.

  'Sorry to disturb you like this… we seem to have made a mistake and come to the wrong house.'

  Serge nodded and grinned as if he knew exactly what I was saying.

  He was pleased the woman had spoken French because he chipped in, '
Mais oui, et je peux payer en espèces pour les
belles choses.
' (Yes, and I pay in cash for anything good.) He predictably pulled out his wad of euros and wafted them under her nose.

  She looked shocked and slightly repulsed.

  'Does your friend make a habit of waving his money about?' She had a cut-glass English accent.

  'We're on our way to do a house clearance,' I said. 'I'm sorry about that, he never misses an opportunity to try and pick up a bargain.' (I was starting to make up a pack of lies just like Serge. I was turning into him. That was it! I was definitely not coming out with him again.)

  'Why, have you got a shop?'

  'No, we're
brocanteurs.
We only do the markets,' I said.

  'What's the matter, darling?' A man appeared dressed in a pair of brightly coloured swimming shorts and sporting a brilliant white Panama hat.